“We do what we can, but I’m afraid it’s probably not enough.” A sadness crept into her gaze. “I’m so sorry about what happened in Vienna, Monsieur Lavon. The bombing affected all of us very deeply.”

“These are emotional issues,” Lavon said.

“On both sides.” She managed a smile. “I was just making some coffee.”

“I’d love some.”

She led Lavon into the sitting room and disappeared into the kitchen. Lavon looked around at the stately old furnishings. He had worked on the operation that had drawn Hannah Weinberg into the gravitational pull of the Office and knew her family history well. He also knew that in a room located at the end of the hall hung a painting by Vincent van Gogh called Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table. The blood-soaked operation involving the little-known work was one of many Gabriel Allon productions Lavon had tried hard to forget. He tamped down the memory now as Hannah Weinberg returned carrying two cups of café au lait. She handed one to Lavon and sat.

“I assume this isn’t a courtesy call, Monsieur Lavon.”

“No, Madame Weinberg.”

“You’re here because of the documents?”

Lavon nodded and sipped his coffee.

“I didn’t realize you were connected to…” Her voice trailed off.

“To what?” Lavon asked.

“Israeli intelligence,” she said sotto voce.

“Me? Do I really look cut out for that sort of work?”

She examined him carefully. “I suppose not.”

“After the bombing in Vienna, I returned to my first love, which is archaeology. I’m on the faculty of Hebrew University in Jerusalem, but I still have many contacts in the Holocaust restitution field.”

“So how did you hear about the documents?”

“When you called the embassy here in Paris, they immediately contacted a friend of mine who works at Yad Vashem. He knew I was coming to Paris on other business and asked whether I would be willing to look into it for him.”

“And what sort of business brought you to Paris?”

“An academic conference.”

“I see.” She drank some of her coffee.

“Are the documents here, Madame Weinberg?”

She nodded.

“May I see them, please?”

She peered at him over the rim of her coffee cup as if judging the veracity of his words, then rose and entered the library. When she returned, she was holding a discolored sheath in her hand. Lavon felt his heart begin to beat a little faster.

“Is that wax paper?” he asked as casually as possible.

She nodded. “That’s how it came to me.”

“And the documents?”

“They’re inside.” She handed the sheath to Lavon and said, “Be careful. The paper is quite fragile.”

Lavon lifted the covering and carefully removed three pages of brittle onionskin paper. Then he slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses, fingers trembling slightly, and read the names.

Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld…

Herzfeld…