“That’s odd,” Lavon said. “Because I know for a fact that very recently it was hidden inside a painting by Rembrandt called Portrait of a Young Woman. I also know that the painting was stolen and that a man was killed during the robbery. But that’s not why I’m here. I don’t know how you got these documents, but you should know there are people looking for them who are very dangerous. And they assume these papers are still inside the painting.” Lavon paused. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Monsieur Durand?”

“I believe I do,” Durand said carefully. “But I know nothing at all about a painting by Rembrandt—or anyone else, for that matter.”

“You’re sure, monsieur?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But perhaps you hear things from time to time. Or perhaps you have friends in the business who hear things. Friends who might know the whereabouts of this painting.”

“I don’t make a habit of associating with people from the art business. They tend to look down their noses at people like me.”

Lavon handed Durand a business card. “But if you do happen to hear anything about the Rembrandt—anything at all, monsieur—please call this number. I can guarantee you complete confidentiality. Rest assured recovery of the painting is our only concern. And do be careful. I wouldn’t want anything unpleasant to happen to you.”

Durand slipped the card into his pocket, obviously anxious to end the conversation. “I wish I could be of help, monsieur, but I’m afraid I can’t. Unless there’s something else you require, I really should be getting back to the shop.”

“No, nothing. Thank you for your time.”

“Not at all.”

Durand opened the door. Lavon started to leave, then stopped and turned.

“Actually, Monsieur Durand, there is one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Just remember that God is watching you. Please don’t disappoint Him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Monsieur Lavon.”

ELI LAVON and Hannah Weinberg parted at dusk in the Place de la Concorde. Hannah took the Métro back to the Marais, while Lavon made the short walk to 3 rue Rabelais, location of the Israeli Embassy. There, by the power vested in him by Operation Masterpiece, he instructed the Office station chief to put a security detail on Hannah Weinberg and a team of watchers on Maurice Durand. Then he requisitioned a car and driver to run him out to Charles de Gaulle Airport. “And make sure the driver has a gun in his pocket,” Lavon said. “Maybe someday I’ll be able to explain why.”