Landesmann made no response. Gabriel repeated the question in rapid French. This time, Landesmann gave a superior smile and in the same language said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Allon.”

Gabriel reverted to German. “I’d ask you to open your coat, Martin, but I know you’re telling the truth. Men like you don’t soil their hands with weapons. That’s what people like Ulrich and Jonas are for.”

“Are you finished, Allon?”

“I’m just getting started, Martin. Or is it Saint Martin? I can never remember which you prefer.”

“Actually, I prefer to be called Mr. Landesmann.”

“So I’ve been told. I assume you’ve had a chance to review the material I sent earlier this morning?”

“Those documents mean nothing.”

“If that were true, Martin, you wouldn’t be here.”

Landesmann gave Gabriel a withering stare, then asked, “Where did you get it?”

“The information on your pending sale of centrifuges to the Islamic Republic of Iran?”

“No, Allon, the other document.”

“You mean the list? The names? The accounts? The money deposited in your father’s bank?”

“Where did you get it?” Landesmann repeated, his tone even.

“I got it from Lena Herzfeld, Peter Voss, Alfonso Ramirez, Rafael Bloch, and a young woman who kept it hidden and safe for many, many years.”

Landesmann’s face registered no change.

“Don’t you recognize the names, Martin?” Gabriel glanced at Müller. “What about you, Ulrich?”

Neither man responded.

“Let me help,” Gabriel said. “Lena Herzfeld was a young Dutch Jewish girl whose life was traded for a Rembrandt. Peter Voss was a decent man who tried to atone for the sins of his father. Alfonso Ramirez had proof that a small private bank in Zurich was filled with looted Holocaust assets. And Rafael Bloch was the Argentine journalist who uncovered your ties to a German firm called Keppler Werk GmbH.”

“And the young woman?” asked Landesmann.

“Oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters.” Gabriel paused. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? You’ve been looking for her for a long time. She was the most dangerous one of all.”

Landesmann ignored the last remark and asked, “What is it you want, Allon?”

“Answers,” Gabriel said. “When did you learn the truth? When did you find out that your father had stolen the money that Kurt Voss hid in his bank?”

Landesmann hesitated.

“I have the list, Martin. It’s not a secret anymore.”

“He told me about it a few days before his death,” Landesmann said after another pause. “The money, the painting, the visit from Voss’s wife, Carlos Weber…”

“Your father admitted to killing Weber?”

“My father didn’t kill Weber,” Landesmann said. “It was handled for him.”

“Who did it?”

Landesmann glanced at Müller. “An earlier version of Ulrich.”