“Sexual preferences?”

“Men, as far as we can tell. She’s involved with a civil servant.”

“Jewish?”

“Thank God.”

“Have you been inside her flat.”

“I went in with the neviot team myself.”

Neviot teams specialized in gathering intelligence from hard targets such as apartments, offices, and hotel rooms. The unit employed some of the best break-in artists and thieves in the world. Gabriel had other plans for them later in the operation-provided, of course, Hannah Weinberg agreed to part with her van Gogh.

“Did you see the painting?”

Navot nodded. “She keeps it in her childhood bedroom.”

“How did it look?”

“You want my assessment of a van Gogh?” Navot shrugged his heavy shoulders. “It’s a very nice painting of a girl sitting at a dressing table. I’m not artistic like you. I’m potted chicken and a nice love story at the movies. You’re not eating your soup.”

“I don’t like it, Uzi. I told you I don’t like it.”

Navot took Gabriel’s spoon and swirled the dab of sour cream, lightening the hue of the purple mixture.

“We had a peek at her papers,” Navot said. “We rummaged through her closets and drawers. We left a little something on her phone and computer as well. One can never be too careful in a situation like this.”

“Room coverage?”

Navot appeared hurt by the question. “Of course,” he said.

“What are you using for a listening post?”

“A van for the moment. If she agrees to help us, we’re going to need something more permanent. One of the neviot boys is already scouting the neighborhood for a suitable flat.”

Navot pushed the remnants of his potted chicken to one side and started in on Gabriel’s borscht. For all his European sophistication, he was at heart still a peasant from the shtetl.

“I can see where this is going,” he said between spoonfuls. “You get to track down the bad guy, and I get to spend the next year watching a girl. But that’s the way it’s always been with us, hasn’t it? You get all the glory while the field hands like me do all the spade work. My God, you saved the Pope himself. How’s a mere mortal like me supposed to compete with that?”

“Shut up and eat your soup, Uzi.”

Being Shamron’s chosen one had not come without a price. Gabriel was used to the professional jealousy of his colleagues.

“I have to leave Paris tomorrow,” Navot said. “I’ll be gone only a day.”

“Where are you going?”

“Amos wants a word with me.” He paused, then added, “I think it’s about the Special Ops job. The job you turned down.”

It made sense, Gabriel thought. Navot was an extremely capable field agent who’d taken part in several major operations, including a few with Gabriel.

“Is that what you want, Uzi? A job at King Saul Boulevard?”

Navot shrugged. “I’ve been out here in the field a long time. Bella wants to get married. It’s hard to have a stable home life when you live like this. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I never know where I’m going to wind up at the end of the day. I can have breakfast in Berlin, lunch in Amsterdam, and be sitting in King Saul Boulevard at midnight briefing the director.” Navot gave Gabriel a conspiratorial smile. “That’s what the Americans don’t understand about us. They put their case officers into little boxes and slap their wrists when they step outside the lines. The Office isn’t that way. It never was. That’s what makes it the greatest job in the world-and that’s why our service is so much better than theirs. They wouldn’t know what to do with a man like you.”

Navot had lost interest in the borscht. He pushed it across the table, so that it looked as though Gabriel had eaten it. Gabriel reached for the glass of wine but thought better of it. He had a headache from the train ride and the rainy Paris weather, and the kosher wine smelled about as appealing as paint thinner.

“But it takes its toll on marriages and relationships, doesn’t it, Gabriel? How many of us are divorced? How many of us have had affairs with girls out there in the field? At least if I’m working in Tel Aviv, I’ll be around more often. There’s still a lot of travel with the job but less than this. Bella has a place near the beach in Caesarea. It will be a nice life.” He shrugged again. “Listen to me. I’m acting as though Amos has offered me the job. Amos hasn’t offered me anything. For all I know, he’s bringing me to King Saul Boulevard to fire me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the most qualified man for the job. You’ll be my boss, Uzi.”

“Your boss? Please. No one is your boss, Gabriel. Only the old man.” Navot’s expression turned suddenly grave. “How is he? I hear it’s not good.”

“He’s going to be fine,” Gabriel assured him.

They lapsed into silence as the waiter came to the table and cleared away the dishes. When he was gone again, Gabriel gave the file folder to Navot, who slipped it back into his briefcase.

“So how are you going to play it with Hannah Weinberg?”

“I’m going to ask her to give up a painting that’s worth eighty million dollars. I have to tell her the truth-or at least some version of the truth. And then we’ll have to deal with the security consequences.”

“What about the approach? Are you going to dance for a while or go straight in for the kill?”

“I don’t dance, Uzi. I’ve never had time for dancing.”

“At least you won’t have any trouble convincing her who you are. Thanks to the French security service, everyone in Paris knows your name and your face. When do you want to start?”

“Tonight.”

“You’re in luck then.”

Navot looked toward the window. Gabriel followed his gaze and saw a woman with dark hair walking down the rue des Rosiers beneath the shelter of an umbrella. He stood without a word and headed toward the door. “Don’t worry, Gabriel,” Navot muttered to himself. “I’ll take care of the check.”

AT THE END of the street she turned left and disappeared. Gabriel paused on the corner and watched black-coated Orthodox men filing into a large synagogue for evening prayers. Then he looked down the rue Pavée and saw the silhouette of Hannah Weinberg receding gently into the shadows. She stopped at the doorway of an apartment building and reached into her handbag for the key. Gabriel set out down the pavement and stopped a few feet from her, as her hand was outstretched toward the lock.

“Mademoiselle Weinberg?”

She turned and regarded him calmly in the darkness. Her eyes radiated a calm and sophisticated intelligence. If she was startled by his approach, she gave no sign of it.

“You are Hannah Weinberg, are you not?”

“What can I do for you, Monsieur?”

“I need your help,” Gabriel said. “I was wondering whether we might have a word in private.”

“Are we acquainted, Monsieur?”

“No,” said Gabriel.

“Then how can I possibly help you?”

“It would be better if we discussed this in private, Mademoiselle.”

“I don’t make a habit of going to private places with strange men, Monsieur. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

She turned away and raised the key toward the lock again.

“It’s about your painting, Mademoiselle Weinberg. I need to talk to you about your van Gogh.”

She froze and looked at him again. Her gaze was still placid.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Monsieur, but I don’t have a van Gogh. If you’d like to see some paintings by Vincent, I suggest you visit the Musée d’Orsay.”

She looked away again.

“Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table,” said Gabriel calmly. “It was purchased by your grandfather from Theo van Gogh’s widow, Johanna, and given to your grandmother as a birthday present. Your grandmother bore a vague resemblance to Mademoiselle Gachet. When you were a child, the painting hung in your bedroom. Shall I go on?”

Her composure disappeared. Her voice, when she spoke again after a moment of stunned silence, was unexpectedly vehement. “How do you know about the painting?”