She was waiting for him on the landing outside her apartment, dressed in a dark sweater, a pleated wool skirt, and heavy stockings. Her dark hair was streaked with gray; her nose was narrow and aquiline. She greeted Durand warmly with kisses on each cheek and invited him inside. It was a large apartment, with a formal entrance hall and a library adjoining the sitting room. Antique furniture covered in faded brocade stood sedately about, thick velvet curtains hung in the windows, and an ormolu clock ticked quietly on the mantel. The effect of the decor was to create the impression of a bygone era. Indeed, for a moment Durand felt as though he were standing in an annex of Antiquites Scientifiques.

Durand formally presented Hannah with her opera glasses and informed her about a number of interesting pieces that might soon be coming into his possession. Finally, he opened his attache case and in an offhanded tone said, "I stumbled upon some interesting documents a few days ago, Madame Weinberg. I was wondering whether you might have a moment to take a look."

"What are they?"

"To be honest, I have no idea. I was hoping you might know."

He handed the sheath of old wax paper to Hannah Weinberg and watched as she removed the delicate sheets of paper.

"It was hidden inside a telescope I purchased a few weeks ago," he said. "I found it while I was doing some repair work."

"That's odd."

"I thought so, too."

"Where did the telescope come from?"

"If it's all right with you, Madame Weinberg, I'd rather not—"

She held up a hand. "Say no more, Monsieur Durand. You owe your clients absolute discretion."

"Thank you, madame. I knew you would understand. The question is, what is it?"

"The names are clearly Jewish. And it obviously has something to do with money. Each name is assigned a corresponding figure in Swiss francs, along with an eight-digit number of some sort."

"It looks like wartime paper to me."

She fingered the edge of one page carefully. "It is. You can tell by the shoddy quality. In fact, it's a miracle the pages are even intact."

"And the eight-digit numbers?"

"Hard to say."

Durand hesitated. "Is it possible they're account numbers of some sort, Madame Weinberg?"

Hannah Weinberg looked up. "Swiss bank accounts?"

Durand gave a deferential smile. "You're the expert, madame."

"I'm not, actually. But it's certainly plausible." She studied the pages again. "But who would assemble a list like this? And why?"

"Perhaps you know someone who might be able to answer that question. Someone at the center, for example."

"We really don't have anyone who focuses purely on financial matters. And if you're right about the meaning of the numbers, these documents need to be reviewed by someone who knows a thing or two about Swiss banking."

"Do you happen to know someone like that, madame?"

"I'm sure I can track down someone qualified." She looked at him for a moment, then asked, "Is that your wish, Monsieur Durand?"

He nodded. "But I have a small favor. I would appreciate it if you would keep my name out of it. My business, you understand. Some of my clients might—"

"Don't worry," Hannah Weinberg said, cutting him off. "Your secret is safe with me, Maurice. This will be strictly entre nous. I give you my word."

"But you'll call if you learn anything interesting?"

"Of course."

"Thank you, madame." Maurice Durand closed his attache case and gave her a conspiratorial smile. "I hate to admit it, but I've always loved a good mystery."

HANNAH WEINBERG stood in the window of her library and watched Maurice Durand recede into the gathering darkness along the rue Pavee. Then she gazed at the list.

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

She wasn't at all sure she believed Durand's story. Regardless, she had made a promise. But what to do with the list? She needed an expert. Someone who knew a thing or two about Swiss banks. Someone who knew where the bodies were buried. In some cases, literally.

She opened the top drawer of her writing desk—a desk that had once belonged to her grandfather—and removed a single key. It opened a door at the end of an unlit corridor. The room behind it was a child's room, Hannah's old room, frozen in time. A four-poster bed with a lace canopy. Shelves stacked with stuffed animals and toys. A faded pinup of an American heartthrob actor. And hanging above a French provincial dresser, shrouded in heavy shadow, was a painting, Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table, by Vincent van Gogh. Several years earlier, she had lent it to a man who was trying to find a terrorist—a man from Israel with the name of an angel. He had given her a number where he could be reached in an emergency or if she needed a favor. Perhaps it was time to renew their relationship.

45

THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

The conference room was preposterously large, as was the gleaming rectangular table that ran nearly the entire length of it. Shamron sat at his assigned place, dwarfed by his executive swivel chair, and gazed across the river toward the Emerald City-like headquarters of MI6. Gabriel sat next to him, hands neatly folded, eyes flickering over the two men opposite. On the left, dressed in an ill-fitting blazer and crumpled gabardine trousers, was Adrian Carter, director of the CIA's National Clandestine Service. On the right was Graham Seymour, deputy director of MI5.

The four men seated around the table represented a secret brotherhood of sorts. Though each remained loyal to his own country, their close bond transcended time and the fickle whims of their political masters. They did the unpleasant chores no one else was willing to do and worried about the consequences later. They had fought for one another, killed for one another, and in some cases bled for one another. During multiple joint operations, all conducted under conditions of extreme stress, they had also developed an uncanny ability to sense one another's thoughts. As a result, it was painfully obvious to both Gabriel and Shamron that there was tension on the Anglo-American side of the table.

"Something wrong, gentlemen?" asked Shamron.

Graham Seymour looked at Carter and frowned. "As our American cousins like to say, I'm in the doghouse."

"With Adrian?"

"No," Carter interjected quickly. "We revere Graham. It's the White House that's angry with him."

"Really?" Gabriel looked at Seymour. "That's quite an accomplishment, Graham. How did you manage that?"

"The Americans had an intelligence failure last night. A significant failure," he added. "The White House has gone into full damage-control mode. Tempers are flaring. Fingers are pointing. And most of them seem to be pointing at me."

"What exactly was this failure?"

"A Pakistani citizen who sometimes resides in the United Kingdom attempted to blow himself up on a flight from Copenhagen to Boston. Luckily, he was as incompetent as the last fellow, and international passengers seem to have become quite adept at taking matters into their own hands."

"So why is anyone angry with you?"

"Good question. We alerted the Americans several months ago that he was associating with known radicals and was probably being groomed for an attack. But according to the White House, I wasn't forceful enough in my warnings." Seymour glanced at Carter. "I suppose I could have written an op-ed piece in the New York Times, but I thought that might be a bit excessive."

Gabriel looked at Carter. "What happened?"

"His name was misspelled by someone on our end when it was entered into the database of suspected militants."

"So he never made it onto the no-fly list?"

"That's correct."