THE man in the Rover sedan had moved from Jermyn Street to King Street, which was still well within the one-mile range of the transmitters he had placed in the gallery, but it had been some time since he had heard any sound at all. Indeed, the last thing he had monitored was the art dealer asking his secretary to get him lunch. It had struck him as odd, since the dealer had eaten lunch out every day since the man had been watching him. So odd, in fact, that he had made a notation of the time in his logbook. Forty-five minutes after that, a burst of raw static came over his car radio. Someone had just found his transmitters. He swore softly and quickly started the car. As he drove away, he picked up his mobile phone and dialed Zurich.

THE Hoek van Holland-to-Harwich ferry was delayed several hours by heavy weather in the North Sea, and so it was late afternoon by the time Gabriel and Anna Rolfe pulled into Mason’s Yard. Gabriel gave two short blasts of the horn, and the door of the loading bay slowly rose. Once inside, he shut down the engine and waited for the door to close again before getting out of the car. He removed the large safe-deposit box from the backseat and led Anna through the storeroom to the lift. Isherwood was waiting there.

“You must be Anna Rolfe! It is an honor to meet you, truly. I had the distinct privilege of seeing you perform an evening of Mendelssohn once. It was a deeply moving experience.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Won’t you please come inside?”

“Thank you.”

“Is he here yet?” Gabriel asked.

“Upstairs in the exposition room.”

“Let’s go.”

“What’s in the box?”

“In a minute, Julian.”

Shamron stood in the center of the room, smoking his vile Turkish cigarettes, completely oblivious to the Old Masters canvases surrounding him. Gabriel could see that the old man was wrestling with his memory. A year earlier, in this very room, they had set in motion the final stage of an operation that ended in the death of Tariq al-Hourani. When he saw Anna Rolfe enter the room, his face brightened, and he shook her hand warmly.

Gabriel placed the safe-deposit box on the floor and lifted the lid. Then he removed the first painting, unwrapped it, and laid it on the floor.

“My God,” Isherwood whispered. “A Monet landscape.”

Anna smiled. “Wait, it gets better.”

Gabriel removed the next canvas, a van Gogh self-portrait, and laid it next to the Monet.

“Oh, good heavens,” murmured Isherwood.

Then came the Degas, then the Bonnard, then the Cézanne and the Renoir, and on it went until the sixteen canvases stretched the length of the gallery. Isherwood sat down on the divan, pressed his palms against his temples, and wept.

Shamron said, “Well, that’s quite an entrance. The floor is yours, Gabriel.”

ANNA had heard it all during the drive from Zurich to the German border, so she stepped away and consoled Isherwood while he gazed at the paintings. Gabriel covered everything he had learned about Augustus Rolfe and his collection, concluding with the letter Rolfe had left in the safe-deposit box in Zurich. Then he told Shamron his plan for recovering the rest of Rolfe’s collection: the twenty works that were stolen from the vault at his villa in Zurich. When Gabriel finished, Shamron crushed out his cigarette and slowly shook his head.

“It’s an interesting idea, Gabriel, but it has one fatal flaw. The prime minister will never approve it. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a virtual war with the Palestinians now. The prime minister will never approve an operation like this in order to recover a few paintings.”

“It’s more than a few paintings. Rolfe is hinting at the existence of an organization of Swiss bankers and businessmen who would do anything to protect the old order. And we certainly have the evidence to suggest they exist, including three dead bodies: Rolfe, Müller, and Emil Jacobi. And they tried to kill me.”

“The situation is too explosive. Our fickle friends here in Europe are angry enough at us right now. We don’t need to pour gasoline on the flames with this kind of operation. I’m sorry, Gabriel, but I won’t approve it, and I won’t waste the prime minister’s time by asking him.”

Anna had left Isherwood’s side in order to listen to the debate between Gabriel and Shamron. “I think there’s a rather simple solution to the problem, Mr. Shamron,” she said.

Shamron twisted his bald head around to look at Anna, amused that the Swiss violinist would dare to venture an opinion on the course of an Israeli intelligence operation.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell the prime minister.”

Shamron threw back his head and laughed, and Gabriel joined him. When the laughter died away, there was a moment of silence, broken by Julian Isherwood.

“Dear God, I don’t believe it!”

He was holding the Renoir, a portrait of a young girl with a bouquet of flowers. He was turning it over in his hands, looking at the painting, then the back of the canvas.

Gabriel said, “What is it, Julian?”

Isherwood held the Renoir so that Gabriel and the others could see the image. “The Germans were meticulous record-keepers. Every painting they took was sorted, catalogued and marked-swastika, serial number, initials of the collector or dealer from whom it was confiscated.”

He turned the canvas over to reveal the back. “Someone tried to remove the markings from this one, but they didn’t do a terribly good job of it. Look closely at the bottom left corner. There’s the remnants of the swastika, there’s the serial number, and there are the initials of the original owner:SI. ”

“Who’s SI?” Anna asked.

“SI is Samuel Isakowitz, my father.” Isherwood’s voice choked with tears. “This painting was taken from my father’s gallery on the rue de la Boétie in Paris by the Nazis in June of 1940.”

“You’re certain?” Anna asked.

“I’d stake my life on it.”

“Then please accept it, along with the deepest apologies of the Rolfe family.” Then she kissed his cheek and said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Isherwood.”

Shamron looked at Gabriel. “Why don’t you walk me through it one more time.”

THEY went downstairs to Isherwood’s office. Gabriel sat behind Isherwood’s desk, but Shamron prowled the room as he listened to Gabriel’s plan again.

“And what shall I tell the prime minister?”

“Listen to Anna. Tell him nothing.”

“And if it blows up in my face?”

“It won’t.”

“Things like this always blow up in my face, Gabriel, and I have the scars to prove it. So do you. Tell me something. Is it my imagination, or is there a little more spring in your step tonight?”

“You want to ask me a question?”

“I don’t wish to sound indelicate.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Are you and this woman more than just accomplices in the search for her father’s killer?” When silence greeted his question, Shamron smiled and shook his head. “Do you remember what you said to me about Anna Rolfe on the Piazza Navona?”

“I told you that, given a choice, we would never use a woman like her.”

“And now you want to involve her more deeply?”

“She can handle it.”

“I have no doubts about her, but can you handle it, Gabriel?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I felt otherwise.”

“Two weeks ago, I had to beg you to look into Rolfe’s death. Now you want to wage war against Switzerland.”

“Rolfe wanted those paintings to come to us. Someone took them, and now I want them back.”

“But your motivation goes beyond the paintings, Gabriel. I turned you into a killer, but in your heart, you’re the restorer. I think you’re doing this because you want to restore Anna Rolfe. If that’s the case, then the next logical question is this: Why does he want to restore Anna Rolfe? And there’s only one logical answer. He has feelings for the woman.” Shamron hesitated. “And that’s the best news I’ve heard in a very long time.”