Читать книгу The Other Woman - Daniel Silva - Страница 19

Uzi Navot passed an uneventful evening with Bella at their comfortable home in the Tel Aviv suburb of Petah Tikva, and in the morning, having risen at the hateful hour of three, he boarded the five-ten El Al flight to Warsaw, known affectionately inside the Office as the Polish Express. His overnight bag contained two changes of clothing and three changes of identity. His seatmate, a woman of thirty-three from a town in the Upper Galilee, did not recognize him. Navot was both relieved and, when he analyzed his feelings honestly, deeply resentful. For six years he had led the Office without blemish, and yet already he was forgotten. He had long ago resigned himself to the fact he would be remembered merely as a placeholder chief, the one who had kept a chair warm for the chosen one. He was an asterisk.

But he was also, at his core, a fine spy. Admittedly, he was no action figure like Gabriel. Navot was a true spy, a recruiter and runner of agents, a collector of other men’s secrets. Before his bureaucratic ascent at King Saul Boulevard, Western Europe had been his primary field of battle. Armed with an array of languages, a fatalistic charm, and a small fortune in financing, he had recruited a far-flung network of agents inside terrorist organizations, embassies, foreign ministries, and security services. One was Werner Schwarz. Navot rang him that evening from a hotel room in Prague. Werner sounded as though he’d had one or two more than was good for him. Werner was rather too fond of his drink. He was unhappily married. The alcohol was anesthesia.

“I’ve been expecting your call.”

“I really hate to be predictable.”

“A drawback in your line of work,” said Werner Schwarz. “I suppose Vienna is in your travel plans.”

“Tomorrow, actually.”

“The day after would be better.”

“I have time considerations, Werner.”

“We can’t meet in Vienna. My service is on edge.”

“Mine, too.”

“I can only imagine. How about that little wine garden in the Woods? You remember it, don’t you?”

“With considerable fondness.”

“And who will I be dining with?”

“A Monsieur Laffont.” Vincent Laffont was one of Navot’s old cover identities. He was a freelance travel writer of Breton descent who lived out of a suitcase.

“I look forward to seeing him again. Vincent was always one of my favorites,” said Werner Schwarz, and rang off.

Navot, as was his habit, arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes early, bearing a decorative box from Demel, the famous Viennese chocolatier. He had eaten most of the treats during the drive and in their place tucked five thousand euros in cash. The owner of the restaurant, a small man shaped like a Russian nesting doll, remembered him. And Navot, playing the role of Monsieur Laffont, regaled him with stories of his latest travels before settling in a quiet corner of the timbered dining room. He ordered a bottle of Grüner Veltliner, confident it would not be the last. Only three other tables were occupied, and all three parties were in the last throes of their luncheon. Soon the place would be deserted. Navot always liked a bit of ambient noise when he was doing his spying, but Werner preferred to betray his country unobserved.

He arrived at the stroke of three, dressed for the office in a dark suit and overcoat. His appearance had changed since Navot had seen him last, and not necessarily for the better. A bit thicker and grayer, a few more broken blood vessels across his cheeks. His eyes brightened as Navot filled two glasses with wine. Then the usual disappointment returned. Werner Schwarz wore it like a loud necktie. Navot had spotted it during one of his fishing trips to Vienna, and with a bit of money and pillow talk he had reeled Werner into his net. From his post inside the BVT, Austria’s capable internal security service, he had kept Navot well informed about matters of interest to the State of Israel. Navot had been forced to relinquish control of Werner during his tenure as chief. For several years they had had no contact other than the odd clandestine Christmas card and the regular cash deposits in Werner’s Zurich bank account.

“A little something for Lotte,” said Navot as he handed Werner the box.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“It was the least I could do. I know you’re a busy man.”

“Me? I have access but no real responsibility. I sit in meetings and bide my time.”

“How much longer?”

“Maybe two years.”

“We won’t forget you, Werner. You’ve been good to us.”

The Austrian waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not some girl you picked up in a bar. Once I retire, you’ll struggle to remember my name.”

Navot didn’t bother with a denial.

“And what about you, Monsieur Laffont? Still in the game, I see.”

“For a few more rounds, at least.”

“Your service treated you shabbily. You deserved better.”

“I had a good run.”

“Only to be cast aside for Allon.” In a confessional murmur, Werner Schwarz asked, “Did he really think he could get away with killing an SVR officer in the middle of Vienna?”

“We had nothing to do with it.”

“Uzi, please.”

“You have to believe me, Werner. It wasn’t us.”

“We have evidence.”

“Like what?”

“One of the members of your hit team. The tall one,” Werner Schwarz persisted. “The one who looks like a cadaver. He helped Allon with that little problem at the Stadttempel a few years ago, and Allon was foolish enough to send him back to Vienna to take care of the Russian. You would have never made a mistake like that, Uzi. You were always very cautious.”

Navot ignored Werner’s flattery. “Our officers were present that night,” he admitted, “but not for the reason you think. The Russian was working for us. He was in the process of defecting when he was killed.”

Werner Schwarz smiled. “How long did it take you and Allon to come up with that one?”

“You didn’t actually see the assassination, did you, Werner?”

“There were no cameras at that end of the street, which is why you chose it. The ballistics evidence proves conclusively the operative on the motorcycle was the one who pulled the trigger.” Werner Schwarz paused, then added, “My condolences, by the way.”

“None necessary. He wasn’t ours.”

“He’s sitting on a slab in the central morgue. Do you really intend to leave him there?”

“He’s of no concern to us. Do with him what you please.”

“Oh, we are.”

The proprietor appeared and took their order as the last of the three luncheon parties made their way noisily toward the door. Beyond the windows of the dining room the Vienna Woods were beginning to darken. It was the quiet time, the time Werner Schwarz liked best. Navot filled his wineglass. Then, with no warning or explanation, he spoke a name.

Werner Schwarz raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”

“Know him?”

“Only by reputation.”

“And what’s that?”

“A fine officer who serves his country’s interests here in Vienna professionally and in accordance with our wishes.”

“Which means he makes no attempt to target the Austrian government.”

“Or our citizenry. Therefore, we let him go about his work unmolested. For the most part,” Werner Schwarz added.

“You keep an eye on him?”

“When resources permit. We’re a small service.”

“And?”

“He’s very good at his job. But in my experience, they usually are. Deception seems to come naturally to them.”

“No crimes or misdemeanors? No personal vices?”

“The occasional affair,” said Werner Schwarz.

“Anyone in particular?”

“He got himself involved with the wife of an American consular officer a couple of years ago. It caused quite a row.”

“How was it handled?”

“The American consular officer was transferred to Copenhagen, and the wife went back to Virginia.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s been taking a lot of flights to Bern, which is interesting because Bern isn’t part of his territory.”

“You think he’s got a new girl there?”

“Or maybe something else. As you know, our authority stops at the Swiss border.” The first course arrived, a chicken liver terrine for Navot and for Werner Schwarz the smoked duck breast. “Am I allowed to ask why you’re so interested in this man?”

“It’s a housekeeping matter. Nothing more.”

“Is it connected to the Russian?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“The timing, that’s all.”

“Two birds with one stone,” explained Navot airily.

“It’s not so easily done.” Werner Schwarz dabbed his lips with a starched napkin. “Which brings us back to the man lying in the central morgue. How long do you intend to carry on this pretense he isn’t yours?”

“Do you really think,” said Navot evenly, “that Gabriel Allon would allow you to bury a Jew in an unmarked grave in Vienna?”

“I’ll grant you that’s not Allon’s style. Not after what he’s been through in this city. But the man in the morgue isn’t Jewish. At least not ethnically Jewish.”

“How do you know?”

“When the Bundespolizei couldn’t identify him, they ordered a test of his DNA.”

“And?”

“Not a trace of the Ashkenazi gene. Nor does he have the DNA markers of a Sephardic Jew. No Arabian, North African, or Spanish blood. Not a single drop.”

“So what is he?”

“He’s Russian. One hundred percent.”

“Imagine that,” said Navot.