"Oui?"
"I'm here to see Madame Weinberg, please."
A silence, then, "Who are you, monsieur?"
"My name is Eli Lavon. I'm—"
"I know who you are, Monsieur Lavon. Just a moment."
The entry buzzer moaned. Lavon crossed the damp interior courtyard, entered the foyer, and headed up the stairs. Waiting on the fourth-floor landing, arms folded, was Hannah Weinberg. She admitted Lavon into her apartment and quietly closed the door. Then she smiled and formally extended her hand.
"It is an honor to meet you, Monsieur Lavon. As you might expect, you have many admirers at the Weinberg Center."
"The honor is mine," Lavon said humbly. "I've been watching you from a distance. Your center is doing marvelous work here in Paris. Under increasingly difficult conditions, I might add."
"We do what we can, but I'm afraid it's probably not enough." A sadness crept into her gaze. "I'm so sorry about what happened in Vienna, Monsieur Lavon. The bombing affected all of us very deeply."
"These are emotional issues," Lavon said.
"On both sides." She managed a smile. "I was just making some coffee."
"I'd love some."
She led Lavon into the sitting room and disappeared into the kitchen. Lavon looked around at the stately old furnishings. He had worked on the operation that had drawn Hannah Weinberg into the gravitational pull of the Office and knew her family history well. He also knew that in a room located at the end of the hall hung a painting by Vincent van Gogh called Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table. The blood-soaked operation involving the little-known work was one of many Gabriel Allon productions Lavon had tried hard to forget. He tamped down the memory now as Hannah Weinberg returned carrying two cups of cafe au lait. She handed one to Lavon and sat.
"I assume this isn't a courtesy call, Monsieur Lavon."
"No, Madame Weinberg."
"You're here because of the documents?"
Lavon nodded and sipped his coffee.
"I didn't realize you were connected to..." Her voice trailed off.
"To what?" Lavon asked.
"Israeli intelligence," she said sotto voce.
"Me? Do I really look cut out for that sort of work?"
She examined him carefully. "I suppose not."
"After the bombing in Vienna, I returned to my first love, which is archaeology. I'm on the faculty of Hebrew University in Jerusalem, but I still have many contacts in the Holocaust restitution field."
"So how did you hear about the documents?"
"When you called the embassy here in Paris, they immediately contacted a friend of mine who works at Yad Vashem. He knew I was coming to Paris on other business and asked whether I would be willing to look into it for him."
"And what sort of business brought you to Paris?"
"An academic conference."
"I see." She drank some of her coffee.
"Are the documents here, Madame Weinberg?"
She nodded.
"May I see them, please?"
She peered at him over the rim of her coffee cup as if judging the veracity of his words, then rose and entered the library. When she returned, she was holding a discolored sheath in her hand. Lavon felt his heart begin to beat a little faster.
"Is that wax paper?" he asked as casually as possible.
She nodded. "That's how it came to me."
"And the documents?"
"They're inside." She handed the sheath to Lavon and said, "Be careful. The paper is quite fragile."
Lavon lifted the covering and carefully removed three pages of brittle onionskin paper. Then he slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses, fingers trembling slightly, and read the names.
Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld...
Herzfeld...
He stared at the name a moment longer, then lifted his eyes slowly to Hannah Weinberg.
"Where did you get this?"
"I'm afraid I'm not in a position to say."
"Why not?"
"Because I promised the person complete confidentiality."
"I'm afraid that's not a promise you should have made."
She noticed the change in Lavon's tone. "You obviously seem to know something about this document."
"I do. And I also know that many people have died because of it. Whoever gave you this is in very serious danger, Madame Weinberg. And so are you."
"I'm used to that." She regarded him silently. "Were you telling me the truth when you said a friend from Yad Vashem asked you to come here?"
Lavon hesitated. "No, Madame Weinberg, I wasn't."
"Who sent you?"
"A mutual friend." Lavon held up the list. "And he needs to know the name of the person who gave you this."
"Maurice Durand."
"And what does Monsieur Durand do for a living?"
"He owns a small shop that sells antique scientific instruments. He says he found the documents while doing some repair work on a telescope."
"Did he?" Lavon asked skeptically. "How well do you know him?"
"I've done a great deal of business with him over the years." She nodded toward a circular wooden table arrayed with several dozen antique lorgnettes. "They're something of a passion of mine."
"Where's his shop?"
"In the eighth."
"I need to see him right away."
Hannah Weinberg rose. "I'll take you."
55
RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS
The Weinberg Center was located just around the corner on rue des Rosiers. Hannah and Lavon stopped there long enough to make several copies of the list and lock them away. Then, with the original tucked safely inside Lavon's leather satchel, they rode the Metro to the rue de Miromesnil and made the two-minute walk to Antiquites Scientifiques. The sign in the door read OUVERT. Lavon spent a moment admiring the window display before trying the latch. It was locked. Hannah rang the bell, and they were admitted without delay.
The man waiting to receive them was equal to Lavon in height and weight, though in every other respect was his precise opposite. Where Lavon was shoddily attired in several layers of crumpled clothing, Maurice Durand wore an elegant blue suit and a wide necktie the color of Beaujolais nouveau. And where Lavon's hair was wispy and unkempt, Durand's monkish tonsure was cropped short and combed close to the scalp. He kissed Hannah Weinberg formally on both cheeks and offered Lavon a surprisingly strong hand. As Lavon accepted it, he had the uncomfortable feeling he was being eyed by a professional. And unless Lavon was mistaken, Maurice Durand felt exactly the same way.
"You have a beautiful shop, Monsieur Durand."
"Thank you," the Frenchman replied. "I consider it my shelter against the storm."
"What storm is that, monsieur?"
"Modernity," Durand replied instantly.
Lavon gave an empathetic smile. "I'm afraid I feel the same way."
"Really? And what is your field, monsieur?"
"Archaeology."
"How fascinating," Durand said. "When I was young, I was very interested in archaeology. In fact, I considered studying it."
"Why didn't you?"
"Dirt."
Lavon raised an eyebrow.
"I'm afraid I don't like to get my hands dirty," Durand explained.
"That would be a liability."
"A rather large one, I think," Durand said. "And what is your area of expertise, monsieur?"
"Biblical archaeology. I do most of my work in Israel."