Durand's eyes widened. "The Holy Land?"
Lavon hesitated, then nodded.
"I've always wanted to see it for myself. Where are you working now?"
"The Galilee."
Durand seemed genuinely moved.
"You are a believer, Monsieur Durand?"
"Devout." He looked at Lavon carefully. "And you, monsieur?"
"At times," said Lavon.
Durand looked at Hannah Weinberg. "That shipment of lorgnettes has finally arrived. I set aside the best pieces for you. Would you like to see them now?"
"Actually, my friend has something he needs to discuss with you."
Durand's gaze returned to Lavon. It betrayed nothing but a mild curiosity, though Lavon once again had the feeling Durand was taking his measure.
"How can I help you?"
"Would it be possible to speak in private?"
"But of course."
Durand gestured toward the doorway at the back of the shop. Lavon entered the office first and heard the door close behind him. When he turned around, the expression on Maurice Durand's face was far less amiable than it had been a moment earlier.
"Now what is this all about?"
Lavon removed the wax paper sheath from the satchel. "This."
Durand's eyes didn't move from Lavon's face. "I gave that document to Madame Weinberg on the condition she keep my name out of it."
"She tried. But I convinced her to change her mind."
"You must be very persuasive."
"Actually, it wasn't hard. All I had to do was explain how many people have been killed because of these three pieces of paper."
Durand's expression remained unchanged.
"Most people would be a bit uncomfortable after hearing something like that," Lavon said.
"Perhaps I'm not easily frightened, monsieur."
Lavon returned the sheath to his satchel. "I understand you found the document inside a telescope."
"It was a piece from the late eighteenth century. Brass and wood. Dollond of London."
"That's odd," Lavon said. "Because I know for a fact that very recently it was hidden inside a painting by Rembrandt called Portrait of a Young Woman. I also know that the painting was stolen and that a man was killed during the robbery. But that's not why I'm here. I don't know how you got these documents, but you should know there are people looking for them who are very dangerous. And they assume these papers are still inside the painting." Lavon paused. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say, Monsieur Durand?"
"I believe I do," Durand said carefully. "But I know nothing at all about a painting by Rembrandt—or anyone else, for that matter."
"You're sure, monsieur?"
"I'm afraid so."
"But perhaps you hear things from time to time. Or perhaps you have friends in the business who hear things. Friends who might know the whereabouts of this painting."
"I don't make a habit of associating with people from the art business. They tend to look down their noses at people like me."
Lavon handed Durand a business card. "But if you do happen to hear anything about the Rembrandt—anything at all, monsieur—please call this number. I can guarantee you complete confidentiality. Rest assured recovery of the painting is our only concern. And do be careful. I wouldn't want anything unpleasant to happen to you."
Durand slipped the card into his pocket, obviously anxious to end the conversation. "I wish I could be of help, monsieur, but I'm afraid I can't. Unless there's something else you require, I really should be getting back to the shop."
"No, nothing. Thank you for your time."
"Not at all."
Durand opened the door. Lavon started to leave, then stopped and turned.
"Actually, Monsieur Durand, there is one more thing."
"What's that?"
"Just remember that God is watching you. Please don't disappoint Him."
"I'll keep that in mind, Monsieur Lavon."
ELI LAVON and Hannah Weinberg parted at dusk in the Place de la Concorde. Hannah took the Metro back to the Marais, while Lavon made the short walk to 3 rue Rabelais, location of the Israeli Embassy. There, by the power vested in him by Operation Masterpiece, he instructed the Office station chief to put a security detail on Hannah Weinberg and a team of watchers on Maurice Durand. Then he requisitioned a car and driver to run him out to Charles de Gaulle Airport. "And make sure the driver has a gun in his pocket," Lavon said. "Maybe someday I'll be able to explain why."
Lavon was able to secure an economy-class seat on the 8:50 Air France flight to Heathrow and by eleven that night was making his way wearily up the walkway of the Highgate safe house. Stepping inside, he was greeted by the sight of the entire team engaged in a tumultuous celebration. He looked at Gabriel and asked, "Would someone like to tell me what's going on?"
"Valves, pipes, vacuum pumps, bellows, autoclaves, feed and withdrawal systems, frequency converters, motor housings, molecular pumps, rotors, magnets."
"He's selling them centrifuges?"
"Not just centrifuges," Gabriel said. "Saint Martin Landesmann is selling the Iranians everything they need to build their uranium enrichment plants."
"And I thought I had a good day."
"What have you got?"
"Nothing much." Lavon held up the wax paper sheath. "Just Kurt Voss's list of Zurich bank accounts."
PART FOUR
UNVEILING
56
THE PLAINS, VIRGINIA
The farm lay some fifty miles to the west of Washington, at the point where the first foothills of the Blue Ridge begin to sprout from the edge of the Shenandoah Valley. Residents of The Plains, a quaint hamlet located along the John Marshall Highway, believed the owner to be a powerful Washington lawyer with a great deal of money and many important friends in government, thus the black limousines and SUVs that were frequently seen roaring through town, sometimes at the oddest hours.
On a bitterly cold morning in mid-December, a dozen such vehicles were spotted in The Plains, far more than usual. All followed the same route—a left at the BP gas station and mini-mart, a right after the railroad tracks, then straight for a mile or so on County Road 601. Because it was a Friday and close to the Christmas holidays, it was assumed in The Plains that the farm was playing host to a weekend Washington retreat—the sort of gathering where lobbyists and politicians gather to swap money and favors, along with tips on how to improve one's golf swing and love life. As it turned out, the rumors were no accident. They had been planted by a division of the Central Intelligence Agency, which owned and operated the farm through a front company.
The security gate bore a handsome brass sign that read HEWITT, a name chosen at random by one of Langley's computers. Beyond it stretched a gravel road, bordered on the right by a narrow streambed and on the left by a broad pasture. Both were buried beneath more than two feet of snow, the remnants of a cataclysmic blizzard that had pummeled the region and paralyzed the federal government. Like most things these days, the storm had prompted a furious debate in Washington. Those who dismissed global warming as a hoax seized on the weather as validation of their point while prophets of climate change said it was yet more evidence of a planet in peril. The professional spies at Langley were not surprised by the discord. They knew all too well that two people could look at the same set of facts and come to radically different conclusions. Such was the nature of intelligence work. Indeed, such was the nature of life itself.
At the end of the gravel road, atop a low wooded hill, stood a two-story Virginia farmhouse with a double-decker porch and a copper roof. The circular drive had been plowed the previous night; even so, there was not enough room to accommodate the armada of sedans and SUVs. Indeed, the drive was so crammed with vehicles that the last to arrive could find no pathway to the house—a problem, since it contained the most important participants of the conference. As a result, they had no choice but to abandon their SUV and trudge the final fifty yards through the snow. Gabriel led the way, with Uzi Navot following a step behind and Shamron in the trail position, holding the arm of Rimona.