The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,13
a legendary field agent who had been running operations on French soil since he was a boy of twenty-two. What’s more, the operative in question had known Hannah Weinberg personally. Unfortunately, the prime minister had other plans for him.
Navot checked the time; it was ten fifteen. He reached for his phone and dialed Travel.
“I need to fly to Paris tomorrow morning.”
“The six o’clock or the nine?”
“The six,” said Navot despondently.
“When are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Done.”
Navot rang off and then placed a final call. The question he posed was one he had asked many times before.
“How long before he’s finished?”
“He’s close.”
“How close?”
“Maybe tonight, tomorrow at the latest.”
Navot replaced the receiver and allowed his gaze to wander the spacious office that soon would no longer be his.
Tomorrow at the latest . . .
Maybe, he thought, or maybe not.
5
ISRAEL MUSEUM, JERUSALEM
IN THE FAR CORNER OF the conservation lab, a black curtain stretched from the white ceiling to the white floor. Behind it was a matching pair of oaken Italian easels, two halogen lamps, a Nikon camera mounted atop a tripod, a palette, a tiny bale of cotton wool, an ancient CD player smudged with several different colors of paint, and a trolley laden with pigments, medium, solvents, wooden dowels, and several Winsor & Newton Series 7 sable-hair paintbrushes. For the better part of the past four months, the restorer had labored there alone, sometimes late at night, sometimes long before dawn. He wore no museum credentials, for his true place of employment was elsewhere. The staff conservators had been advised not to mention his presence or even to speak his name. Nor were they to discuss the large painting, an Italian Old Master altarpiece, propped upon his easels. The painting, like the restorer, had a dangerous and tragic past.
He was below average in height—five foot eight, perhaps, no more—and slender of build. His face was high at the forehead and narrow at the chin, with wide prominent cheekbones and a long, bony nose that looked as though it had been carved from wood. The dark hair was cropped short and stained with gray at the temples, the eyes were an unnatural shade of green. His age was one of the most closely guarded secrets in Israel. Not long ago, when his obituary appeared in newspapers around the world, no verifiable date of birth ever found its way into print. The reports of his death had been part of an elaborate operation to deceive his enemies in Moscow and Tehran. They had believed the stories to be true, a miscalculation that allowed the restorer to take vengeance against them. Not long after his return to Jerusalem, his wife gave birth to a set of twins, a girl named Irene after his mother, and a son called Raphael. They were now—mother, daughter, son—three of the most closely guarded people in the State of Israel. So, too, was the restorer. He came and went in an armored American-made SUV, accompanied by a bodyguard, a fawn-eyed killer of twenty-five, who sat outside the door of the conservation lab whenever he was present.
His appearance at the museum, on a black and wet Wednesday in December a few days after the birth of his children, had come as a shock, and a profound relief, to the rest of the conservation staff. They had been warned he did not like to be observed while working. Still, they routinely poked their heads into his little curtained grotto merely to glimpse the altarpiece with their own eyes. Truth be told, he couldn’t blame them. The painting, Caravaggio’s Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence, was arguably the world’s most famous missing work of art. Stolen from the Oratorio di San Lorenzo in Palermo in October 1969, it was now formally in the possession of the Vatican. The Holy See had wisely decided to withhold news of the painting’s recovery until the restoration was complete. Like many Vatican pronouncements, the official version of events would bear little resemblance to the truth. It would not mention the fact that a legendary Israeli intelligence officer named Gabriel Allon had found the missing painting hanging in a church in the northern Italian town of Brienno. Nor would it mention that the same legendary intelligence officer had been entrusted with the task of restoring it.
During his long career he had carried out several unusual restorations—he had once repaired a Rembrandt portrait that had been pierced by a bullet—but the Caravaggio altarpiece propped upon Gabriel’s easels was without