The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,62
in Bern and Geneva. Estermann was his contact.
“When the meeting was over, he invited me for a drink. Which was odd.”
“Why?”
“Estermann doesn’t touch alcohol.”
“Does he have a problem?”
“He has lots of problems, but alcohol isn’t one of them.”
In the years that followed their first meeting, Bittel and Estermann bumped into each other from time to time, as practitioners of the secret trade are prone to do. Neither one of them was what you might describe as an action figure. They were not operatives, they were glorified policemen. They conducted investigations, wrote reports, and attended countless conferences where the primary challenge was keeping one’s eyes open. They shared lunches and dinners whenever their paths crossed. Estermann often funneled intelligence to Bittel outside normal channels. Bittel reciprocated whenever possible, but always with the approval of the top floor. His superiors considered Estermann a valuable asset.
“And then the planes crashed into the World Trade Center, and everything changed. Especially Estermann.”
“How so?”
“He had moved from counterintelligence to counterterrorism a couple of years before nine-eleven, just like me. He claimed he was on to the Hamburg Cell from the beginning. He swore he could have stopped the plot in its tracks if his superiors had allowed him to do his job properly.”
“Was any of it true?”
“That he could have single-handedly prevented the worst terrorist attack in history?” Bittel shook his head. “Maybe Gabriel Allon could have done it. But not Andreas Estermann.”
“How did he change?”
“He became incredibly bitter.”
“At whom?”
“Muslims.”
“Al-Qaeda?”
“Not just al-Qaeda. Estermann resented all Muslims, especially those who lived in Germany. He was unable to separate the hard-core jihadist from the poor Moroccan or Turk who came to Europe looking for a better life. It got worse after the attack on the Vatican. He lost all perspective. I found his company difficult to bear.”
“But you maintained the relationship?”
“We’re a small service. Estermann was a force multiplier.” Bittel smiled. “Like you, Allon.”
He turned into the car park of a marina along the western shore of the lake. At the end of the breakwater was a café. They sat outside in the blustery evening air. Bittel ordered two beers and replied to several text messages he had received during the drive from downtown Zurich.
“Sorry. We’re a bit on edge at the moment.”
“About what?”
“The bombings in Germany.” Bittel peered at Gabriel over his phone. “You don’t happen to know who’s behind them, do you?”
“My analysts think we’re dealing with a new network.”
“Just what we needed.”
The waitress appeared with their drinks. She was a raven-haired woman of perhaps twenty-five, very beautiful, an Iraqi, perhaps a refugee from Syria. When she placed the bottle of beer in front of Gabriel, he thanked her in Arabic. A brief exchange of pleasantries followed. Then, smiling, the woman withdrew.
“What were you talking about?” asked Bittel.
“She was wondering why we were sitting out here by the lake instead of inside where it’s warm.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That we were intelligence officers who didn’t like to speak in insecure rooms.”
Bittel made a face and drank some of his beer. “It’s a good thing Estermann didn’t see you talking to her like that. He doesn’t approve of being civil to Muslim immigrants. Nor does he approve of speaking their language.”
“How does he feel about Jews?”
Bittel picked at the label of his beer bottle.
“Go ahead, Bittel. It won’t hurt my feelings.”
“He’s a bit of an anti-Semite.”
“What a shocker.”
“It tends to go hand in hand.”
“What’s that?”
“Islamophobia and anti-Semitism.”
“Did you and Estermann ever discuss religion?”
“Endlessly. Especially after the attack on the Vatican. He’s a devout Catholic.”
“And you?”
“I’m from Nidwalden. I was raised in a Catholic home, I married a Catholic girl in a ceremony officiated by the Church, and all three of our children were baptized.”
“But?”
“I haven’t been to Mass since the sexual abuse scandal broke.”
“Do you follow the teachings of the Vatican?”
“Why should I follow them if they don’t?”
“I assume Estermann disagreed with you.”
Bittel nodded. “He’s a lay member of an extremely conservative order based here in Switzerland.”
“The Order of St. Helena.”
Bittel’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
Gabriel demurred. “I assume Estermann wanted you to join.”
“He was like an evangelist. He said I could be a secret member, that no one would know other than his bishop. He also said there were lots of people like us in the Order.”
“Us?”
“Intelligence officers and security types. Prominent businessmen and politicians, too. He said joining the Order would do wonders for my post-NDB career.”
“How did you handle it?”
“I told him I wasn’t interested and changed the subject.”