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.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“It’s been five years, at least. Probably more like six.”

“What was the occasion?”

“Estermann’s retirement from the Bf V. He wanted to give me his new contact information. Apparently, he struck gold. He’s working for a big German firm based in Munich.”

“The Wolf Group?”

“How did—”

“Lucky guess,” said Gabriel.

“Estermann told me to call him when I was ready to leave the NDB. There’s a Wolf Group office here in Zurich. He said he would make it worth my while.”

“You don’t happen to have his cell number, do you?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I’d like you to take him up on his offer. Tell him you’re going to be in Munich on Wednesday evening. Tell him you want to talk about your future.”

“But I can’t possibly go to Munich on Wednesday.”

“He doesn’t need to know that.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Drinks. Somewhere quiet.”

“I told you, he doesn’t drink. He’s a Diet Coke man. Always a Diet Coke.” Bittel tapped the tabletop thoughtfully. “There’s a place in the Beethovenplatz called Café Adagio. Very chic. Discreet, too. The question is, what’s going to happen when he gets there?”

“I’m going to ask him a few questions.”

“About what?”

“The Order of St. Helena.”

“Why are you interested in the Order?”

“They murdered a friend of mine.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“His Holiness Pope Paul the Seventh.”

Bittel’s expression betrayed no sentiment, least of all surprise. “Now I know why you wanted me to keep an eye on the Hoffmann woman.”

“Send the message, Bittel.”

His thumbs hovered over his phone. “Do you know what will happen if I’m linked to this in any way?”

“The Office will lose a valuable partner. And I’ll lose a friend.”

“I’m not sure I want to be your friend, Allon. They all seem to end up dead.” Bittel typed the message and tapped SEND. Five long minutes elapsed before his phone pinged with a response. “You’re on. Six o’clock Wednesday evening at Café Adagio. Estermann’s looking forward to it.”

Gabriel gazed at the black waters of the lake. “That makes two of us.”

36

MUNICH

EXCEPT FOR A FEW DAYS in September 1972, Munich had never mattered much to the Office. Nevertheless, if only for sentimental reasons, Housekeeping maintained a large walled villa in the bohemian quarter of Schwabing, not far from the Englischer Garten. Eli Lavon arrived there at ten fifteen the following morning. Gloomily, he surveyed the heavy antique furnishings in the formal drawing room.

“I can’t believe we’re back here again.” He looked at Gabriel and frowned. “You’re supposed to be on holiday.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What happened?”

“A death in the family.”

“My condolences.”

Lavon tossed his overnight bag carelessly onto a couch. He had wispy, unkempt hair and a bland, forgettable face that even the most gifted portrait artist would have struggled to capture in oil on canvas. He appeared to be one of life’s downtrodden. In truth, he was a natural predator who could follow a highly trained intelligence officer or hardened terrorist down any street in the world without attracting a flicker of interest. He was now the chief of the Office division known as Neviot. Its operatives included surveillance artists, pickpockets, thieves, and those who specialized in planting hidden cameras and listening devices behind locked doors.

“I saw an interesting photo of you the other day. You were dressed as a priest and walking into the Vatican Secret Archives with your friend Luigi Donati. I was only sorry I couldn’t join you.” Lavon smiled. “Find anything interesting?”