It was at this point, at half past ten, that the story broke on the website of Die Welt, Germany’s most respected newspaper. Based on an anonymous source, it stated that the Bundespolizei, acting on intelligence developed by Bf V chief Gerhardt Schmidt, had arrested one of the men responsible for the bombings in Berlin and Hamburg. He was not a member of the Islamic State, as previously suspected, but a known neo-Nazi with ties to Axel Brünner and the far-right National Democratic Party. The attacks, reported Die Welt, were part of a cynical plot to drive up Brünner’s support before the general election.

Within minutes, Germany was thrown into political turmoil. Gerhardt Schmidt, however, was suddenly the most popular man in the country. After hanging up with the chancellor, he rang Uzi Navot in Tel Aviv.

“Mazel tov, Gerhardt. I just saw the news.”

“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“There’s only one problem,” said Schmidt. “I need to know the name of your source.”

“I’ll never tell. But if I were you, I’d take a hard look at OSH Holdings. I suspect it will lead you to an interesting place.”

“Where?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“Did you and Allon know that Brünner and the far right were behind the bombings?”

“The far right?” Navot sounded incredulous. “Who could imagine such a thing?”

44

BAVARIA, GERMANY

THE SOURCE OF UZI NAVOT’S remarkably accurate intelligence left Munich at 10:15 a.m. in the trunk of an Audi sedan. He remained there, bound and gagged, until the car reached the Bavarian village of Irschenberg, where he was placed in the backseat next to Gabriel. Together they listened to the breaking news on ARD as the car began the ascent toward the Obersalzberg.

“Something tells me the Brünner boomlet just ended.” Gabriel looked down at Estermann’s phone, which was vibrating. “Speak of the devil. That’s the third time he’s called.”

“He probably thinks I’m behind the story you planted in Die Welt.”

“Why would he think that?”

“The bombing operation was highly compartmentalized. I was one of four people who knew the attacks were part of the Order’s efforts to help him win the general election.”

“Talk about fake news,” remarked Gabriel.

“You’re the one who engineered that story in Die Welt.”

“But everything I told them was true.”

In the front passenger seat, Eli Lavon laughed quietly before lighting a cigarette. Mikhail, who spoke only limited German, concentrated on his driving.

“I really wish your associate would put out that cigarette,” protested Estermann. “And must the other one tap his fingers like that? It’s very annoying.”

“Would you rather he tap on you instead?”

“He did quite enough of that last night.” Estermann worked his jaw from side to side. “Wolf is probably wondering why he hasn’t heard from me.”

“He will in an hour or so. Something tells me he’ll be relieved to see you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“How many guards will be at the checkpoint?”

“I told you that already.”

“Yes, I know. But tell me again.”

“Two,” said Estermann. “Both will be armed.”

“Remind me what happens when someone arrives.”

“The guards call Karl Weber, the chief of security. If the guests are expected, Weber allows the car to proceed. If they’re not on the list, he checks in with Wolf. During the day, he’s usually in his study. It’s on the second floor of the chalet. The gospel is in the safe.”

“What’s the combination?”

“Eighty-seven, ninety-four, ninety-eight.”

“Not exactly hard to remember, is it?”

“Wolf requested it.”

“Sentimental reasons?”

“I wouldn’t know. Herr Wolf is rather guarded when it comes to his personal life.” Estermann pointed toward the Alps. “Beautiful, aren’t they? There are no mountains like that in Israel.”

“That’s true,” admitted Gabriel. “But there are no people like you, either.”

THESE DAYS, IT IS COMMON practice for politicians of every ideological stripe to line their pockets by writing—or hiring someone to write—a book. Some are memoirs, others are clarion calls for action on issues near and dear to the politician’s heart. Those copies that are not sold in bulk to supporters generally gather dust in warehouses or in the living rooms of journalists who are sent free copies by the publisher with the hope they might murmur something favorable on cable television or social media. The only winner in this charade is the politician, who typically pockets a large advance. He assures himself he deserves this money because of the enormous personal and financial sacrifice he has made by serving in government.

In the case of Adolf Hitler, the book that made him wealthy was written a decade before his rise to power. He used a portion of the royalties to purchase Haus Wachenfeld, a modest holiday chalet in the mountains above Berchtesgaden. He commissioned an ambitious renovation of the dwelling in 1935, based on a rough sketch he made on a board borrowed from Albert Speer, his minister of armaments and war production. The result was the Berghof, a residence Speer described as “most impractical for the reception of official visitors.”

As Hitler’s power and paranoia increased, so did the Nazi footprint in the Obersalzberg. Perched atop the summit of the Kehlstein was the Eagle’s Nest, a chalet used by senior party officials for meetings and social occasions; and within walking distance of the Berghof was the lavish teahouse where Hitler whiled away afternoons with Eva Braun and Blondi, his beloved Alsatian. Several hundred RAF Lancaster bombers attacked the complex on April 25, 1945, inflicting heavy damage on the Berghof. The German government razed the teahouse in the 1950s, but the Eagle’s Nest remains a popular tourist attraction to this day, as does the village of Berchtesgaden.

Andreas Estermann watched the snow falling on the tidy cobblestone streets. “It’s the first storm of the season.”

“Climate change,” replied Gabriel.

“You don’t really believe that nonsense, do you? It’s a weather pattern, that’s all.”

“Perhaps you should read something other than Der Stürmer now and again.”

Frowning, Estermann pointed out the postcard-perfect shops and cafés. “I think this is worth defending, don’t you? Can you imagine what this town would look like with a minaret?”

“Or a synagogue?”

Estermann was impervious to Gabriel’s irony. “There are no Jews down here in the Obersalzberg, Allon.”

“Not anymore.”

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder. Directly behind them was the second Audi sedan. Yaakov was driving, Yossi and Oded were in the back. Dina and Natalie were following in the Mercedes van. Gabriel dialed Natalie’s number and told her to wait in the village.

“Why can’t we come with you?”