MIKHAIL TURNED ONTO WOLF’S PRIVATE road and climbed steadily through a dense forest of spruce and birch. After a moment the trees broke and a valley opened before them, ringed on three sides by towering mountains. Clouds draped the highest peaks.

Estermann gave an involuntary start when Gabriel drew his Beretta.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you. Unless, of course, you give me the flimsiest of excuses.”

“The guardhouse is on the left side of the road.”

“Your point?”

“I’m seated on the passenger side. If there’s an exchange of gunfire, I might be caught in the crossfire.”

“Thus increasing my chances of survival.”

Behind them, Yaakov flashed his headlamps.

“What’s his problem?” asked Mikhail.

“I imagine he’d like to overtake us before we reach the checkpoint.”

“What do you want me to do, boss?”

“Can you shoot and drive at the same time?”

“Is the pope Catholic?”

“There is no pope right now, Mikhail. That’s why we’re about to have a conclave.”

The guardhouse appeared before them, veiled by snowfall. Two security men in black ski jackets stood in the middle of the road, each holding an HK MP5 submachine pistol. They didn’t appear concerned by the two cars approaching at high speed. Nor did they give any indication that they were planning to move out of the way.

“Shall I run them over?” asked Mikhail.

“Why not?”

Mikhail lowered the two windows on the passenger side of the car and put his foot to the floor. The two security men retreated to the shelter of the guardhouse. One waved cordially as the cars passed.

“It looks as though your ruse worked, Allon. They’re supposed to stop every car.”

Mikhail raised the windows. To their left, across a snow-covered meadow, an Airbus executive helicopter stood on its pad with the sadness of an abandoned toy. Wolf’s chalet appeared a moment later. A single figure stood in the drive. His black ski jacket was identical to the ones worn by the men at the checkpoint. His hands were empty.

“That’s Weber,” said Estermann. “He’s got a nine-millimeter under his jacket.”

“Is he right-handed or left?”

“What difference does it make?”

“It might determine whether he’s still alive thirty seconds from now.”

Estermann frowned. “I believe he’s right-handed.”

Mikhail braked to a halt and climbed out with the Uzi Pro in his hand. Behind them, Yaakov and Oded, both armed with Jericho pistols, leapt from the second car.

Gabriel waited until Weber had been relieved of his weapon before joining them. Calmly, he approached the German security man and addressed him in the Berlin accent of his mother.

“Herr Wolf was supposed to be waiting for us. It is urgent we leave for the airport at once.”

“Herr Wolf asked me to show you inside.”

“Where is he?”

“Upstairs,” said Weber. “In the great hall.”

46

OBERSALZBERG, BAVARIA

THE STAIRCASE WAS WIDE AND straight and covered by a bright red carpet. Weber led the way, hands in the air, Mikhail’s Uzi Pro pointed at the small of his back. Gabriel was flanked by Eli Lavon and Estermann. The German appeared decidedly uneasy.

“Something bothering you, Estermann?”

“You’ll see in a minute.”

“Maybe you should tell me now. I’m not crazy about surprises.”

“Herr Wolf usually doesn’t entertain visitors in the great hall.”

At the top of the stairs, Weber turned to the left and led them into an anteroom. He stopped outside a pair of ornate double doors. “This is as far as I’m allowed to go. Herr Wolf is waiting inside.”

“Who else is in there?” asked Gabriel.

“Only Herr Wolf.”

Gabriel leveled the Beretta at Weber’s head. “You’re sure about that?”

Weber nodded.

Gabriel aimed the Beretta toward one of the armchairs. “Have a seat.”

“It’s not permitted.”

“It is now.”

Weber sat down. Oded lowered himself into the chair opposite, the Jericho .45 on his knee.

Gabriel looked at Estermann. “What are you waiting for?”

Estermann opened the double doors and led them inside.

IT WAS A CAVERNOUS SPACE, about sixty feet by fifty. One wall was given over almost entirely to a panoramic window. The other three were hung with Gobelin tapestries and what appeared to be Old Master paintings. There was a monumental classicist china closet, an enormous clock crowned by an eagle, and a bust of Wagner that appeared to be the work of Arno Becker, the German architect and sculptor beloved by Hitler and the Nazi elite.

There were two seating areas, one near the window and another in front of the fireplace. Gabriel crossed the room and joined Jonas Wolf before the hearth. The heat of the fire was volcanic. Atop the embers lay a book. Only the leather cover remained.

“I suppose burning books comes naturally to someone like you.”

Wolf was silent.

“You’re not armed, are you, Wolf?”

“A pistol.”

“Would you get it for me, please?”

Wolf reached beneath his cashmere blazer.

“Slowly,” cautioned Gabriel.

Wolf produced the weapon. It was an old Luger.

“Do me a favor and toss it onto that chair over there.”

Wolf did as he was told.

Gabriel looked at the blackened remains of the book. “Is that the Gospel of Pilate?”

“No, Allon. It was the gospel.”

Gabriel placed the barrel of the Beretta against the nape of Wolf’s neck. Somehow he managed not to pull the trigger. “Do you mind if I have a look at it?”

“Be my guest.”

“Would you get it for me, please?”

Wolf made no movement.

Gabriel twisted the barrel of the Beretta. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Wolf reached for the fireplace tools.

“No,” said Gabriel.

Crouching, Wolf stretched a hand into the inferno. A foot to the backside was enough to send him headlong into the flames. By the time he managed to extricate himself, his mane of silver hair was a memory.

Gabriel feigned indifference to his cries of pain. “What did it say, Wolf?”

“I never read it,” he gasped.

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“It was heresy!”

“How did you know if you didn’t read it?”

Gabriel walked over to one of the paintings, a reclining nude in the manner of Titian. Next to it was another nude, this one by Bordone, one of Titian’s pupils. There was also a landscape by Spitzweg and Roman ruins by Panini. None of the paintings, however, was genuine. They were all twentieth-century copies.

“Who did your work for you?”

“A German art restorer named Gunther Haas.”

“He’s a hack.”

“He charged me a small fortune.”

“Did he know where these paintings hung during the war?”

“We never discussed it.”