The Fallen Angel

antiquities department of Sotheby’s in London. He was there in the late nineties when Sotheby’s was accused of selling unprovenanced antiquities. He left London under something of a cloud.”
    “And went into business for himself?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “How much does it cost to open a gallery in St. Moritz?”
    “A lot.”
    “Where did he get the money?”
    “Good question.”
    Gabriel removed a photograph from the file and dealt it across the desktop. It showed a slender figure in his late forties leaning against a glass display case filled with Greek and Etruscan pottery. He wore a dark pullover and a dark blazer. His gaze was soft and thoughtful. His posed smile managed to appear genuine.
    “Handsome devil,” said Navot. “Where’d you get the photo?”
    “From the Web site of the gallery. His official bio has a couple of glaring holes in it, such as his given name and place of birth.”
    “What flavor passport is he carrying these days?”
    “Swiss. He has a Swiss wife, too.”
    “Which variety?”
    “German speaker.”
    “How cosmopolitan.” Navot frowned at the photograph. “What do we know about his travel habits?”
    “Like most people in the antiquities trade, he spends a great deal of time on airplanes and in hotel rooms.”
    “Lebanon?”
    “He pops into Beirut at least twice a month.” Gabriel paused, then added, “He also spends a fair amount of time here in Israel.”
    Navot looked up sharply but said nothing.
    “According to Eli’s friends over at the Israel Antiquities Authority, Daoud Ghandour, aka David Girard, is a frequent visitor to the Temple Mount. Actually,” Gabriel corrected himself, “he spends most of his time under the Mount.”
    “Doing what?”
    “He’s an unpaid adviser to the Palestinian Authority and the Waqf on issues related to archaeological matters. By the way, that’s not in his official bio, either.”
    Navot stared at the photo for a moment. “What’s your theory?”
    “I think he’s Hezbollah’s man in Carlo’s network. He sells looted goods out of his gallery in St. Moritz, sends the profits back home through LBB, and gives a ten percent cut to his godfather Carlo Marchese.”
    “Can you prove it?”
    “Not yet. Which is why I’m proposing we go into business with him.”
    “How?”
    “I’m going to offer him something irresistible, and see if he bites.”
    “I probably shouldn’t ask,” Navot sighed, “but just where do you intend to get something so irresistible?”
    “I’m going to steal it, of course.”
    “Of course,” said Navot, smiling. “Is there anything you need from me?”
    “Money, Uzi. Lots of money.”
     
     
    Office doctrine dictates that field agents departing for missions abroad spend their final night in Israel at a safe flat known as a jump site. There, free from the distractions of spouses, lovers, children, and pets, they assume the identities they will wear like body armor until they return home again. Only Gabriel and Eli Lavon chose not to participate in this enduring operational ritual, for by their own calculation, they had spent more time living under false names than their own.
    As it turned out, both chose to pass at least part of that last evening in the company of damaged women. Lavon headed to the Western Wall Tunnel to spend a few hours with his beloved Rivka, while Gabriel made a pilgrimage to the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital to see Leah. As usual, he arrived after normal visiting hours. Leah’s doctor was waiting in the lobby. A rabbinical-looking man with a kippah and a long gray beard, he was the only person in Israel not connected to the Office who knew precisely what had happened that night in Vienna.
    “It’s been a while since your last visit.” The doctor gave a forgiving smile. “She’s looking forward to seeing you.”
    “How is she?”
    “The same. At this stage of her life, that’s the best we can hope for.”
    The doctor took Gabriel by the arm and guided him along a corridor of Jerusalem limestone to a common room with windows overlooking the hospital’s garden. It was there, in the shade of a stone pine, that Gabriel had sought Leah’s permission to marry Chiara. The moment was only partially imprinted in Leah’s watery memory. At times, she seemed to realize that Gabriel was no longer her husband, but for the most part she remained a prisoner of the past. In Leah’s bewildered mind, there was nothing unusual about Gabriel’s long absences. Thanks to