The Messenger

in the field? At least if I’m working in Tel Aviv, I’ll be around more often. There’s still a lot of travel with the job but less than this. Bella has a place near the beach in Caesarea. It will be a nice life.” He shrugged again. “Listen to me. I’m acting as though Amos has offered me the job. Amos hasn’t offered me anything. For all I know, he’s bringing me to King Saul Boulevard to fire me.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the most qualified man for the job. You’ll be my boss, Uzi.”
    “Your boss? Please . No one is your boss, Gabriel. Only the old man.” Navot’s expression turned suddenly grave. “How is he? I hear it’s not good.”
    “He’s going to be fine,” Gabriel assured him.
    They lapsed into silence as the waiter came to the table and cleared away the dishes. When he was gone again, Gabriel gave the file folder to Navot, who slipped it back into his briefcase.
    “So how are you going to play it with Hannah Weinberg?”
    “I’m going to ask her to give up a painting that’s worth eighty million dollars. I have to tell her the truth—or at least some version of the truth. And then we’ll have to deal with the security consequences.”
    “What about the approach? Are you going to dance for a while or go straight in for the kill?”
    “I don’t dance, Uzi. I’ve never had time for dancing.”
    “At least you won’t have any trouble convincing her who you are. Thanks to the French security service, everyone in Paris knows your name and your face. When do you want to start?”
    “Tonight.”
    “You’re in luck then.”
    Navot looked toward the window. Gabriel followed his gaze and saw a woman with dark hair walking down the rue des Rosiers beneath the shelter of an umbrella. He stood without a word and headed toward the door. “Don’t worry, Gabriel,” Navot muttered to himself. “I’ll take care of the check.”

    A T THE END of the street she turned left and disappeared. Gabriel paused on the corner and watched black-coated Orthodox men filing into a large synagogue for evening prayers. Then he looked down the rue Pavée and saw the silhouette of Hannah Weinberg receding gently into the shadows. She stopped at the doorway of an apartment building and reached into her handbag for the key. Gabriel set out down the pavement and stopped a few feet from her, as her hand was outstretched toward the lock.
    “Mademoiselle Weinberg?”
    She turned and regarded him calmly in the darkness. Her eyes radiated a calm and sophisticated intelligence. If she was startled by his approach, she gave no sign of it.
    “You are Hannah Weinberg, are you not?”
    “What can I do for you, Monsieur?”
    “I need your help,” Gabriel said. “I was wondering whether we might have a word in private.”
    “Are we acquainted, Monsieur?”
    “No,” said Gabriel.
    “Then how can I possibly help you?”
    “It would be better if we discussed this in private, Mademoiselle.”
    “I don’t make a habit of going to private places with strange men, Monsieur. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
    She turned away and raised the key toward the lock again.
    “It’s about your painting, Mademoiselle Weinberg. I need to talk to you about your van Gogh.”
    She froze and looked at him again. Her gaze was still placid.
    “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Monsieur, but I don’t have a van Gogh. If you’d like to see some paintings by Vincent, I suggest you visit the Musée d’Orsay.”
    She looked away again.
    “ Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table, ” said Gabriel calmly. “It was purchased by your grandfather from Theo van Gogh’s widow, Johanna, and given to your grandmother as a birthday present. Your grandmother bore a vague resemblance to Mademoiselle Gachet. When you were a child, the painting hung in your bedroom. Shall I go on?”
    Her composure disappeared. Her voice, when she spoke again after a moment of stunned silence, was unexpectedly vehement. “How do you know about the painting?”
    “I’m not at liberty to say.”
    “Of course not.” She said this as an insult. “My father always warned me that one day a greedy French art dealer would try to get the painting away from me. It is not for sale, and if it ever turns up missing, I’ll make certain to give the police your description.”
    “I’m not an art dealer—and I’m not French.”
    “Then who are you?” she asked. “And what do you want with my painting?”

15.

The Marais, Paris

    T HE COURTYARD WAS