Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

The same could not be said, however, of the doctor who appeared at the Jägerhof four days after the Russian’s unfortunate accident. He was of medium height and build with a full head of silvery hair and watchful brown eyes that were partially concealed by thick spectacles. Those members of the Jägerhof staff who were unfortunate enough to encounter him during his brief visit would later remark that he seemed better suited to inflicting wounds than healing them.

“How’s your knee?” asked Gabriel.

“It still hurts if I put too much weight on it.”

“It doesn’t look so good.”

“You should have seen it two days ago.”

The knee was propped upon a pair of pillows embroidered with the Jägerhof’s discreet crest. Gabriel winced mildly as he inspected the swelling.

“Where did all those bruises come from?”

“I had to hit it a few times.”

“With what? A sledgehammer?”

“I used the bottle of complimentary champagne.”

“How was it?”

“As a blunt instrument, it was fine.”

Gabriel went to the window and peered down at the postcard-perfect Swiss square. On one side, a limousine was docking with the slowness of a luxury liner at the doorway of one of the resort’s pricier hotels. On the other, three fur-drenched women were posing for a photograph next to a horse-drawn carriage. After a moment, the carriage moved off to the gentle clatter of snow-muffled hoof beats, revealing the understated entrance of Galleria Naxos. Through the large front display window, Gabriel could see David Girard speaking to a customer about one of the gallery’s better pieces, a first-century Roman statue of a now-limbless adolescent boy posed in recline. The soundtrack of the conversation, which was being conducted in German, issued softly from the speakers of Mikhail’s notebook computer.

“Where’s the transmitter hidden?”

“On his desk.”

“How did you manage that?”

“During my one and only visit to the shop, I left behind a very costly gold pen. Monsieur Girard has been good enough to hold on to it for me until I have a chance to drop by again. The only problem is that it’s right next to the telephone. Every time someone calls the gallery, it sounds like a fire alarm is going off.”

“How’s business?”

“Slow. He generally sees one or two customers in the morning and a few more in the late afternoon when the slopes start to close down. By five o’clock, the place is dead.”

“Any employees?”

“The wife usually spends a couple of hours in the gallery after she drops off Hansel and Gretel at the daycare center. They live a few miles from St. Moritz in a town called Samedan. Nice place. I have a feeling Daoud is the only member of Hezbollah who lives there.”

“His name is David,” Gabriel said pointedly. “And for the moment, we can’t prove he’s a member of anything except the Swiss Association of Dealers in Art and Antiques.”

“Until he sees that pretty Greek pot.”

“It’s possible he won’t bite.”

“He’ll bite,” Mikhail said assuredly. “Then we’ll burn him to a crisp and turn him around, just the way you drew it up on the chalkboard at King Saul Boulevard.”

“Sometimes operations don’t go as planned.”

“Tell me about it.” Mikhail examined Gabriel for a moment. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea for you to be playing footsy with someone from Hezbollah right now.”

“I barely recognize myself in this getup.”

“Your famous face isn’t the only reason you should think twice about walking into that gallery.”

Gabriel turned and looked at Mikhail directly. “You don’t think I’m up to it? Is that what you’re saying?”

“It hasn’t been that long since Nadia al-Bakari died in your arms in the Empty Quarter. Maybe you should let someone else go in there and dangle the bait.”

“Like who?”

“Me.”

“You can barely walk.”

“I’ll take some aspirin.”

“How much do you know about red-figure Attic vases?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“That might be a problem.”

Mikhail was silent.

“Are we finished?” asked Gabriel.

“We’re finished.”

Gabriel opened the aluminum attaché case he had brought with him into the hotel. Inside was a single fragment of the hydria, carefully wrapped in baize cloth, along with several eight-by-ten photographs of the remaining pieces of the vase. With the flip of a small interior switch, Gabriel activated the case’s audio and video transmission system. Then he closed the case and looked at Mikhail.

“Are you picking up the signal?”

“Got it.”

Gabriel walked over to the mirror and inspected the unfamiliar face reflected in the glass. Satisfied with his appearance, he departed the room without another word and headed downstairs to the Jägerhof’s dreary lobby. By the time he stepped into the street, he was no longer the taciturn physician who had come to treat an injured Russian; he was Anton Drexler of Premier Antiquities Services, Hamburg, Germany. Ten minutes later, having performed a thorough check for surveillance, he presented himself at the entrance of Galleria Naxos. In the window lay the limbless Roman boy, looking perversely like the victim of a roadside bomb. Herr Drexler examined the statue for a moment with the discerning gaze of a professional. Then, after ringing the bell and announcing his intentions, he was admitted without further delay.

THE EXHIBITION ROOM WAS BRILLIANTLY lit and artfully staged to avoid the impression of clutter—here a selection of Greek kraters and amphorae, here a litter of Egyptian bronze cats, here a gathering of marble amputees and disembodied heads, price available on request. In the back corner of the gallery was a Chinese lacquer-finished table where David Girard, aka Daoud Ghandour, sat waiting to receive him. He wore a dark blazer, a zippered sweater, and trim-cut trousers that looked as though they were made of velvet. A sleek black telephone was wedged between his shoulder and his ear, and he was scribbling something illegible on a piece of paper using Mikhail’s expensive gold pen. Gabriel could only imagine the scraping sound it was making in the garret room of the Jägerhof Hotel.

Finally, Girard murmured a few words of French into the phone and replaced the receiver. He appraised his visitor in silence for a moment with his soft brown eyes, then, without rising, asked to see a business card. Gabriel wordlessly granted his wish.

“Your card has no address and no telephone number,” Girard said in German.

“I’m something of a minimalist.”

“Why haven’t I heard of you?”

“I try not to make waves,” Gabriel responded with a docile smile. “High seas make it harder for me to do my job.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“I find things. Lost dogs, loose change behind the couch cushions, hidden gems in cellars and attics.”

“You’re a dealer?”

“Not like you, of course,” Gabriel said with as much modesty as he could muster.

“Who sent you?”

“A friend in Rome.”

“Does the friend have a name?”

“The friend is like me,” Gabriel said. “He prefers calm waters.”

“Does he find things, too?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Girard returned the business card and, with a movement of his eyes, asked to see the contents of Herr Drexler’s attaché case.

“Perhaps you have some place a bit more private,” suggested Gabriel, glancing briefly toward the gallery’s large window overlooking the crowded square.

“Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” answered Gabriel in his most reassuring tone. “It’s just that St. Moritz isn’t what it used to be.”