Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

After dinner, a doctor silently inspected his cuts and changed a few of his bandages. Then he was taken back to the interrogation room for an evening session. This time, Ziegler was nowhere to be found. In his place was a thin officer with the pallor of a man who had no time for outdoor pursuits. He introduced himself as Christoph Bittel of the DAP’s counterterror division, which meant he was more spy than policeman. It was another encouraging sign. Policemen made arrests. Spies made deals.

“Before we begin,” he said evenly, “you should know that Ziegler and the Federal Department of Justice and Police intend to file formal charges against you tomorrow morning. They have more than enough evidence to ensure that you spend the rest of your life in a Swiss jail. You should also know that there are numerous people here in Bern who would love to be granted the honor of escorting you to your cell.”

“I had nothing to do with planting that bomb.”

“I know.”

Bittel picked up a remote control and pointed at a video monitor in the corner of the room. A few seconds later, two figures appeared on the screen—the tall French-speaking man and the girl with an El Greco face. Gabriel watched again as the man whispered intimately into her ear.

“These are the real bombers,” Bittel said, pausing the video. “The girl concealed the device in the gallery’s powder room while her colleague kept Girard busy.”

“Who are they?”

“We were hoping you’d be able to tell us.”

“I’d never seen them before that night.”

Bittel scrutinized Gabriel dubiously for a moment before switching off the video monitor. “You are a very lucky man, Allon. It seems you have a number of friends in high places. One of them has interceded on your behalf.”

“So that’s it? I’m free to go?”

“Not quite yet. You did violate numerous laws prohibiting foreign espionage activity—laws we take very seriously. We are a welcoming country,” he added, as though he were sharing highly classified information, “but we insist that visitors show us the courtesy of signing the guestbook on the way in, preferably under their own names.”

“And what would you have done if we’d asked for your help?”

“We would have sent you away and dealt with it ourselves,” Bittel said. “We’re Swiss. We don’t like outsiders meddling in our affairs.”

“Neither do we. But unfortunately we have to put up with it on a daily basis.”

“I’m afraid that’s what it means to be an Israeli,” Bittel said with a philosophical nod. “History dealt you a lousy hand, but that doesn’t mean you have the right to treat our country as some sort of intelligence resort.”

“My visits to your country were never all that enjoyable.”

“But they were always productive. And that’s all that counts. You’re industrious, Allon. We admire that.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“We would like you to close out your Swiss accounts.”

“Meaning?”

“I ask questions about your past operations, and you answer them. Truthfully, for a change,” he added pointedly.

“That could take a while.”

“I have nowhere else to go. And neither do you, Allon.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You will be formally charged with espionage, terrorism, and murder. And you will spend your hard-earned retirement here in Switzerland.”

Gabriel made a momentary show of thought. “I’m afraid it’s not good enough.”

“What’s not good enough?”

“The deal,” said Gabriel. “I want a better deal.”

“You’re in no position to make demands, Allon.”

“You’ll never put me on trial, Bittel. I know far too much about the sins of your bankers and industrialists. It would be a public-relations disaster for Switzerland, just like the Holocaust accounts scandal.” He paused. “You remember that, don’t you? It was in all the papers.”

This time it was Bittel who made a display of deliberation. “All right, Allon. What do you want?”

“I think it’s time to open a new chapter in Israeli-Swiss relations.”

“And how might we do that?”

“You’d obviously been monitoring David Girard for some time,” Gabriel said. “I want copies of your files, including all the telephone and e-mail intercepts.”

“Out of the question.”

“It’s a brave new world, Bittel.”

“I’ll need the approval of my superiors.”

“I can wait,” Gabriel replied. “As you said, I have nowhere else to go.”

Bittel rose and left the interrogation room. Two minutes later, he returned. The Swiss were nothing if not efficient.

“I think it would be easier if we did this in reverse chronological order,” Bittel said, opening his notebook. “A few months ago, a resident of Zurich was beheaded in a hotel room in Dubai. We were wondering whether you could tell us why.”

Many years earlier, a Swiss dissident named Professor Emil Jacobi had given Gabriel a sound piece of advice. “When you’re dealing with Switzerland,” he explained, “it’s best to keep one thing in mind. Switzerland is not a real country. It’s a business, and it’s run like a business.”

Therefore, it came as no surprise to Gabriel that Bittel conducted the debriefing with the cold formality of a financial transaction. His manner was that of a private banker—polite but distant, thorough but discreet. He did his due diligence, but not with undue malice. Gabriel had the distinct impression the security man wanted nothing on the books that might cause him a problem later, that he was merely checking boxes and tallying up a ledger. But then, that was the way of the Swiss banker. The banker wanted the client’s money, but he didn’t necessarily care to know where it had come from.

The two men worked their way backward in time until they arrived at the Augustus Rolfe affair, Gabriel’s first foray into the deplorable conduct of the Swiss banks during the Second World War. He was careful to say nothing incriminatory, and even more careful not to betray Office sources or tradecraft. When pushed by Bittel to reveal more, he gently pushed back. And when threatened, he issued threats of his own. He offered no apology for his actions and sought no absolution. His was a confession without guilt or atonement. It was a business transaction, nothing more.

“Have I left anything out?” asked Bittel.

“You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?”

Bittel closed the notebook and summoned a warder to take Gabriel back to his cell. A proper Swiss breakfast was waiting, along with a toiletry kit and a change of clothing. He ate while watching the morning news. Once again, there was no mention of his detainment. In fact, the only news from St. Moritz had to do with an important World Cup ski race.

After breakfast, he was escorted to the showers and told he had one hour to bathe and dress. Bittel was waiting when he returned to his cell. He had two aluminum attaché cases of Swiss manufacture. In one was the material Gabriel had requested. In the other were the fragments of the broken hydria. “If you prefer,” Bittel offered, “we can tell the French police we found it in an airport locker.”

“Thanks,” Gabriel said, “but I’ll take care of it.”

“Sooner rather than later,” Bittel admonished. “Let’s go. Your ride is here.”

They headed upstairs to the main lobby of the building. Outside a Mercedes sedan waited in the drive, its tailpipes gently smoking. Bittel shook Gabriel’s hand warmly, as if they had spent the night watching old movies together. Then Gabriel turned and ducked into the back of the car. Seated opposite, a mobile phone pressed to his ear, was Uzi Navot. He looked at the bandages on Gabriel’s face and frowned.