Daniel Silva - A Death in Vienna

“You’re Israeli, aren’t you?”

“I prefer to think of myself as a citizen of the world,” replied Shamron. “I reside in many places, speak the languages of many lands. My loyalty, like my business interests, knows no national boundaries. As a Swiss, I’m sure you can understand my point of view.”

“I understand it,” Becker said, “but I don’t believe you for a minute.”

“And if Iwere from Israel?” Shamron asked. “Would this have some impact on your decision?”

“It would.”

“How so?”

“I don’t care for Israelis,” Becker said forthrightly. “Or Jews, for that matter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Herr Becker, but a man is entitled to his opinions, and I won’t hold it against you. I never allow politics to get in the way of business. I need help for my endeavor, and you’re the only person who can help me.”

Becker raised his eyebrows quizzically. “What exactly is the nature of this endeavor, Herr Heller?”

“It’s quite simple, really. I want you to help me kidnap one of your clients.”

“I believe, Herr Heller, that theendeavor you’re suggesting would be a violation of Swiss banking secrecy laws-and several other Swiss laws as well.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to keep your involvement secret.”

“And if I refuse to cooperate?”

“Then we’ll be forced to tell the world that you were the murderers’ banker, that you’re sitting on two and a half billion dollars of Holocaust loot. We’ll unleash the bloodhounds of the World Jewish Congress on you. You and your bank will be in tatters by the time they’re finished with you.”

The Swiss banker cast a pleading look at Shelby Somerset. “We had a deal.”

“We still do,” the lanky American drawled, “but the outlines of the deal have changed. Your client is a very dangerous man. Steps need to be taken to neutralize him. We need you, Konrad. Help us clean up a mess. Let’s do some good together.”

The banker drummed his fingers against the attaché case. “You’re right. Heis a dangerous man, and if I help you kidnap him, I might as well dig my own grave.”

“We’ll be there for you, Konrad. We’ll protect you.”

“And what if the ‘outlines of the deal’ change again? Who’ll protect me then?”

Shamron interceded. “You were to receive one hundred million dollars upon final dispersal of the account. Now, there will be no final dispersal of the account, because you’re going to give all the money to me. If you cooperate, I’ll let you keep half of what you were supposed to receive. I assume you can do the math, Herr Becker?”

“I can.”

“Fifty million dollars is more than you deserve, but I’m willing to let you have it in order to gain your cooperation in this matter. A man can buy a lot of security with fifty million.”

“I want it in writing, a letter of guarantee.”

Shamron shook his head sadly, as if to say there were some things-And you should know this better than anyone, my dear fellow-that one does not put in writing.

“What do you need from me?” Becker asked.

“You’re going to help us get into his home.”

“How?”

“You’ll need to see him rather urgently concerning some aspect of the account. Perhaps some papers need to be signed, some final details in preparation for liquidation and dispersal of the assets.”

“And once I’m inside the house?”

“Your job is finished. Your new assistant will handle matters after that.”

“My new assistant?”

Shamron looked at Gabriel. “Perhaps it’s time we introduced Herr Becker to his new partner.”

HE WAS A MANof many names and personalities. Herr Zigerli knew him as Oskar, the chief of Heller security. The landlord of his pied-à-terre in Paris knew him as Vincent Laffont, a freelance travel writer of Breton descent who spent most of his time living out of a suitcase. In London, he was known as Clyde Bridges, European marketing director of an obscure Canadian business software firm. In Madrid, he was a German of independent means and a restless soul who idled away the hours in cafés and bars, and traveled to relieve the boredom.

His real name was Uzi Navot. In the Hebrew-based lexicon of the Israeli secret intelligence service, Navot was akatsa, an undercover field operative and case officer. His territory was western Europe. Armed with an array of languages, a roguish charm, and fatalistic arrogance, Navot had penetrated Palestinian terrorist cells and recruited agents in Arab embassies scattered across the continent. He had sources in nearly all the European security and intelligence services and oversaw a vast network ofsayanim, volunteer helpers recruited from local Jewish communities. He could always count on getting the best table in the grill room at the Ritz in Paris because the maître d’ hôtel was a paid informant, as was the chief of the maid staff.

“Konrad Becker, meet Oskar Lange.”

The banker sat motionless for a long moment, as though he had been suddenly bronzed. Then his clever little eyes settled on Shamron, and he raised his hands in an inquiring gesture.

“What am I supposed to do with him?”

“You tell us. He’s very good, our Oskar.”

“Can he impersonate a lawyer?”

“With the right preparation, he could impersonate your mother.”

“How long does this charade have to last?”

“Five minutes, maybe less.”

“When you’re with Ludwig Vogel, five minutes can seem like an eternity.”

“So I’ve heard,” Shamron said.

“What about Klaus?”

“Klaus?”

“Vogel’s bodyguard.”

Shamron smiled. Resistance had ended. The Swiss banker had joined the team. He now swore allegiance to the flag of Herr Heller and his noble endeavor.

“He’s very professional,” Becker said. “I’ve been to the house a half-dozen times, but he always gives me a thorough search and asks me to open my briefcase. So, if you’re thinking about trying to get a weapon into the house-”

Shamron cut him off. “We have no intention of bringing weapons in the house.”

“Klaus is always armed.”

“You’re sure?”

“A Glock, I’d say.” The banker patted the left side of his chest. “Wears it right there. Doesn’t make much of an effort to hide it.”

“A lovely piece of detail, Herr Becker.”

The banker accepted the compliment with a tilt of his head-Details are my business, Herr Heller.

“Forgive my insolence, Herr Heller, but how does one actually kidnap someone who’s protected by a bodyguard if the bodyguard is armed and the kidnapper isn’t?”

“Herr Vogel is going to leave his house voluntarily.”

“A voluntary kidnapping?” Becker’s tone was incredulous. “How unique. And how does one convince a man to allow himself to be kidnappedvoluntarily?”

Shamron folded his arms. “Just get Oskar inside the house and leave the rest to us.”

IT WAS AN OLDapartment house in the pretty little Munich district of Lehel, with a gate on the street and the main entrance off a tidy courtyard. The lift was fickle and indecisive, and more often than not, they simply climbed the spiral staircase to the third floor. The furnishings had a hotel room anonymity. There were two beds in the bedroom, and the sitting room couch was a davenport. In the storage closet were four extra cots. The pantry was stocked with nonperishable goods, and the cabinets contained place settings for eight. The sitting-room windows overlooked the street, but the blackout shades remained drawn at all times, so that inside the flat it seemed a perpetual evening. The telephones had no ringers. Instead, they were fitted with red lights that flashed to indicate incoming calls.