"What do you have in mind?"

"In two days, the Munich detective in charge of the case is going to meet with Benjamin's half-brother, Ehud Landau. After briefing Landau on the investigation, he will allow him to take inventory of Benjamin's possessions and arrange a shipment back to Israel."

"If memory serves, Benjamin doesn't have a half-brother."

"He does now." Shamron placed an Israeli passport on the table and slid it toward Gabriel with the palm of his hand. Gabriel opened the cover and saw his own face staring back at him. Then he looked at the name: Ehud Landau.

Shamron said, "You have the best eyes I've ever seen. Have a look around his apartment. See if there's something out of place. If you can, remove anything that might tie him to the Office."

Gabriel closed the passport, but left it lying on the table.

"I'm in the middle of a difficult restoration. I can't go running off to Munich now."

"It will take a day--two at the most."

"That's what you said last time."

 Shamron's temper, always seething below the surface, broke through. He pounded his fist on the table and shouted at Gabriel in Hebrew: "Do you wish to fix your silly painting or help me find out who killed your friend?"

"It's always that simple for you, isn't it?"

"Oh, but I wish it were so. Do you intend to help me, or will you force me to turn to one of Lev's oafs for this delicate mission?"

Gabriel made a show of contemplation, but his mind was already made up. He scooped up the passport with a smooth movement of his hand and slipped it into his coat pocket. Gabriel had the hands of a conjurer and a magician's sense of misdirection. The passport was there; the passport was gone. Next, Shamron reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a mid-sized manila envelope. Inside, Gabriel found an airline ticket and an expensive Swiss-made wallet of black leather. He opened the wallet: Israeli driver's license, credit cards, membership to an exclusive Tel Aviv health club, a checkout card for a local video store, a substantial amount of currency in euros and shekels.

"What do I do for a living?"

"You own an art gallery. Your business cards are in the zippered compartment."

Gabriel found the cards and removed one:

landau art gallery sheinkin street, Tel Aviv

"Does it exist?"

"It does now."

The last item in the envelope was a gold wristwatch with a black leather band. Gabriel turned over the watch and read the engraving on the back. for Ehud from Hannah with love.

"Nice touch," Gabriel said.

"I've always found it's the little things."

The watch, the airline tickets, and the wallet joined the passport in Gabriel's pocket. The two men stood. As they walked outside, the long-haired girl in the bronze-colored wrap came quickly to Shamron's side. Gabriel realized she was the old man's bodyguard.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to Tiberias," Shamron replied. "If you pick up something interesting, send it to King Saul Boulevard through the usual channels."

"Whose eyes?"

"Mine, but that doesn't mean little Lev won't have a peek, so use appropriate discretion."

In the distance, a church bell tolled. Shamron stopped in the center of the campo, next to thepozzo, and took one last look around. "Our first ghetto. God, how I do hate this place."

"It's too bad you weren't in Venice in the sixteenth century," Gabriel said. "The Council of Ten would never have dared to lock the Jews away here."

"But I was here," Shamron said with conviction. "I was always here. And I remember it all."

Detective Axel Weiss of the Munich Kriminal Polizei was waiting outside Adalbertstrasse 68 two days later, dressed in civilian clothes and a tan raincoat. He shook Gabriel's hand carefully, as though he were feeling its density. A tall man with a narrow face and a long nose, Weiss's dark complexion and short-cropped black hair gave him the appearance of a Doberman pinscher. He released Gabriel's hand and patted him fraternally on the shoulder.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Herr Landau, though I'm sorry it has to be under these circumstances. Let me take you somewhere comfortable to talk before we go up to the apartment."

They set off down the rain-soaked pavement. It was late afternoon, and the lights of Schwabing were slowly coming up. Gabriel never liked German cities at night. The detective stopped in front

of a coffeehouse and peered through a fogged window. Wood floors, round tables, students and intellectuals hunched over books. "This will do," he said. Then he opened the door and led Gabriel to a quiet table in the back.

"Your people at the consulate tell me you own an art gallery."

"Yes, that's right."

"In Tel Aviv?"

"You know Tel Aviv ?"

The detective shook his head. "It must be very hard for you now--with the war and all."

"We make do. But then, we always have."

A waitress appeared. Detective Weiss ordered two coffees.

"Something to eat, Herr Landau?"

Gabriel shook his head. When the waitress was gone, Weiss said, "Do you have a card?"

He managed to pose the question in an offhand way, but Gabriel could tell his cover story was being probed. His work had left him incapable of seeing things as they appeared to be. When he viewed paintings, he saw not only the surface but the underdrawings and layers of base paint. The same was true of the people he met in his work for Shamron and the situations he found himself. He had the distinct impression Axel Weiss was more than just a detective for the Munich Kriminal Polizei. Indeed, Gabriel could feel Weiss's eyes boring into him as he reached into his wallet and produced the business card Shamron had given him in Venice. The detective held it up to the light, as if looking for the marks of a counterfeiter.

"May I keep this?"

"Sure." Gabriel held open his wallet. "Do you need any other identification?"

 The detective seemed to find this question offensive and made a grandiose German gesture of dismissal. "Ach, no! Of course not. I'm just interested in art, that's all."

Gabriel resisted the temptation to see how little the German policeman knew about art.

"You've spoken to your people?"

Gabriel nodded solemnly. Earlier that afternoon, he had paid a visit to the Israeli consulate for a largely ceremonial briefing. The consular officer had given him a file containing copies of the police reports and clippings from the Munich press. The file was now resting in Ehud Landau's expensive leather briefcase.

"The consular officer was very helpful," Gabriel said. "But if you don't mind, Detective Weiss, I'd like to hear about Benjamin's murder from you."

"Of course," the German said.

He spent the next twenty minutes giving Gabriel a thorough account of the circumstances surrounding the killing. Time of death, cause of death, caliber of weapon, the well-documented threats against Benjamin's life, the graffiti left on the walls of his flat. He spoke in the calm but forthright manner that police the world over seem to reserve for the relatives of the slain. Gabriel's demeanor mirrored that of the German detective. He did not feign grief. He did not pretend that the gruesome details of his half-brother's death caused him pain. He was an Israeli. He saw death nearly on a daily basis. The time for mourning had ended. Now was the time for answers and clearheaded thinking.

"Why was he shot in the knee, Detective?"

Weiss pulled his lips down and tilted his narrow head. "We're not sure. There may have been a struggle. Or they may have wanted to torture him."

"But you told me that none of the other tenants heard any sound. Surely, if he was tortured, the sound of his screaming would have been audible in other parts of the building."