Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Daniel Silva is the author of the bestselling novels The Unlikely Spy, The Mark of the Assassin, The Marching Season, The Kill Artist, The English Assassin, and The Confessor. He lives with his wife, NBC correspondent Jamie Gangel.

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A DEATH IN VIENNA

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

Chapter One

The office is hard to find, and intentionally so.Located near the end of a narrow, curving lane, in aquarter of Vienna more renowned for its nightlifethan its tragic past, the entrance is marked only by a small brassplaque bearing the inscription Wartime Claims and Inquiries. Thesecurity system, installed by an obscure firm based in Tel Aviv,is formidable and highly visible. A camera glowers menacinglyfrom above the door. No one is admitted without an appointmentand a letter of introduction. Visitors must pass through afinely tuned magnetometer. Purses and briefcases are inspectedwith unsmiling efficiency by one of two disarmingly pretty girls.One is called Reveka, the other Sarah.

Once inside, the visitor is escorted along a claustrophobic corridorlined with gunmetal-gray filing cabinets, then into a largetypically Viennese chamber with pale floors, a high ceiling, andbookshelves bowed beneath the weight of countless volumesand file folders. The donnish clutter is appealing, though someare unnerved by the green-tinted bulletproof windows overlookingthe melancholy courtyard.

The man who works there is untidy and easily missed. It ishis special talent. Sometimes, as you enter, he is standing atop alibrary ladder rummaging for a book. Usually he is seated at hisdesk, wreathed in cigarette smoke, peering at the stack of paperworkand files that never seems to diminish. He takes a momentto finish a sentence or jot a loose minute in the margin ofa document, then he rises and extends his tiny hand, his quickbrown eyes flickering over you. "Eli Lavon," he says modestly ashe shakes your hand, though everyone in Vienna knows whoruns Wartime Claims and Inquiries.

Were it not for Lavon's well-established reputation, his appearance-ashirtfront chronically smeared with ash, a shabbyburgundy-colored cardigan with patches on the elbows and atattered hem-might prove disturbing. Some suspect he is withoutsufficient means; others imagine he is an ascetic or evenslightly mad. One woman who wanted help winning restitutionfrom a Swiss bank concluded he was suffering from a permanentlybroken heart. How else to explain that he had neverbeen married? The air of bereavement that is sometimes visiblewhen he thinks no one is looking? Whatever the visitor's suspicions,the result is usually the same. Most cling to him for fearhe might float away.

He points you toward the comfortable couch. He asks thegirls to hold his calls, then places his thumb and forefinger togetherand tips them toward his mouth. Coffee, please. Out ofearshot the girls quarrel about whose turn it is. Reveka is an Israelifrom Haifa, olive-skinned and black-eyed, stubborn andfiery. Sarah is a well-heeled American Jew from the Holocauststudies program at Boston University, more cerebral than Revekaand therefore more patient. She is not above resorting to deceptionor even outright lies to avoid a chore she believes is beneathher. Reveka, honest and temperamental, is easily outmaneuvered,and so it is usually Reveka who joyless]y plunks a silver tray onthe coffee table and retreats in a sulk.

Lavon has no set formula for how to conduct his meetings.He permits the visitor to determine the course. He is not averseto answering questions about himself and, if pressed, explainshow it came to be that one of Israel's most talented young archaeologistschose to sift through the unfinished business of theHolocaust rather than the troubled soil of his homeland. Hiswillingness to discuss his past, however, goes only so far. He doesnot tell visitors that, for a brief period in the early 1970s, heworked for Israel's notorious secret service. Or that he is still regardedas the finest street surveillance artist the service has everproduced. Or that twice a year, when he returns to Israel to seehis aged mother, he visits a highly secure facility north of TelAviv to share some of his secrets with the next generation. Insidethe service he is still referred to as "the Ghost." His mentor,a man called Ari Shamron, always said that Eli Lavon could disappearwhile shaking your hand. It was not far from the truth.

He is quiet around his guests, just as he was quiet around themen he stalked for Shamron. He is a chain smoker, but if itbothers the guest he will refrain. A polyglot, he listens to youin whatever language you prefer. His gaze is sympathetic andsteady, though behind his eyes it is sometimes possible to detectpuzzle pieces sliding into place. He prefers to hold all questionsuntil the visitor has completed his case. His time is precious,and he makes decisions quickly. He knows when he can help.He knows when it is better to leave the past undisturbed.

Should he accept your case, he asks for a small sum of moneyto finance the opening stages of his investigation. He does sowith noticeable embarrassment, and if you cannot pay he willwaive the fee entirely. He receives most of his operating fundsfrom donors, but Wartime Claims is hardly a profitable enterpriseand Lavon is chronically strapped for cash. The source ofhis funding has been a contentious issue in certain circles of Vienna,where he is reviled as a troublesome outsider financedby international Jewry, always sticking his nose into places itdoesn't belong. There are many in Austria who would like WartimeClaims to close its doors for good. It is because of themthat Eli Lavon spends his days behind green bulletproof glass.

On a snow-swept evening in early January, Lavon was alonein his office, hunched over a stack of files. There were no visitorsthat day. In fact it had been many days since Lavon had acceptedappointments, the bulk of his time being consumed by asingle case. At seven o'clock, Reveka poked her head throughthe door. "We're hungry," she said with typical Israeli bluntness."Get us something to eat." Lavon's memory, while impressive,did not extend to food orders. Without looking up from hiswork, he waved his pen in the air as though he were writing-Makeme a list, Reveka.

A moment later, he closed the file and stood up. He lookedout his window and watched the snow settling gently onto theblack bricks of the courtyard. Then he pulled on his overcoat,wrapped a scarf twice around his neck, and placed a cap atop histhinning hair. He walked down the hall to the room where thegirls worked. Reveka's desk was a skyline of German militaryfiles; Sarah, the eternal graduate student, was concealed behinda stack of books. As usual, they were quarreling. Reveka wantedIndian from a take-away just on the other side of the DanubeCanal; Sarah craved pasta from an Italian caf on the Krntnerstrasse.Lavon, oblivious, studied the new computer on Sarah'sdesk.

"When did that arrive?" he asked, interrupting their debate.

"This morning."

"Why do we have a new computer?"

"Because you bought the old one when the Hapsburgs stillruled Austria."

"Did I authorize the purchase of a new computer?"

The question was not threatening. The girls managed the office.Papers were placed beneath his nose, and usually he signedthem without looking.

"No, Eli, you didn't approve the purchase. My father paid forthe computer."

Lavon smiled. "Your father is a generous man. Please thankhim on my behalf."

The girls resumed their debate. As usual it resolved inSarah's favor. Reveka wrote out the list and threatened to pin itto Lavon's sleeve. Instead, she stuffed it into his coat pocket forsafekeeping and gave him a little shove to send him on his way."And don't stop for a coffee," she said. "We're starving."

It was almost as difficult to leave Wartime Claims and Inquiriesas it was to enter. Lavon punched a series of numbersinto a keypad on the wall next to the entrance. When the buzzersounded, he pulled open the interior door and stepped into thesecurity chamber. The outer door would not open until the innerdoor had been closed for ten seconds. Lavon put his face tothe bulletproof glass and peered out.

On the opposite side of the street, concealed in the shadowsat the entrance of a narrow alleyway, stood a heavy-shoulderedfigure with a fedora hat and mackintosh raincoat. Eli Lavoncould not walk the streets of Vienna, or any other city for thatmatter, without ritualistically checking his tail and recordingfaces that appeared too many times in too many disparate situations.It was a professional affliction. Even from a distance, andeven in the poor light, he knew that he had seen the figureacross the street several times during the last few days.

He sorted through his memory, almost as a librarian wouldsort through a card index, until he found references to previoussightings. Yes, here it is. The Judenplatz, two days ago. It was youwho was following me after I had coffee with that reporter fromthe States. He returned to the index and found a second reference.The window of a bar along the Sterngasse. Same man,without the fedora hat, gazing casually over his pilsner as Lavonhurried through a biblical deluge after a perfectly wretched dayat the office. The third reference took him a bit longer to locate,but he found it nonetheless. The Number Two streetcar, eveningrush. Lavon is pinned against the doors by a florid-faced Viennesewho smells of bratwurst and apricot schnapps. Fedora hassomehow managed to find a seat and is calmly cleaning his nailswith his ticket stub. He is a man who enjoys cleaning things,Lavon had thought at the time. Perhaps he cleans things for aliving.

Lavon turned round and pressed the intercom. No response.Come on, girls. He pressed it again, then looked over his shoulder.The man in the fedora and mackintosh coat was gone.

A voice came over the speaker. Reveka.

"Did you lose the list already, Eli?"

Lavon pressed his thumb against the button.

"Get out! Now!"

A few seconds later, Lavon could hear the trample of footfallsin the corridor. The girls appeared before him, separated by awall of glass. Reveka coolly punched in the code. Sarah stood bysilently, her eyes locked on Lavon's, her hand on the glass.

He never remembered hearing the explosion. Reveka andSarah were engulfed in a ball of fire, then were swept away bythe blast wave. The door blew outward. Lavon was lifted like achild's toy, arms spread wide, back arched like a gymnast. Hisflight was dreamlike. He felt himself turning over and overagain. He had no memory of impact. He knew only that he waslying on his back in snow, in a hailstorm of broken glass. "Mygirls," he whispered as he slid slowly into blackness. "My beautifulgirls."

Chapter Two

It was A small terra-cotta church, built for a poor parish inthe sestire of Cannaregio. The restorer paused at the sideportal beneath a beautifully proportioned lunette and fished aset of keys from the pocket of his oilskin coat. He unlocked thestudded oaken door and slipped inside. A breath of cold air,heavy with damp and old candle wax, caressed his cheek. Hestood motionless in the half-light for a moment, then headedacross the intimate Greek Cross nave, toward the small Chapelof Saint Jerome on the right side of the church.

The restorer's gait was smooth and seemingly without effort.The slight outward bend to his legs suggested speed and surefootedness.The face was long and narrow at the chin, with aslender nose that looked as if it had been carved from wood.The cheekbones were wide, and there was a hint of the Russiansteppes in the restless green eyes. The black hair was croppedshort and shot with gray at the temples. It was a face of manypossible national origins, and the restorer possessed the linguisticgifts to put it to good use. In Venice, he was known as MarioDelvecchio. It was not his real name.

The altarpiece was concealed behind a tarpaulin-draped scaffold.The restorer took hold of the aluminum tubing and climbedsilently upward. His work platform was as he had left it the previousafternoon: his brushes and his palette, his pigments andhis medium. He switched on a bank of fluorescent lamps. Thepainting, the last of Giovanni Bellini's great altarpieces, glowedunder the intense lighting. At the left side of the image stoodSaint Christopher, the Christ Child straddling his shoulders.Opposite stood Saint Louis of Toulouse, a crosier in hand, abishop's miter atop his head, his shoulders draped in a cape ofred and gold brocade. Above it all, on a second parallel plane,Saint Jerome sat before an open Book of Psalms, framed by avibrant blue sky streaked with gray-brown clouds. Each saintwas separated from the other, alone before God, the isolation socomplete it was almost painful to observe. It was an astonishingpiece of work for a man in his eighties.

The restorer stood motionless before the towering panel, likea fourth figure rendered by Bellini's skilled hand, and allowedhis mind to float away into the landscape. After a moment hepoured a puddle of Mowolith 20 medium onto his palette, addedpigment, then thinned the mixture with Arcosolve until theconsistency and intensity felt right.

He looked up again at the painting. The warmth and richnessof the colors had led the art historian Raimond Van Marleto conclude the hand of Titian was clearly in evidence. The restorerbelieved Van Marle, with all due respect, was sadly mistaken.He had retouched works by both artists and knew theirbrushwork like the sun lines around his own eyes. The altarpiecein the Church of San Giovanni Crisostomo was Bellini'sand Bellini's alone. Besides, at the time of its production, Titianwas desperately attempting to replace Bellini as Venice's mostimportant painter. The restorer sincerely doubted Giovanniwould have invited the young headstrong Titian to assist in soimportant a commission. Van Marle, had he done his homework,would have saved himself the embarrassment of so ludicrousan opinion.

The restorer slipped on a pair of Binomags and focused onthe rose-colored tunic of Saint Christopher. The painting hadsuffered from decades of neglect, wild temperature swings, andthe continuous onslaught of incense and candle smoke. Christopher'sgarments had lost much of their original luster and werescarred by the islands of pentimenti that had pushed their wayto the surface. The restorer had been granted authority to carryout an aggressive repair. His mission was to restore the paintingto its original glory. His challenge was to do so without makingit look as though it had been churned out by a counterfeiter. Inshort, he wished to come and go leaving no trace of his presence,to make it appear as if the retouching had been performedby Bellini himself.

Continues...

Excerpted from A DEATH IN VIENNAby DANIEL SILVA Copyright © 2004 by Daniel Silva. Excerpted by permission.
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