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unobtrusively into the background.
    The man called himself Peterson. He provided no first name and no professional information. He wore an immaculately pressed suit of charcoal gray and a banker’s tie. His hair was nearly white and neatly trimmed. His hands, folded on the table in front of him, were the hands of a pianist. On his left wrist was a thick silver watch, Swiss-made of course, with a dark blue face, an instrument that could withstand the pressure of great depths. He studied Gabriel for a moment with slow, humorless eyes. He had the natural arrogance of a man who knows secrets and keeps files.
    “The security codes.” Like Baer, he spoke to Gabriel in English, though almost without a trace of an accent. “Where did you write them down?”
    “I didn’t write them down. As I told Sergeant-Major Baer—”
    “I know what you told Sergeant-Major Baer.” His eyes suddenly came to life. “I’m asking you for myself. Where did you write them down?”
    “I received the codes over the telephone from Mr. Isherwood in London, and I used them to open the security gate and the front door of the villa.”
    “You committed the numbers to memory?”
    “Yes.”
    “Give them to me now.”
    Gabriel recited the numbers calmly. Peterson looked at Baer, who nodded once.
    “You have a very good memory, Signore Delvecchio.”
    He had switched from English to German. Gabriel stared back at him blankly, as if he did not understand. The interrogator resumed in English.
    “You don’t speak German, Signore Delvecchio?”
    “No.”
    “According to the taxi driver, the one who took you from the Bahnhofstrasse to the villa on the Zürichberg, you speak German quite well.”
    “Speaking a few words of German and actually speaking German are two very different things.”
    “The driver told us that you gave him the address in rapid and confident German with the pronounced accent of a Berliner. Tell me something, Signore Delvecchio. How is it that you speak German with the accent of a Berliner?”
    “I told you—I don’t speak German. I speak a few words of German. I spent a few weeks in Berlin restoring a painting. I suppose I acquired the accent while I was there.”
    “How long ago was that?”
    “About four years ago?”
    “ About four years?”
    “Yes.”
    “Which painting?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “The painting you restored in Berlin. Who was the artist? What was it called?”
    “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
    “Nothing is confidential at this point, Signore Delvecchio. I’d like the name of the painting and the name of the owner.”
    “It was a Caravaggio in private hands. I’m sorry, but I cannot divulge the name of the owner.”
    Peterson held out his hand toward Baer without looking at him. Baer reached into his file folder and handed him a single sheet of paper. He reviewed it sadly, as if the patient did not have long to live.
    “We ran your name through our computer database to see if there happened to be any outstanding arrest warrants for you in Switzerland. I’m pleased to announce there was nothing—not even a traffic citation. We asked our friends across the border in Italy to do the same thing. Once again, there was nothing recorded against you. But our Italian friends told us something more interesting. It seems that a Mario Delvecchio, born 23 September 1951, died in Turin twenty-three years ago of lymphatic cancer.” He looked up from the paper and fixed his gaze on Gabriel. “What do you think are the odds of two men having precisely the same name and the same date of birth?”
    “How should I know?”
    “I think they’re very long indeed. I think there is only one Mario Delvecchio, and you stole his identity in order to obtain an Italian passport. I don’t believeyour name is Mario Delvecchio. In fact, I’m quite certain it isn’t. I believe your name is Gabriel Allon, and that you work for the Israeli secret service.”
    Peterson smiled for the first time, not a pleasant