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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 in which 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.”
    “As I said, Herr Landau, we’re not sure.”
    Weiss was clearly frustrated by the line of questioning, but Herr Landau, art dealer from Tel Aviv, was not quite finished.
    “Is a wound to the knee consistent with other murders carried out by right-wing extremists?”
    “I