“Where did you get it?”
“A little takeaway near the Hauptbahnhof.”
“That’s where all the Turks live, you know.”
“In my experience that’s generally the best place to get Turkish food.”
Estermann ate one of the dolmades. “It’s quite good, actually. Still, it’s not what I would have chosen for my last meal.”
“Why so glum, Estermann?”
“We both know how this is going to end.”
“The ending,” said Gabriel, “has yet to be written.”
“And what must I do to survive this night?”
“Answer every question I ask.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll be tempted to waste a perfectly good bullet on you.”
Estermann lowered his voice. “I have children, Allon.”
“Six,” said Gabriel. “A very Jewish number.”
“Really? I never knew.” Estermann looked at the glass of wine.
“Have some,” said Gabriel. “You’ll feel better.”
“It’s forbidden.”
“Live a little, Estermann.”
He reached for the wineglass. “I certainly hope so.”
Andreas Estermann’s story began, of all places, with the Munich Massacre. His father had been a policeman, too. A real policeman, he added. Not the secret variety. In the early-morning hours of September 5, 1972, he was awakened with news that Palestinian guerrillas had kidnapped several Israeli athletes at the Olympic Village. He remained inside the command post during the daylong negotiations and witnessed the rescue attempt at Fürstenfeldbruck. Despite its failure, Estermann’s father was awarded his department’s highest commendation for his efforts that day. He tossed it in a drawer and never looked at it again.
“Why?”
“He thought it was a disaster.”
“For whom?”
“Germany, of course.”
“What about the innocent Israelis who were murdered that night?”
Estermann shrugged.
“I suppose your father thought they had it coming to them.”
“I suppose he did.”
“He was a supporter of the Palestinians?”
“Hardly.”
