carefully. Whether Grigori Bulganov left London voluntarily or at the point of a Russian pistol is of little or no consequence. You’re compromised, Gabriel. And you’re leaving here tonight.”
“I’ve been compromised before. Besides, Grigori has no knowledge of my cover or where I’m living. He can’t betray me, and Shamron knows it. He’s using Grigori’s disappearance as his latest excuse to get me back to Israel. Once I’m there, he’ll lock me away in solitary confinement. And I’m sure when my defenses are at their weakest, he’ll offer me a way out. I’ll be the director, and you’ll be in charge of Special Ops. And Shamron will be able to finally die in peace, knowing that his two favorite sons are finally in control of his beloved Office.”
“That might be Shamron’s overall strategy, but for the moment he’s only concerned about your safety. He has no ulterior motives.”
“Shamron is ulterior motives personified, Uzi. And so are you.”
Navot removed his hand from Gabriel’s shoulder. “I’m afraid this isn’t a debate, Gabriel. You might be the boss one day, but for now I’m ordering you to leave Italy and come home. You’re not going to disobey another order, are you?”
Gabriel made no reply.
“You have too many enemies to be alone in the world, Gabriel. You might think your friend the pope will look after you, but you’re wrong. You need us as much as we need you. Besides, we’re the only family you’ve got.”
Navot gave a shrewd smile. The countless hours he had spent in the executive conference rooms of King Saul Boulevard had significantly sharpened his debating skills. He was now a formidable opponent, one who had to be handled with care.
“I’m working on a painting,” Gabriel said. “I can’t leave until it’s finished.”
“How long?” Navot asked.
Three months, thought Gabriel. Then he said, “Three days.”
Navot sighed. He oversaw a unit consisting of several hundred highly skilled operatives but only one whose movements were dictated by the fickle rhythms of restoring Old Master paintings.
“I take it your wife is still in Venice?”
“She’s coming back tonight.”
“She should have told me she was going to Venice before she left. You might be a private contractor, Gabriel, but your wife is a full-time employee of Special Ops. As such, she is required to keep her supervisor,
“I’ll try, Uzi, but she never listens to a thing I say.”
Navot glared at his wristwatch. A large stainless steel device, it did everything except keep accurate time. It was a newer version of the one worn by Shamron, which is why Navot had bought it in the first place.
“I have some business in Paris and Brussels. I’ll be back here in three days to pick up you and Chiara. We’ll go back to Israel together.”
“I’m sure we can find the airport by ourselves, Uzi. We’re both well trained.”
“That’s what concerns me.” Navot turned around and looked at the bodyguards. “And by the way, they’re staying here with you. Think of them as heavily armed houseguests.”
“I don’t need them.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Navot said.
“I assume they don’t speak Italian.”
“They’re settler boys from Judea and Samaria. They barely speak English.”
“So how am I supposed to explain them to the staff?”
“That’s not my problem.” Navot held a trio of thick fingers in front of Gabriel’s face. “You have three days to finish that damn painting. Three days. Then you and your wife are going home.”
7
GABRIEL’S STUDIO was in semidarkness, the altarpiece shrouded by gloom. He attempted to walk past it but could not-as always, the pull of a work in progress was far too strong. Switching on a single halogen lamp, he gazed at the pale hand reaching toward the apex of the panel. For an instant, it belonged not to Saint Peter but to Grigori Bulganov. And it was reaching not toward God but toward Gabriel.
Promise me one thing, Gabriel. Promise me I won’t end up in an unmarked grave.
The vision was disturbed by the sound of singing. Gabriel switched off the lamp and climbed the stone steps to his room. The bed, unmade when he left, now looked as if it had been prepared for a photo shoot by a professional stylist. Chiara was executing one final adjustment to a pair of decorative pillows, two useless disks trimmed in white lace that Gabriel always hurled on the floor before climbing between the sheets. An overnight bag lay at the foot, along with a Beretta 9mm. Gabriel placed the weapon in the top drawer of the nightstand and lowered the volume on the radio.
Chiara looked up, as if surprised by his presence. She was wearing faded blue jeans, a beige sweater, and suede boots that added two inches to her tall frame. Her riotous dark hair was constrained by a clasp at the nape of her neck and pulled forward over one shoulder. Her caramel-colored eyes were a shade darker than normal. It was not a good sign. Chiara’s eyes were a reliable barometer of her mood.
“I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t play the radio so loudly.”
“Why didn’t Margherita make the bed?”
“I told her not to come in here while you were away.”
“And of course you couldn’t be bothered.”
“I couldn’t find the instructions.”
She gave him a slow shake of the head to show her disappointment. “If you can restore Old Master paintings, Gabriel, you can make a bed. What did you do when you were a boy?”
“My mother tried to force me.”
“And?”
“I slept on top of the bedding.”
“No wonder Shamron recruited you.”
“Actually, the Office psychologists found it revelatory. They said it displayed a spirit of independence and the ability to solve problems.”
“So is that why you refuse to make it now? Because you want to demonstrate your independence?”
Gabriel answered her with a kiss. Her lips were very warm.
“How was Venice?”
“Almost bearable. When the weather is cold and rainy, it’s almost possible to imagine Venice is still a real city. The Piazza di San Marco is overrun with tourists, of course. They drink their ten-euro cups of cappuccino and pose for photographs with those awful pigeons. Tell me, Gabriel, what kind of holiday is that?”
“I thought the mayor drove the birdseed vendors out of business.”
“The tourists feed them anyway. If they love the pigeons so much, maybe they should take them home as souvenirs. Do you know how many tourists came to Venice this year?”
“Twenty million.”
“That’s right. If each person took just one of those filthy birds, the problem would be solved within a few months.”
It was odd to hear Chiara speak so harshly of Venice. Indeed, there was a time, not so long ago, when she would have never imagined a life outside the picturesque canals and narrow alleyways of her native city. The daughter of the city’s chief rabbi, she had spent her childhood in the insular world of the ancient ghetto, leaving just long enough to earn a master’s degree in history from the University of Padua. She returned to Venice after graduation and took a job at the small Jewish museum in the Campo del Ghetto Nuovo, and there she might have remained forever had she not been noticed by an Office talent spotter during a visit to Israel. The talent spotter
