The defector

“But?”

“Yes, it did help.”

“Eleven,” Shamron said. “Ironic, don’t you think?”

“How so?”

“Your first assignment came about because Black September killed eleven Israelis in Munich. And for your final assignment, you and Mikhail killed eleven Russians who were responsible for Chiara’s abduction and Grigori Bulganov’s death.”

A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of laughter at the dinner table.

“My final assignment? I thought you and the prime minister had decided it was my time to take over the Office.”

“Have you seen your fitness reports?” Shamron shook his head slowly. “You’re in no condition to take on the responsibility of running the Office now. Not when we have a confrontation with the Iranians looming. And not when your wife needs your attention.”

“What are you saying, Ari?”

“I’m saying that you are released from the promise you made in Paris. I’m telling you that you’re fired, Gabriel. You have a new mission now. Get your wife pregnant again as quickly as possible. You’re not so young, my son. You need to have another child quickly.”

“Are you sure, Ari? Are you really prepared to let me go?”

“I’m sure we’ll always find something for you to do. But it’s not going to be sitting behind the desk in the director’s suite. We’re going to inflict that chore on someone else.”

“Do you have a candidate in mind?”

“Actually, we’ve already settled on one. It’s going to be announced next month when Amos steps down.”

“Who is it?”

“Me,” said Uzi Navot.

Gabriel turned and saw Navot standing on the terrace, his heavy arms folded across his chest. In the half-light, he looked shockingly like Shamron in his youth.

“Brilliant choice, don’t you think?”

“I’m speechless.”

“For once.” Navot came forward and placed his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “We have a wonderful system, you and I. You turn a job down, then they give it to me.”

“But the right man got the job in both cases, Uzi. I would have been a terrible director. Mazel tov.”

“Do you mean that, Gabriel?”

“The Office is going to be in good hands for years to come.” Gabriel cocked his head toward Shamron. “Now, if we can just get the Old Man to let go of the bicycle seat.”

Shamron grimaced. “Let’s not get carried away. But let us also be clear about one thing. Uzi is not going to be my pawn. He’ll be his own man. But obviously I’ll always be here to offer advice.”

“Whether he wants it or not.”

“Be careful, my son. Otherwise, I’ll advise him to deal with you harshly.”

Navot walked over and leaned against the balustrade.

“What are we going to do with him, Ari?”

“In my opinion, he should be locked in a room with his wife and kept there until she is pregnant again.”

“Done.” Navot looked at Gabriel. “It’s an order. And you’re not going to disobey another one of my orders, are you, Gabriel?”

“No, sir.”

“So what are you going to do with all this spare time?”

“Rest. After that…” Gabriel gave a noncommittal shrug. “To be honest, I haven’t a clue.”

“Just don’t get any ideas about leaving the country,” Shamron said. “For the time being, your address is No. 16 Narkiss Street.”

“I need to work.”

“So we’ll find you some paintings to clean.”

“The paintings are in Europe.”

“You can’t go to Europe,” Shamron said. “Not yet.”

“When?”

“When we’ve dealt with Ivan. Then you can leave.”

76

JERUSALEM

GABRIEL AND Chiara made a determined effort to follow Navot’s order to the letter. They found little reason to leave the apartment; a furnacelike August heat had settled over Jerusalem, and the daylight hours were intolerably hot. They ventured out only after dark, and even then only briefly. For the first time in many years, Gabriel felt a strong desire to produce original work. His subject matter, of course, was Chiara. In just three days he painted a stunning nude that, when finished, he propped against the wall at the foot of their bed. Sometimes, when the room was in darkness and he was intoxicated with Chiara’s kisses, it was almost possible to confuse canvas with reality. It was during one such hallucination that the bedside telephone rang quite unexpectedly. With Chiara astride his hips, he was tempted not to answer. Reluctantly he brought the receiver to his ear.

“We need to talk,” said Adrian Carter.

“I’m listening.”

“Not over the phone.”

“Where?”

They met for breakfast two days later on the terrace of the King David Hotel. When Gabriel arrived, he found Carter wearing a wrinkled poplin suit and reading the International Herald Tribune. It had been many months since they had seen each other. Indeed, their last encounter had occurred at Shannon Airport in Ireland, the morning after the G-8 summit. Under the agreement reached with the Russian president, Gabriel, Chiara, Mikhail, and Irina Bulganova had been allowed to leave Moscow the same way Gabriel had arrived: surrounded by Secret Service agents, aboard the so-called car plane. They had disembarked during a refueling stop and had gone their separate ways. Irina had accompanied Graham Seymour to Britain, while Gabriel, Chiara, and Mikhail had flown home to Israel with Shamron. Carter had been so overcome by emotion that morning that he had neglected to ask Gabriel for the official American passport he had used to enter Russia. He did so now, a moment after retaking his seat. Gabriel tossed it onto the table, emblem down.

“I hope you didn’t use this during your little European holiday this summer.”

“I haven’t left Israel since I got back from Russia.”

“Nice try, Gabriel. But we have it on very good authority that you and your team spent the summer killing Anton Petrov’s friends and associates. And you did a damn good job of it.”

“It wasn’t us, Adrian. It was Ivan.”

“My European station chiefs heard those rumors, too.”

Carter opened the passport and began leafing through the pages.

“Don’t worry, Adrian. You won’t find any new visas in there. I wouldn’t do that to you or the president. My wife is alive because of you. And I’ll never be able to repay you.”

“I believe the balance of our account is still weighted heavily in your favor.” Carter sipped his coffee and changed the subject. “We hear there’s about to be a change at the helm of King Saul Boulevard. Needless to say, Langley is pleased by the choice. I’ve always been fond of Uzi.”

“But?”

“Obviously, we were hoping the next chief would be you. We understand why that’s not going to be possible.