rooms.”
“Lebanon?”
“He pops into Beirut at least twice a month.” Gabriel paused, then added, “He also spends a fair amount of time here in Israel.”
Navot looked up sharply but said nothing.
“According to Eli’s friends over at the Israel Antiquities Authority, Daoud Ghandour, aka David Girard, is a frequent visitor to the Temple Mount. Actually,” Gabriel corrected himself, “he spends most of his time
“Doing what?”
“He’s an unpaid adviser to the Palestinian Authority and the Waqf on issues related to archaeological matters. By the way, that’s not in his official bio, either.”
Navot stared at the photo for a moment. “What’s your theory?”
“I think he’s Hezbollah’s man in Carlo’s network. He sells looted goods out of his gallery in St. Moritz, sends the profits back home through LBB, and gives a ten percent cut to his godfather Carlo Marchese.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Not yet. Which is why I’m proposing we go into business with him.”
“How?”
“I’m going to offer him something irresistible, and see if he bites.”
“I probably shouldn’t ask,” Navot sighed, “but just where do you intend to get something so irresistible?”
“I’m going to steal it, of course.”
“Of course,” said Navot, smiling. “Is there anything you need from me?”
“Money, Uzi. Lots of money.”
Office doctrine dictates that field agents departing for missions abroad spend their final night in Israel at a safe flat known as a jump site. There, free from the distractions of spouses, lovers, children, and pets, they assume the identities they will wear like body armor until they return home again. Only Gabriel and Eli Lavon chose not to participate in this enduring operational ritual, for by their own calculation, they had spent more time living under false names than their own.
As it turned out, both chose to pass at least part of that last evening in the company of damaged women. Lavon headed to the Western Wall Tunnel to spend a few hours with his beloved Rivka, while Gabriel made a pilgrimage to the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital to see Leah. As usual, he arrived after normal visiting hours. Leah’s doctor was waiting in the lobby. A rabbinical-looking man with a
“It’s been a while since your last visit.” The doctor gave a forgiving smile. “She’s looking forward to seeing you.”
“How is she?”
“The same. At this stage of her life, that’s the best we can hope for.”
The doctor took Gabriel by the arm and guided him along a corridor of Jerusalem limestone to a common room with windows overlooking the hospital’s garden. It was there, in the shade of a stone pine, that Gabriel had sought Leah’s permission to marry Chiara. The moment was only partially imprinted in Leah’s watery memory. At times, she seemed to realize that Gabriel was no longer her husband, but for the most part she remained a prisoner of the past. In Leah’s bewildered mind, there was nothing unusual about Gabriel’s long absences. Thanks to Shamron, he had always entered and departed her world with little or no warning.
She was seated in her wheelchair with the twisted remnants of her hands resting in her lap. Her hair, once long and dark like Chiara’s, was now cut institutional short and shot with gray. Gabriel kissed the cool, firm scar tissue of her cheek before lowering himself into the armless little chair the doctor had placed at her side. Leah seemed unaware of his presence. She was staring sightlessly into the darkened garden.
“Do you love this girl?” she asked suddenly, her gaze still straight ahead.
“Which girl?” asked Gabriel. And then, when he realized Leah was merely reliving the conversation that had dissolved their marriage, his heart gave a sideways lurch. “I love you,” he said softly, squeezing her frozen hands. “I’ll always love you, Leah.”
A smile briefly graced her lips. Then she looked directly at Gabriel for a moment with an expression of wifely disapproval. “You’re working for Shamron again,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
“I can see it in your eyes. You’re someone else.”
“I’m Gabriel,” he said.
“Only a part of you is Gabriel.” She turned her face toward the glass.
“Don’t go yet, Leah.”
She came back to him. “Who are you fighting this time? Black September?”
“There is no Black September anymore.”
“Who is it then?”
“Hezbollah,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s Hezbollah, Leah.”
The name appeared to mean nothing to her. “Tell me about it,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s secret.”
“Like before?”
“Yes, Leah, like before.”
Leah frowned. She hated secrets. Secrets had destroyed her life.
“Where will you go this time?”
“Paris,” Gabriel replied truthfully.
Her expression darkened. “Why Paris?”
“There’s a man there who can help me.”
“A spy?”
“A thief.”
“What does he steal?”
“Paintings.”
She seemed genuinely troubled. “Why would a man like you want to work with someone who steals paintings?”
“Sometimes it’s necessary to work with bad people to accomplish good things.”
“Is this man bad?”
“Not really.”
“Tell me about him.”
Gabriel could see no harm in it, so he complied with her request. But after a moment, she appeared to lose interest, and her face turned once again toward the window.
“Look at the snow,” she said, gazing at the cloudless evening sky. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, Leah, it’s beautiful.”
Her hands began to tremble. Gabriel closed his eyes.
When Gabriel returned to Narkiss Street, he found Chiara stretched on the couch in the half-light, a glass of red wine balanced on her abdomen. She offered him the wine and watched him carefully as he drank, as though searching for evidence of betrayal. Then she led him into the bedroom and wordlessly removed her clothing. Her body was feverishly warm. She made love as though it were for the last time.
“Take me with you to Paris.”
“No.”
She didn’t press the issue. She knew there was no point. Not after what had happened in Rome. And not after what had happened in Vienna before that.
“Did she remember you this time?”
“She remembered.”
