The Fallen Angel

“I need someone to look after Eli until I get back.”

“And the other?”

“The government has decided to put the pillars in a special wing at the Israel Museum. You’re going to be part of the team that will design the interior of the building and the overall exhibit.”

“Gabriel!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. “How on earth did you manage that?”

“As one of the co-discoverers of the pillars, I have a certain amount of sway. In fact, they wanted to name the exhibit in my honor.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That it should be called the Eli Lavon Wing,” he said. “I’m just thankful it’s not going to be the Eli Lavon Memorial Wing.”

“Will they change anything?”

“The pillars?”

Chiara nodded.

“Did you hear what the Palestinians said about them?”

“Zionist lies.”

“Temple Denial,” said Gabriel. “They can’t admit that we were here before them because that would mean we have a right to be here now. In their eyes, we have to remain foreign invaders, something to be driven out, like the Crusaders.”

“Blood never sleeps,” Chiara said softly.

“Nor is it in short supply,” Gabriel added. “Our friends in the West like to think the Arab-Israeli conflict can be solved by drawing a line on a map. But they don’t understand history. This city has existed in a state of almost perpetual warfare for three thousand years. And the Palestinians are going to keep fighting until we’re gone.”

“So what do we do?”

“Hold fast,” said Gabriel. “Because the next time we lose Jerusalem, it will be for good. And then where will we go?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

The air had turned suddenly cooler. Chiara pulled her coat tightly around her and studied a group of Israeli teenagers laughing on the other side of the street. They were sixteen or seventeen. In a year or two, they would all be in the army, soldiers in the war without end.

“It’s not so easy, is it, Gabriel?”

“What’s that?”

“To think about leaving at a time like this.”

“It’s the other form of Jerusalem Syndrome. The worse it gets, the more you love it.”

“You do love it, don’t you?”

“I love it dearly,” he said. “I love the color of the limestone and the sky. I love the smell of the pine and the eucalyptus. I love it when the air turns cold at night. I even love the haredim who shout at me when I drive my car on Shabbat.”

“But do you love it enough to stay?”

“His Holiness thinks I have no choice.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gabriel told her about the conversation with the pope on the parapet of the Vatican walls, when the leader of a billion Catholics confessed he was having visions of the Apocalypse. “He thinks we’ve been wandering too long,” he said. “He thinks the country needs me.”

“The pope doesn’t have to wait in hotel rooms wondering whether you’re going to come back from an operation alive.”

“But he is infallible.”

“Not when it comes to matters of the heart.” Chiara looked at Gabriel for a moment. “Do you know what it’s going to be like if we live here? Every time we come home, Ari is going to be sitting in our living room.”

“As long as he doesn’t smoke, that’s fine with me.”

“Do you mean that?”

“He’s like a father to me, Chiara. I need to take care of him.”

“And when Uzi asks you to run an errand for the Office?”

“I suppose I’ll just have to learn those three little words.”

“Which words?”

“Find someone else.”

“What will you do for work?”

“I’ll find work.”

“It gets claustrophobic here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We’ll need to travel, Gabriel.”

“I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

“I’ve always wanted to spend an autumn in Provence.”

“I know just the village.”

“Have you ever been to Scotland?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Will you take me skiing just once?”

“Anywhere but St. Moritz or Gstaad.”

“I miss Venice.”

“So do I.”

“Maybe Francesco Tiepolo can give you a bit of work.”

“He pays me peanuts.”

“I adore peanuts.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. Her hair smelled of vanilla. “Do you think it will hold?” she asked.

“The quiet?”

She nodded.

“For a little while,” said Gabriel, “if we’re lucky.”

“How long will you be in Rome?”

“I suppose that depends entirely on Carlo.”

“Just don’t go anywhere near him without a gun in your pocket.”

“Actually,” he said, “I was planning on having Carlo come to me.”

Chiara shivered.

“We should be going,” said Gabriel. “You’ll catch your death.”

“No,” she said, “I love it, too.”

“The cold at night?”

“And the smell of the pine and eucalyptus,” she said. “It smells like . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Like what, Chiara?”

“Like home,” she said. “It feels good to finally be home.”

49 PIAZZA DI SANT’IGNAZIO, ROME

WHEN GABRIEL ENTERED THE PIAZZA DI Sant’Ignazio two days later, the sun shone brightly from a cloudless Roman sky, and the tables of Le Cave stood in neat rows across the paving stones. At one, shaded by a white umbrella, sat General Ferrari of the Art Squad. Near his elbow was a copy of that morning’s edition of Corriere della Sera, which he placed in front of Gabriel. It was open to a story from Paris about the unexpected recovery of two stolen works of art. The Cézanne was the main attraction; the Greek vase, a lovely hydria by the Amykos Painter, a mere afterthought.