Shafiq operation or the Vatican. Instead they talked about Gabriel’s appearance before the American Congress. Judging from Shamron’s sour expression, he did not approve. This was made clear to Gabriel after supper, when Shamron led him out onto the terrace to talk in private.
“You were right to reject the subpoena the first time, Gabriel. You should have never changed your mind. The thought of you seated before that congressional committee, even in secret, set back my rehabilitation six months.”
“The wellspring of global jihad is Saudi Arabia and Wahhabism,” Gabriel said. “The Senate needed to be told that. So did the American people.”
“You could have put your thoughts in a secret cable. You didn’t have to sit there before them answering questions-like a mere mortal.”
They sat down in a pair of comfortable chairs facing the balustrade. A full moon was reflected in the calm surface of the Sea of Galilee, and beyond the lake, black and shapeless, loomed the Golan Heights. Shamron liked it best on his terrace because it faced eastward, toward his enemies. He reached beneath his seat cushion and came out with a silver cigarette case and his old Zippo lighter.
“You shouldn’t smoke, Ari.”
“I couldn’t while I was at Hadassah and the rehabilitation center. This is my first since the night of the attack.”
“If you breathe a word to Gilah, I’ll cane you.”
“You think you can fool Gilah? She knows everything.”
Shamron brought the topic of conversation back to Gabriel’s testimony in Washington.
“Perhaps you had an ulterior motive,” Shamron said. “Perhaps you wanted to do more than just tell the American people the truth about their friends the Saudis.”
“And what might my ulterior motive have been?”
“After your performance at the Vatican, you were arguably the most famous intelligence officer in the world. And now…” Shamron shrugged. “Ours is a business that does not look fondly on notoriety. You’ve made it nearly impossible for us ever to use you again in a covert capacity.”
“I’m not taking the Special Ops job, Ari. Besides, they’ve already offered it to Uzi.”
“Uzi is a fine officer, but he’s not
“Uzi is the reason Sarah Bancroft is alive. He’s exactly the right man to lead Special Ops.”
“You should have never used an American girl.”
“I wish we had two more just like her.”
Shamron seemed to have lost interest in his cigarette. He slipped it back into the case and asked Gabriel about his plans.
“I have some unfinished business, starting with the van Gogh. I promised Hannah Weinberg I’d get it back for her. It’s a promise I intend to keep, regardless of my newfound notoriety.”
“Do you know where it is?”
Gabriel nodded. “I inserted a beacon into the stretcher during the restoration,” he said. “The painting is in Zizi’s mansion on the Ile de la Cite.”
“After everything you’ve been through with the French, you’re planning to steal a painting in Paris?” Shamron shook his head. “It would be easier for you to break into the house of your friend the American president than one of Zizi’s mansions.”
Gabriel dismissed the old man’s concerns with a Shamronian wave of his hand.
“And then?”
Gabriel was silent.
“Ronit has decided to come home,” Shamron said, “but I get the feeling you’re about to leave us again.”
“I haven’t made any decisions yet.”
“I hope you’ve made a decision about Chiara.”
“We’re going to marry as soon as possible.”
“When are you planning to break the news to Leah?”
Gabriel told him.
“Take Gilah with you,” Shamron said. “They spent a great deal of time together when you were in the field. Leah needs a mother at a time like this. Gilah is the ultimate mother.”
GABRIEL AND CHIARA spent the night at the villa in a room facing the lake. In the morning they all gathered for breakfast on the sunlit terrace, then went their separate ways. Yonatan headed north to rejoin his unit; Rimona, who had returned to duty at Aman, went south to rejoin hers. Gilah came with Gabriel and Chiara. They dropped Lavon at the dig at Tel Megiddo, then continued on to Jerusalem.
It was late morning when they arrived at the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital. Dr. Bar-Zvi, a rabbinical-looking man with a long beard, was waiting for them in the lobby. They went to his office and spent an hour discussing the best way to tell Leah the news. Her grasp on reality was tenuous at best. For years images of Vienna had played ceaselessly in her memory, like a loop of videotape. Now she tended to drift back and forth between past and present, often within the span of a few seconds. Gabriel felt obligated to tell her the truth but wanted it to be as painless as possible.
“She seems to respond to Gilah,” the doctor said. “Perhaps we should talk to her alone before you do.” He looked at his watch. “She’s outside in the garden right now. It’s her favorite place. Why don’t we do it there.”
SHE WAS SEATED in her wheelchair, in the shade of a stone pine. Her hands, scarred and twisted, held a sprig of olive branch. Her hair, once long and black, was cropped short and nearly all gray. Her eyes remained vacant as Gilah and the doctor spoke. Ten minutes later they left her. Gabriel walked down the garden path and knelt before the wheelchair, holding the remnants of her hand. It was Leah who spoke first.
“Do you love this girl?”
“Yes, Leah, I love her very much.”
“You’ll be good to her?”
The tears rolled onto his cheeks. “Yes, Leah, I’ll be good to her.”
She looked away from him. “Look at the snow, Gabriel. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, Leah, it’s beautiful.”
“God, how I hate this city, but the snow makes it beautiful. The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. Snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain on Tel Aviv.” She looked at him again. “You’ll still come visit me?”
“Yes, Leah, I’ll visit you.”
And then she looked away again. “Make sure Dani is buckled into his seat tightly. The streets are slippery.”
“He’s fine, Leah. Be careful driving home.”
“I’ll be careful, Gabriel. Give me a kiss.”
Gabriel pressed his lips against the scar tissue on her ruined cheek and closed his eyes.
Leah whispered, “One last kiss.”
THE WALLS of Gabriel’s bedroom were hung with paintings. There were three paintings by his grandfather-the only surviving works Gabriel had ever been able to find-and more than a dozen by his mother. There was also a portrait, painted in the style of Egon Schiele, that bore no signature. It showed a young man with prematurely gray hair and a gaunt face haunted by the shadow of death. Gabriel had always told Chiara that the painting was a self-portrait. Now, as she lay beside him, he told her the truth.
“When did she paint it?” Chiara asked.
“Right after I returned from the Black September operation.”
“She was amazing.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel, looking at the painting. “She was much better than me.”
Chiara was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “How long are we going to stay here?”
“Until we find him.”
“And how long is that going to take?”
