“You’re not the one who has to look her in the eye and tell her that you’re in love with another woman.”

“Forgive my impertinence. It’s the burgundy talking—and the Rubens. Want some company? I’ll drive you down.”

“No,” said Gabriel. “I need to go alone.”

The first course arrived. Isherwood tucked into his bisque. Gabriel speared a piece of lettuce.

“What kind of fee did you have in mind for the Rubens cleaning?”

“Off the top of my head? Somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand pounds.”

“Too bad,” Gabriel said. “For two hundred, I’d consider taking it on.”

“All right, two hundred, you bastard.”

“I’ll call you next week and let you know.”

“What’s stopping you from making a commitment now? The Bellini?”

No, thought Gabriel. It wasn’t the Bellini. It was Rome.

THE STRATFORD CLINIC, one of the most prestigious and private psychiatric hospitals in Europe, was located an hour’s drive from the center of London on a rambling old Victorian estate in the hills of Surrey. The patient population included a distant member of the British royal family and the second cousin of the current prime minister, and so the staff were accustomed to unusual demands by visitors. Gabriel passed through the front security gate after identifying himself as “Mr. Browne.”

He parked his rented Opel in the visitors’ carpark in the forecourt of the old redbrick manor house. Leonard Avery, Leah’s physician, greeted him in the entrance hall, a windblown figure dressed in a Barbour coat and Wellington boots. “Once a week I lead a select group of patients on a nature walk in the surrounding countryside,” he said, explaining his appearance. “It’s extremely therapeutic.” He shook Gabriel’s hand without removing his glove and inquired about the drive from London as if he did not truly wish to know the answer. “She’s waiting for you in the solarium. She still likes the solarium the best.”

They set out down a corridor with a pale linoleum floor, Avery as though he were still pounding along a Surrey footpath. He was the only one at the hospital who knew the truth about the patient named Lee Martinson—or at least part of the truth. He knew that her true family name was Allon and that her terrible burns and near-catatonic state were not the result of a motor accident—the explanation that appeared in Leah’s hospital records—but of a car bombing in Vienna. He also knew that the bombing had claimed the life of her young son. He believed Gabriel was an Israeli diplomat and did not like him.

As they walked, he provided Gabriel with a terse update on Leah’s condition. There had been no change to speak of—Avery did not seem overly concerned by this. He was never one for false optimism and had always maintained low expectations about Leah’s prognosis. He had been proven correct. In the thirteen years since the bombing, she had never once uttered a word to Gabriel.