“Because after the fiasco in Paris there’s not going to be an appetite for having another go at Khaled on European soil—at least not officially. Besides, I am the Office, and I’m giving it to you. I want you to find him, Eli. Quietly. That’s your special gift. You know how to do these sorts of things without making a racket.”

“True, but I’ve lost a step or two.”

“Are you fit enough to travel?”

“As long as there’s no rough stuff. That’s your department. I’m the bookish one, you’re the muscle Jew.”

Lavon dug a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, cupping his hand against the breeze. He looked out over the Valley of Jezreel for a moment before speaking again.

“But you always were, weren’t you, Gabriel?”

“What’s that?”

“The muscle Jew. You like to play the role of the sensitive artist, but deep down you’re more like Shamron than you realize.”

“He’s going to kill again. Maybe he’ll wait until next April, or maybe a target will come along sooner—something that will allow him to temporarily quench his thirst for Jewish blood.”

“Maybe you suffer from the same thirst?”

“A little,” Gabriel conceded, “but this isn’t about revenge. It’s about justice. And it’s about protecting the lives of innocents. Will you find him for me, Eli?”

Lavon nodded. “Don’t worry, Gabriel. I’ll find him—before he can kill again.”

They stood in silence for a moment, looking down at the land.

“Did we drive them out, Eli?”

“The Canaanites?”

“No, Eli. The Arabs.”

“We certainly didn’t ask them to stay,” Lavon said. “Maybe it was easier that way.”

A BLUE SEDAN was idling in Narkiss Street. Gabriel recognized the face of the man seated behind the wheel. He entered the apartment house and climbed quickly up the stairs. Two suitcases stood on the landing, outside the half-open door. Chiara was seated in the living room, dressed in a smart black European two-piece suit and high-heeled shoes. Her face had makeup on it. Gabriel had never seen Chiara with makeup before.

“Where are you going?”

“You know better than to ask me that.”

“A job?”

“Yes, of course a job.”

“How long will you be gone?”

Her silence told him she was not coming back.

“When it’s over, I’m going back to Venice.” Then she added: “To take care of my family.”

He stood motionless and looked down at her. Chiara’s tears, when they spilled down her cheeks, were black with mascara. To Gabriel they looked like streaks of dirty rain on a statue. She wiped them away and examined her blackened fingertips, angry at her inability to control her emotions. Then she straightened her back and blinked hard several times.

“You look disappointed in me, Gabriel.”

“For what?”

“Crying. You never cry, do you?”

“Not anymore.”