“I’m a mere adviser with no operational authority.” Shamron’s tone was heavy with irony. He enjoyed playing the role of the downtrodden civil servant who’d been put out to pasture before his time, even if the reality was far different. “Besides, Lev wouldn’t hear of it.”

“And he would let me lead the team?”

“He doesn’t have a choice. The prime minister has already spoken on the matter. Of course I was whispering in his ear at the time.” Shamron paused. “Lev did make one demand, however, and I’m afraid I was in no position to challenge it.”

“What’s that?”

“He insists that you come back on the payroll and return to full-time duty.”

Gabriel had left the Office after the bombing in Vienna. His missions in the intervening years had been essentially freelance affairs orchestrated by Shamron. “He wants me under Office discipline so he can keep me under his control,” Gabriel said.

“His motives are rather transparent. For a man of the secret world, Lev does a terrible job covering his own tracks. But don’t take it personally. It’s me who Lev despises. You, I’m afraid, are guilty by association.”

A sudden clamor rose from the street, children running and shouting. Shamron remained silent until the noise dissipated. When he spoke again, his voice took on a new tone of gravity.

“That disk contains more than just your dossier,” he said. “We also found surveillance photographs and detailed security analyses of several potential future targets in Europe.”

“What sorts of targets?”

“Embassies, consulates, El Al offices, major synagogues, Jewish community centers, schools.” Shamron’s final word echoed in the apses of the church for a moment before dying away. “They’re going to hit us again, Gabriel. You can help us stop them. You know them as well as anyone at King Saul Boulevard.” He turned his gaze toward the altarpiece. “You know them like the brushstrokes of that Bellini.”

Shamron looked at Gabriel. “Your days in Venice are over. There’s a plane waiting on the other side of the lagoon. You’re getting on it, whether you like it or not. What you do after that is your business. You can sit around a safe flat, pondering the state of your life, or you can help us find these murderers before they strike again.”

Gabriel could muster no challenge. Shamron was right: he had no choice but to leave. Still, there was something in the self-satisfied tone of Shamron’s voice that Gabriel found irritating. Shamron had been pleading with him for years to forsake Europe and return to Israel, preferably to assume control of the Office, or at least Operations. Gabriel couldn’t help but feel Shamron, in his Machiavellian way, was deriving a certain satisfaction from the situation.