He stood and walked to the altarpiece. Attempting to hurriedly finish it was out of the question. The figure of Saint Christopher, with the Christ Child straddling his shoulders, still required substantial inpainting. Then the entire piece required a new coat of varnish. Four weeks minimum, probably more like six. He supposed Tiepolo would have to give it to someone else to finish, a thought that made Gabriel’s stomach churn with acid. But there was something else: Israel wasn’t exactly flooded with Italian Old Master paintings. Chances were he would never again touch a Bellini.

“My work is here,” Gabriel said, though his voice was heavy with resignation.

“No, your work was here. You’re coming home”—Shamron hesitated—“to King Saul Boulevard. To Eretz Yisrael.”

“Leah, too,” Gabriel said. “It’s going to take some time to make the arrangements. Until then, I want a man at the hospital. I don’t care if the dossier says she’s dead.”

“I’ve already dispatched a Security agent from London station.”

Gabriel looked at Chiara.

“She’s coming, too,” Shamron said, reading his thoughts. “We’ll leave a team from Security in Venice as long as necessary to look after her family and the community.”

“I have to tell Tiepolo that I’m leaving.”

“The fewer people who know, the better.”

“I don’t care,” said Gabriel. “I owe it to him.”

“Do what you need to do. Just do it quickly.”

“What about the house? There are things—”

“Extraction will see to your things. By the time they finish, there’ll be no trace of you here.” Shamron, in spite of Gabriel’s admonition against smoking, lit a cigarette. He held the match aloft for a moment, then ceremoniously blew it out. “It will be as though you never existed.”

SHAMRON GRANTED HIM one hour. Gabriel, with Chiara’s Beretta in his pocket, slipped from the back door of the church and made his way to Castello. He had lived there during his apprenticeship and knew the tangled streets of the sestière well. He walked in a section where tourists never went and many of the houses were uninhabited. His route, deliberately circuitous, took him through several underground sottoportegi, where it was impossible for a pursuer to hide. Once he purposely led himself into an enclosed corte, from which there was only one way to enter and leave. After twenty minutes, he was certain no one was following him.