“How much time?”

“Assuming they’re healthy,” said Gabriel thoughtfully, “I would think three months.”

“Three months is a long time to be without a chief.”

“We won’t be without a chief. We have Uzi.”

Shamron deliberately crushed out his cigarette. “Is it still your intention to keep him on?”

“By force if necessary.”

“What shall we call him?”

“Let’s call him Uzi. It’s a very cool name.”

Gabriel looked down at the young bodyguards milling in the quiet street. Never again would he set foot in public without them. And neither would his wife and children. Shamron started to light a cigarette but stopped himself.

“I can’t say the prime minister is going to be pleased about a three-month paternity leave. In fact,” he added, “he was wondering whether you would be willing to undertake a diplomatic mission on his behalf.”

“Where?”

“Washington,” said Shamron. “Our relationship with the Americans could use a bit of restoration. You’ve always got on well with the Americans. Even the president seems to like you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Will you make the trip?”

“Some paintings are beyond repair, Ari. And so are some relationships.”

“You’re going to need the Americans when you become chief.”

“You always told me to keep my distance from them.”

“The world has changed, my son.”

“That’s true,” said Gabriel. “The American president writes love letters to the ayatollah. And us . . .” He gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders but said nothing more.

“American presidents come and go, but we spies endure.”

“So do Persians,” remarked Gabriel.

“At least Reza Nazari won’t be feeding the Office any more taqiyya. For the record,” Shamron added, “I never thought much of him.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did.” Shamron finally lit another cigarette. “He’s back in Tehran, by the way. He’d better stay there. Otherwise, the Russians are likely to kill him.” Shamron smiled. “Your operation managed to plant a seed of mistrust between two of our adversaries.”

“May it grow into a very large tree.”

“How long before the next shoe drops?”

“Her article will appear in the Sunday edition.”

“The Russians will deny it, of course.”

“But no one will believe them,” said Gabriel. “And they’ll think twice about ever taking another shot at me.”

“You underestimate them.”

“Never.”

A silence fell between them. Gabriel listened to the wind moving in the eucalyptus tree and the sound of Chiara’s gentle voice drifting from the sitting room. It seemed a lifetime ago that he was in South Armagh. Even Quinn was slipping from his grasp. Quinn who could make a ball of fire travel a thousand feet per second. Quinn who had made the acquaintance in Libya of a Palestinian named Tariq al-Hourani.

“Is this how you imagined it would be?” asked Shamron quietly.