He lifted the visor and turned around, his green eyes flashing in the glare of the lamps. “Are you enjoying this little debate about the moral relevancy of counterterrorism? Is it making you feel better? You can rest assured Ahmed bin Shafiq never wastes time wrestling with these questions of morality. You can be certain that if he ever manages to acquire a nuclear device, the only debate he’ll have is whether to use it against New York or Tel Aviv.”

“Is it justice, Gabriel? Or only vengeance?”

Again he saw himself and Shamron. This time the setting was not Gabriel’s flat in Narkiss Street but a warm afternoon in September 1972—the day Shamron first came for him. Gabriel had posed the same question.

“It’s not too late, Sarah. You can get out if you want. We can find someone else to take your place.”

“There is no one else like me. Besides, I don’t want out.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Permission to sleep at night.”

“Sleep, Sarah. Sleep very well.”

“And you?”

“I have a painting to finish.”

He turned around and lowered his visor again. Sarah was not done with him.

“Was it true?” she asked. “All the things written about you in the newspapers after the Gare de Lyon attack?”

“Most of it.”

“You killed the Palestinians from Black September who carried out the Munich Massacre?”

“Some of them.”

“Would you do it again, knowing everything you know now?”

He hesitated a moment. “Yes, Sarah, I would do it again. And I’ll tell you why. It wasn’t about vengeance. Black September was the most lethal terror group the world had ever seen, and it needed to be put out of business.”

“But look at what it cost you. You lost your family.”

“Everyone who engages in this fight loses something. Take your country, for example. You were innocent, a shining beacon of freedom and decency. Now you have blood on your hands and men in secret prisons. We don’t do this sort of work because we enjoy it. We do it because we have to. We do it because we have no choice. You think I have a choice? You think Dina Sarid has a choice? We don’t. And neither do you.” He looked at her for a moment. “Unless you’d like me to find someone else to go in your place.”

“There is no one else like me,” she repeated. “When will I be ready?”

Gabriel turned and lifted his brush to the painting. Soon, he thought. One or two days more of inpainting. Then a coat of varnish. Then she would be ready.