Gabriel heard himself say that Leah was doing well, that two or three days a week he drove up to the psychiatric hospital atop Mount Herzl to spend a few minutes with her. But as he told her these things his mind was elsewhere; on a tiny street in Vienna not far from the Judenplatz; on the car bomb that killed his son and the inferno that destroyed Leah’s body and stole her memory. For thirteen years she had been silent in his presence. Now, for brief periods, she spoke to him. Recently, in the garden of the hospital, she had posed to him the same question Chiara had a moment earlier: Were there other women while I was gone? He had answered her truthfully.

“Did you love this girl, Gabriel?”

“I loved her, but I gave her up for you.”

“Why on earth would you do that, my love? Look at me. There’s nothing left of me. Nothing but a memory.”

Chiara had lapsed into silence. The light on her face was fading slowly from coral-red to gray. The plump woman appeared in the window opposite and began reeling in her laundry. Chiara lifted the sheet to her throat.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t want Signora Lorenzetto to see me naked.”

Gabriel, in pulling the sheet down to its original position, left a smudge of charcoal on her breast.

“I suppose I have to move back to Jerusalem,” she said. “Unless you feel like telling Shamron that you can’t take over Special Ops because you’re coming back to Venice.”

“It’s tempting,” Gabriel said.

“Tempting, but not possible. You’re a loyal soldier, Gabriel. You always do what you’re told. You always did.” She brushed the charcoal from her breast. “At least I won’t have to decorate the apartment.”

Gabriel’s eyes remained downward toward the sketchpad. Chiara studied his expression, then asked, “Gabriel, what have you done to the apartment?”

“I’m afraid I needed a place to work.”

“So you just moved some things around?”

“You know, I’m getting hungry, too.”

“Gabriel Allon, is there anything left?”

“It’s warm tonight,” he said. “Let’s take the boat out to Murano and have fish.”

9. Jerusalem

Jerusalem

IT WAS EIGHT O’CLOCK the following evening when Gabriel returned to Narkiss Street. Shamron’s car was parked at the curb and Rami, his bodyguard, was standing watch in the walkway outside Number 16. Upstairs Gabriel found all the lights on and Shamron drinking coffee at the kitchen table.

“How did you get in?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, this used to be an Office safe flat. There’s a key in Housekeeping.”

“Yes, but I changed the locks over the summer.”

“Really?”

“I guess I’ll have to change them again.”

“Don’t bother.”