Navot shrugged. “I’ve been out here in the field a long time. Bella wants to get married. It’s hard to have a stable home life when you live like this. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I never know where I’m going to wind up at the end of the day. I can have breakfast in Berlin, lunch in Amsterdam, and be sitting in King Saul Boulevard at midnight briefing the director.” Navot gave Gabriel a conspiratorial smile. “That’s what the Americans don’t understand about us. They put their case officers into little boxes and slap their wrists when they step outside the lines. The Office isn’t that way. It never was. That’s what makes it the greatest job in the world—and that’s why our service is so much better than theirs. They wouldn’t know what to do with a man like you.”

Navot had lost interest in the borscht. He pushed it across the table, so that it looked as though Gabriel had eaten it. Gabriel reached for the glass of wine but thought better of it. He had a headache from the train ride and the rainy Paris weather, and the kosher wine smelled about as appealing as paint thinner.

“But it takes its toll on marriages and relationships, doesn’t it, Gabriel? How many of us are divorced? How many of us have had affairs with girls out there in the field? At least if I’m working in Tel Aviv, I’ll be around more often. There’s still a lot of travel with the job but less than this. Bella has a place near the beach in Caesarea. It will be a nice life.” He shrugged again. “Listen to me. I’m acting as though Amos has offered me the job. Amos hasn’t offered me anything. For all I know, he’s bringing me to King Saul Boulevard to fire me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the most qualified man for the job. You’ll be my boss, Uzi.”

“Your boss? Please. No one is your boss, Gabriel. Only the old man.” Navot’s expression turned suddenly grave. “How is he? I hear it’s not good.”

“He’s going to be fine,” Gabriel assured him.

They lapsed into silence as the waiter came to the table and cleared away the dishes. When he was gone again, Gabriel gave the file folder to Navot, who slipped it back into his briefcase.

“So how are you going to play it with Hannah Weinberg?”

“I’m going to ask her to give up a painting that’s worth eighty million dollars. I have to tell her the truth—or at least some version of the truth. And then we’ll have to deal with the security consequences.”

“What about the approach? Are you going to dance for a while or go straight in for the kill?”