Gabriel had entered this room, or versions of it, many times before. He had entered it in triumph and staggered into it in failure. He had been fêted in this room, consoled in it, and once he had been wheeled into it with a bullet wound in his chest. Usually it was Ari Shamron who was waiting to receive him. Now, as Gabriel slipped through the door with Chiara at his side, he was greeted by the sight of Uzi Navot. He had shed at least thirty pounds since Gabriel had seen him last and was wearing a new pair of stylish spectacles that made him look like the editor of a trendy magazine. The stainless steel chronometer he had always worn to emulate Shamron was gone, replaced by a tank-style watch that went well with his tailored navy blue suit and white open-collared dress shirt. The metamorphosis was complete, thought Gabriel. Any trace of the hard-bitten field operative had been carefully erased. Uzi Navot was now a headquarters man, a spy in the prime of life.

Navot stared at them wordlessly for a moment, a look of genuine relief on his face. Then, satisfied that Gabriel and Chiara had suffered no serious injuries, his expression darkened.

“This is a special occasion,” he said finally. “My first personnel crisis as chief. I suppose it’s only fitting that you’re involved. Then again, it was rather mild by your exalted standards—just an apartment building in ruins and eight people dead, including one of Argentina’s most prominent journalists and social critics.”

“Chiara and I are fine, Uzi, but thank you for asking.”

Navot made a placatory gesture, as if to say he wanted the tone of the conversation to remain civil.

“I realize your status is somewhat vague at the moment, Gabriel, but there is no ambiguity over the rules governing your movements. Because your passports and identities are still managed by the Office, you’re supposed to tell me when you travel.” Navot paused. “You do recall making that promise, don’t you, Gabriel?”

With a nod, Gabriel conceded the point.

“When were you planning to tell me about your little adventure?”

“It was a private matter.”

“Private? There’s no such thing where you’re concerned.” Navot frowned. “And what the hell were you doing in Alfonso Ramirez’s apartment?”

“We were looking for a portrait by Rembrandt,” Gabriel said. “And a great deal of money.”

“And I thought it was going to be something dull.” Navot sighed heavily. “I assume that you were the target of that bomb, and not Alfonso Ramirez?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Any suspects?”

“Just one.”