Lavon frowned. “I must confess I’m not really looking forward to this. I suppose there’s a ritual to these things. When agents die, their secrets have to go with them to the grave. It’s like tahara, the washing of the dead. Next time it could be one of us.”

“Promise me something, Eli.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me that if anything happens to me, you’ll be the one who buries all my secrets.”

“It would be my honor.” Lavon patted the pocket of his jacket. “Oh, I nearly forgot this. A bodel gave this to me at the airport this morning after I arrived.”

The bodelim were Office couriers. The item Lavon had been given was a Beretta 9mm pistol. Gabriel took it from his grasp and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back.

“You’re not really going to bring that, are you?”

“I have enemies, Eli—lots of enemies.”

“Obviously, so did Solomon Rosner.”

“And one of them might still be hanging around his house.”

“Just try not to kill anyone while we’re in Amsterdam, Gabriel. Dead bodies have a way of spoiling an otherwise uneventful trip.”

It was beginning to get dark when Gabriel stepped out of the hotel. He turned to the right and, with Lavon trailing several paces behind, walked the length of the narrow street until he came to an iron bridge. On the opposite side stood Café de Doelen. It was open for business again, and the spot where Solomon Rosner had been standing at the time of his murder was piled high with tulips. There were no mourners or protesters condemning the ritual slaughter of their fellow countryman, only a single banner, hung from the façade of the café, that read ONE AMSTERDAM, ONE PEOPLE.

“I’ve been staring at it for two days now and I still don’t quite know what it means.”

Gabriel turned around. The words had been spoken by a woman in her late twenties with sandstone-colored hair and pale blue eyes that shone with a calm intelligence.

“I’m Sophie Vanderhaus.” She extended her hand and added primly: “Professor Rosner’s assistant.” She released his hand and gazed at the makeshift memorial. “Quite moving, don’t you think? Even the Dutch press are treating him like a hero now. Too bad they weren’t so glowing in their praise when he was alive. For years they attacked him, all because he had the courage to say the things they chose to ignore. In my judgment they are complicit in his murder. They are as guilty as the extremist imams who filled Muhammad Hamza’s head with hate.” She turned and looked at Gabriel. “Come,” she said. “The house is this way.”

They set off down the Staalstraat together. Gabriel glanced over his shoulder and saw Lavon start after them. Sophie Vanderhaus gazed down at the cobbles, as if organizing her thoughts.