The Defector

  “I’ve been compromised before. Besides, Grigori has no knowledge of my cover or where I’m living. He can’t betray me, and Shamron knows it. He’s using Grigori’s disappearance as his latest excuse to get me back to Israel. Once I’m there, he’ll lock me away in solitary confinement. And I’m sure when my defenses are at their weakest, he’ll offer me a way out. I’ll be the director, and you’ll be in charge of Special Ops. And Shamron will be able to finally die in peace, knowing that his two favorite sons are finally in control of his beloved Office.”

  “That might be Shamron’s overall strategy, but for the moment he’s only concerned about your safety. He has no ulterior motives.”

  “Shamron is ulterior motives personified, Uzi. And so are you.”

  Navot removed his hand from Gabriel’s shoulder. “I’m afraid this isn’t a debate, Gabriel. You might be the boss one day, but for now I’m ordering you to leave Italy and come home. You’re not going to disobey another order, are you?”

  Gabriel made no reply.

  “You have too many enemies to be alone in the world, Gabriel. You might think your friend the pope will look after you, but you’re wrong. You need us as much as we need you. Besides, we’re the only family you’ve got.”

  Navot gave a shrewd smile. The countless hours he had spent in the executive conference rooms of King Saul Boulevard had significantly sharpened his debating skills. He was now a formidable opponent, one who had to be handled with care.

  “I’m working on a painting,” Gabriel said. “I can’t leave until it’s finished.”

  “How long?” Navot asked.

  Three months, thought Gabriel. Then he said, “Three days.”

  Navot sighed. He oversaw a unit consisting of several hundred highly skilled operatives but only one whose movements were dictated by the fickle rhythms of restoring Old Master paintings.

  “I take it your wife is still in Venice?”

  “She’s coming back tonight.”

  “She should have told me she was going to Venice before she left. You might be a private contractor, Gabriel, but your wife is a full-time employee of Special Ops. As such, she is required to keep her supervisor, me, abreast of all her movements, personal and professional. Perhaps you would be good enough to remind her of that fact.”

  “I’ll try, Uzi, but she never listens to a thing I say.”

  Navot glared at his wristwatch. A large stainless steel device, it did everything except keep accurate time. It was a newer version of the one worn by Shamron, which is why Navot had bought it in the first place.

  “I have some business in Paris and Brussels. I’ll be back here in three days to pick up you and Chiara. We’ll go back to Israel together.”

  “I’m sure we can find the airport by ourselves, Uzi. We’re both well trained.”

  “That’s what concerns me.” Navot turned around and looked at the bodyguards. “And by the way, they’re staying here with you. Think of them as heavily armed houseguests.”

  “I don’t need them.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Navot said.

  “I assume they don’t speak Italian.”

  “They’re settler boys from Judea and Samaria. They barely speak English.”

  “So how am I supposed to explain them to the staff ?”

  “That’s not my problem.” Navot held a trio of thick fingers in front of Gabriel’s face. “You have three days to finish that damn painting. Three days. Then you and your wife are going home.”

  7

  VILLA DEI FIORI, UMBRIA

  GABRIEL’S STUDIO was in semidarkness, the altarpiece shrouded by gloom. He attempted to walk past it but could not—as always, the pull of a work in progress was far too strong. Switching on a single halogen lamp, he gazed at the pale hand reaching toward the apex of the panel. For an instant, it belonged not to Saint Peter but to Grigori Bulganov. And it was reaching not toward God but toward Gabriel.

  Promise me one thing, Gabriel. Promise me I won’t end up in an unmarked grave.

  The vision was disturbed by the sound of singing. Gabriel switched off the lamp and climbed the stone steps to his room. The bed, unmade when he left, now looked as if it had been prepared for a photo shoot by a professional stylist. Chiara was executing one final adjustment to a pair of decorative pillows, two useless disks trimmed in white lace that Gabriel always hurled on the floor before climbing between the sheets. An overnight bag lay at the foot, along with a Beretta 9mm. Gabriel placed the weapon in the top drawer of the nightstand and lowered the volume on the radio.

  Chiara looked up, as if surprised by his presence. She was wearing faded blue jeans, a beige sweater, and suede boots that added two inches to her tall frame. Her riotous dark hair was constrained by a clasp at the nape of her neck and pulled forward over one shoulder. Her caramel-colored eyes were a shade darker than normal. It was not a good sign. Chiara’s eyes were a reliable barometer of her mood.

  “I didn’t hear you drive up.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t play the radio so loudly.”

  “Why didn’t Margherita make the bed?”

  “I told her not to come in here while you were away.”

  “And of course you couldn’t be bothered.”

  “I couldn’t find the instructions.”

  She gave him a slow shake of the head to show her disappointment. “If you can restore Old Master paintings, Gabriel, you can make a bed. What did you do when you were a boy?”

  “My mother tried to force me.”

  “And?”

  “I slept on top of the bedding.”

  “No wonder Shamron recruited you.”

  “Actually, the Office psychologists found it revelatory. They said it displayed a spirit of independence and the ability to solve problems.”

  “So is that why you refuse to make it now? Because you want to demonstrate your independence?”

  Gabriel answered her with a kiss. Her lips were very warm.

  “How was Venice?”

  “Almost bearable. When the weather is cold and rainy, it’s almost possible to imagine Venice is still a real city. The Piazza di San Marco is overrun with tourists, of course. They drink their ten-euro cups of cappuccino and pose for photographs with those awful pigeons. Tell me, Gabriel, what kind of holiday is that?”

  “I thought the mayor drove the birdseed vendors out of business.”

  “The tourists feed them anyway. If they love the pigeons so much, maybe they should take them home as souvenirs. Do you know how many tourists came to Venice this year?”

  “Twenty million.”

  “That’s right. If each person took just one of those filthy birds, the problem would be solved within a few months.”

  It was odd to hear Chiara speak so harshly of Venice. Indeed, there was a time, not so long ago, when she would have never imagined a life outside the picturesque canals and narrow alleyways of her native city. The daughter of the city’s chief rabbi, she had spent her childhood in the insular world of the ancient ghetto, leaving just long enough to earn a master’s degree in history from the University of Padua. She returned to Venice after graduation and took a job at the small Jewish museum in the Campo del Ghetto Nuovo, and there she might have remained forever had she not been noticed by an Office talent spotter during a visit to Israel. The talent spotter introduced himself in a Tel Aviv coffeehouse and asked Chiara whether she was interested in doing more for the Jewish people than working in a museum in a dying ghetto. Chiara said she was and vanished into the secretive training program of the Office.

  A year later she resumed her old life, this time as an undercover agent of Israeli intelligence. Among her first assignments was to covertly watch the back of a wayward Office assassin named Gabriel Allon, who had come to Venice to restore Bellini’s San Zaccaria altarpiece. She revealed herself to him a short time later in Rome, after an incident involving gunplay and the Italian police. Trapped alone with Chiara in a safe flat, Gabriel had wanted desperately to tou
ch her. He had waited until the case was resolved and they had returned to Venice. There, in a canal house in Cannaregio, they made love for the first time, in a bed prepared with fresh linen. It was like making love to a figure painted by the hand of Veronese. Now that same figure frowned as he removed his leather jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. She made a vast show of hanging it in the closet, then unzipped her overnight bag and began removing the contents. All the clothing was clean and painstakingly folded.

  “My mother insisted on doing my laundry before I left.”

  “She doesn’t think we have a washing machine?”

  “She’s a Venetian, Gabriel. She doesn’t believe it’s proper for a girl to live on a farm. Pastures and livestock make her nervous.” Chiara began placing the clean clothing in her dresser drawers. “So why weren’t you here when I arrived?”

  “I had a meeting.”

  “A meeting? In Amelia? With whom?”

  Gabriel told her.

  “I thought you two weren’t speaking.”

  “We’ve agreed to let bygones be bygones.”

  “How lovely,” Chiara said coldly. “Did my name come up?”

  “Uzi’s miffed at you for failing to tell the desk that you were going to Venice.”

  “It was private.”

  “You know there’s no such thing as private when you work for the Office.”

  “Why are you taking his side?”

  “I’m not taking anyone’s side. It was a simple statement of fact.”

  “Since when have you ever given a damn about Office rules and regulations? You do whatever you want, whenever you want, and no one dares to lay a finger on you.”

  “And Uzi gives you plenty of preferential treatment because you’re married to me.”

  “I’m still angry with him for leaving you behind in Moscow.”

  “It wasn’t Uzi’s fault, Chiara. He tried to make me leave, but I wouldn’t listen.”

  “And you almost got yourself killed as a result. You would have been killed if it wasn’t for Grigori.” She lapsed into silence for a moment while she refolded two items of clothing. “Did you two have something to eat?”

  “Uzi devoured about a hundred pastries at Massimo. I had coffee.”

  “How’s his weight?”

  “He seems to be carrying some postnuptial happy pounds.”

  “You never gained any weight after we were married.”

  “I suppose that means I’m deeply unhappy.”

  “Are you?”

  “Don’t be silly, Chiara.”

  She slipped a thumb inside the waistband of her blue jeans. “I think I’m gaining weight.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  She frowned. “You’re not supposed to say I look beautiful. You’re supposed to reassure me that I’m not gaining weight.”

  “Your shirt is fitting you a little more tightly than normal.”

  “It’s Anna’s cooking. If I keep eating like this, I’m going to look like one of those old ladies in town. Maybe I should just buy a black frock now and get it over with.”

  “I gave her the night off. I thought it might be nice to be alone for a change.”

  “Thank God. I’ll make you something to eat. You’re too thin.” Chiara closed the dresser drawer. “So what brought Uzi to town?”

  “He’s making his semiannual tour of European assets. Patting backs. Showing the flag.”

  “Do I detect a slight bit of resentment in your voice?”

  “Why on earth would I be resentful?”

  “Because you should be the one making the grand tour of our European assets instead of Uzi.”

  “Traveling isn’t what it once was, Chiara. Besides, I didn’t want the job.”

  “But you’ve never been comfortable with the fact that they gave it to Uzi when you turned it down. You don’t think he has the intellect or the creativity for it.”

  “Shamron and his acolytes at King Saul Boulevard disagree. And if I were you, Chiara, I’d stay on Uzi’s good side. He’s likely to be the director one day.”

  “Not after Moscow. According to the rumor mill, Uzi was lucky to keep his job.” She sat at the edge of the bed and made a halfhearted effort to remove her right boot. “Help me,” she said, extending her foot toward Gabriel. “It won’t budge.”

  Gabriel took hold of the boot by the toe and the heel and it slid easily off her foot. “Maybe you should try pulling on it next time.”

  “You’re much stronger than I am.” She raised her other leg. “So how long are you planning to make me wait this time, Gabriel?”

  “Before what?”

  “Before telling me why Uzi came all the way to Umbria to see you. And why two Office bodyguards followed you home.”

  “I thought you didn’t hear me arrive.”

  “I was lying.”

  Gabriel slipped off Chiara’s second boot.

  “Don’t ever lie to me, Chiara. Bad things happen when lovers tell lies.”

  8

  VILLA DEI FIORI, UMBRIA

  MAY BE THE British are right. Maybe Grigori did redefect.”

  “And maybe Guido Reni will show up here later tonight to help me finish his altarpiece.”

  Chiara plucked an egg from its carton and expertly broke it one-handed into a glass mixing bowl. She was standing at an island in the center of the villa’s rustic kitchen. Gabriel was opposite, perched atop a wooden stool, a glass of Umbrian merlot in his hand.

  “You’re going to kill me with those eggs, Chiara.”

  “Drink your wine. If you drink wine, you can eat as many as you like.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “It’s true. Why do you think we Italians live forever?”

  Gabriel did as she suggested and drank some of his wine. Chiara cracked another egg against the side of the bowl, but this time a fragment of shell lodged in the yoke. Annoyed, she delicately removed it with the tip of her fingernail and flicked it into the rubbish bin.

  “What are you making, anyway?”

  “Frittata with potato and onion and spaghetti alla carbonara di zucchine.”

  She turned her attention to the trio of pots and pans spattering and bubbling on the antiquated range. Blessed with a Venetian’s natural sense of aesthetics, she brought artistry to all things, especially food. Her meals, like her beds, seemed too perfect to disturb. Gabriel often wondered why she had ever been attracted to a scarred and broken relic like him. Perhaps she viewed him as a tired room in need of redecoration.

  “Anna could have left us something to eat other than eggs and cheese.”

  “You think she’s trying to kill you by clogging your arteries with cholesterol?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. She detests me.”

  “Try being nice to her.”

  A strand of stray hair had escaped the restraint of Chiara’s clasp and fallen against her cheekbone. She tucked it behind her ear and treated Gabriel to a puckish smile.

  “It seems to me you have a choice,” she said. “A choice about your future. A choice about your life.”

  “I’m not good at making decisions about life.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that. I remember a certain afternoon in Jerusalem not long ago. I’d grown weary of waiting for you to marry me, and so I’d finally worked up the nerve to leave you. When I got into that car outside your apartment, I kept waiting for you to chase after me and beg me to stay. But you didn’t. You were probably relieved I was the one walking out. It was easier that way.”

  “I was a fool, Chiara, but that’s ancient history.”

  She speared a piece of potato from the frying pan, tasted it, then added a bit more salt. “I knew it was Leah, of course. You were still married to her.” Chiara paused, then added softly, “And you were still in love with her.”

  “What does any of this have to do with the situation at hand?”

  “You are a man who takes vows seriously, Gabriel. You took a vow to Leah and you couldn’t b
reak it, even though she no longer lived in the present. You took an oath to the Office as well. And you can’t seem to break that one, either.”

  “I’ve given them more than half my life.”

  “So what are you going to do? Give them the rest of it? Do you want to end up like Shamron? He’s eighty years old, and he can’t sleep at night because he’s worried about the security of the State. He sits on his terrace at night on the Sea of Galilee staring off to the east, watching his enemies.”

  “There wouldn’t be an Israel if it weren’t for men like Shamron. He was there at the creation. And he doesn’t want to see his life’s work destroyed.”

  “There are plenty of qualified men and women who can look after Israel’s security.”

  “Try telling that to Shamron.”

  “Trust me, Gabriel. I have.”

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “Leave them—for good this time. Restore paintings. Live your life.”

  “Where?”

  She raised her arms to indicate that the present surroundings would do nicely indeed.

  “This is a temporary arrangement. Eventually, the count is going to want his villa back again.”

  “We’ll find a new one. Or we’ll move to Rome so you can be closer to the Vatican. The Italians will let you live wherever you like, so long as you don’t abuse that passport and new identity they generously gave you for saving the pope’s life.”

  “Uzi says I’ll never have the nerve to walk away for good. He says the Office is the only family I’ve got.”

  “Start a new family, Gabriel.” Chiara paused. “With me.”

  She tasted a piece of zucchini and switched off the burner. Turning around, she saw Gabriel gazing at her intently with one hand pressed thoughtfully to his chin.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what, Chiara?”

  “Like I’m one of your paintings.”