On the opposite seat lay a copy of the overnight intelligence digest, courtesy of Uzi Navot. Gabriel opened the cover as the motorcade turned onto Highway 1 and started up the Bab al-Wad, the staircase-like gorge separating the Coastal Plain from Jerusalem. Its pages read like a catalogue of horrors from a world gone mad. The Arab Spring had turned into the Arab Calamity. Radical Islam now controlled a swath of territory that stretched from Afghanistan to Nigeria, an accomplishment that even Bin Laden would have never dreamed possible. It might have been funny were it not so dangerous—and so utterly predictable. The American president had allowed the old order to topple without a viable alternative in place, a reckless act with no precedent in modern statecraft. And for some reason he had chosen this moment in time to throw Israel to the wolves. Uzi was lucky, thought Gabriel, as he closed the digest. Uzi had managed to keep his finger in the dike. Now it would be left to Gabriel to build the ark. For the flood was coming, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it.

By the time they reached the fringes of Jerusalem, the stars were melting and the skies above the West Bank were beginning to lighten. Morning traffic moved along the Jaffa Road, but Narkiss Street slept on under the watch of an Office security detail. Eli Lavon had not been exaggerating about its size. There were teams at either end of the street and another outside the little limestone apartment house at Number 16. As Gabriel moved up the garden walk, he realized he had no key in his possession. It was no matter; Chiara had left the door unlocked. He set his bag on the floor in the entrance foyer. Then, after noticing the immaculate condition of the sitting room, he picked it up again and carried it down the hall.

The door to the spare bedroom hung slightly ajar. Gabriel opened it the rest of the way and peered inside. It had once been his studio. Now there were two cribs, one with pink bedding, the other with blue. Giraffes and elephants marched across the carpet. Plump clouds scudded across the walls. Gabriel felt a stab of guilt; in his absence Chiara must have done the work herself. As he ran his hand over the surface of the changing table a memory overtook him. It was the evening of April 18, 1988. Gabriel had returned home from the assassination of Abu Jihad in Tunis to find Dani suffering from a ferocious fever. He held the burning child in his arms that night while images of fire and death played ceaselessly in his thoughts. Three years later the child was dead.

Apparently, it had something to do with a man named Tariq . . .

Gabriel closed the door and entered the master bedroom. His life-size portrait, painted by Leah after Operation Wrath of God, hung upon the wall. Beneath it slept Chiara. He placed his bag on the floor in the closet, removed his shoes and clothing, and eased into bed next to her. She lay motionless, apparently unaware of his presence. Then suddenly she asked, “Do you like it, darling?”

“The nursery?”

“Yes.”

“It’s beautiful, Chiara. I only wish you would have let me paint the clouds.”

“I wanted to,” she answered. “But I was afraid it might be true.”

“What’s that?”

She said nothing more. Gabriel closed his eyes. And for the first time in three days he slept.

When finally he woke it was late afternoon and the shadows were long and thin upon the bed. He swung his feet to the floor and ambled into the kitchen for coffee. Chiara was watching the war on television. An Israeli bomb had just landed on a Palestinian school filled exclusively with women and young children—or so claimed Hamas. It seemed nothing had changed.

“Do we have to watch that?”

Chiara lowered the volume. She was wearing a pair of loose-fitting silk pants, gold sandals, and a maternity blouse that hung elegantly over her swollen breasts and abdomen. Her face was unchanged. If anything, she was more radiantly beautiful than Gabriel remembered. Suddenly, he regretted the month of time he had lost with her.

“There’s coffee in the thermos.”

Gabriel poured a cup and asked Chiara how she was feeling.

“Like I’m about to pop.”

“Are you?”

“The doctor says they can come at any time.”

“Any complications?”

“I’m starting to run a bit low on amniotic fluid, and one child is slightly smaller than the other.”

“Which one?”

“The girl. The boy is fine.” She looked at him for a moment. “You know, darling, we’re going to have to choose a name for him at some point.”

“I know.”

“It would be better if we did it before they were born.”

“I suppose.”

“Moshe is a fine name.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always loved Yaakov.”

“Me, too. He’s a fine officer. But there’s a certain Iranian who’ll be happy never to lay eyes on him again.”

“Reza Nazari?”

Gabriel looked up from his coffee. “How do you know his name?”

“I received regular briefings during your absence.”

“Who briefed you?”

“Who do you think?” Chiara smiled. “They’re coming to dinner, by the way.”

“Can’t we do it another night? I just got home.”

“Why don’t you tell him you’re too tired? I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“It would be easier,” said Gabriel wearily, “to convince Hamas to stop shooting rockets at us.”

At sunset Gabriel showered and dressed. Then he rode in his motorcade to the Mahane Yehuda Market where, trailed by bodyguards, he secured the necessary provisions for that evening’s meal. Chiara had given him a list, which he left crumpled in his coat pocket. Instead, he shopped by instinct, his preferred method, and indulged his every whim and desire: nuts, dried fruits, hummus, baba ghanoush, bread, Israeli salad with feta cheese, prepared rice and meat, and several bottles of wine from the Galilee and Golan. A few heads turned to watch him pass, but otherwise his presence in the crowded souk went undetected.

When Gabriel’s motorcade returned to Narkiss Street, a Peugeot limousine was parked curbside. Upstairs, he found Chiara and Gilah Shamron in the sitting room, surrounded by bags of clothing and other supplies. Shamron had already retired to the terrace to smoke. Gabriel plated the salads and laid them buffet-style on the kitchen counter. Then he placed the rice and the meat in a warm oven and poured two glasses of his favorite Israeli sauvignon blanc, which he carried onto the terrace. It was dark, and a cold wind was beginning to swirl. The smell of Shamron’s Turkish tobacco mingled with the sharp tang of the eucalyptus tree that rose from the building’s front garden. It was, thought Gabriel, an oddly comforting aroma. He handed Shamron a glass of wine and sat next to him.

“Future chiefs of the Office,” said Shamron in a tone of mild rebuke, “don’t go shopping in the Mahane Yehuda Market.”

“They do if their wife is the size of a zeppelin.”

“I’d keep thoughts like that to myself if I were you.” Shamron smiled, inclined his glass in Gabriel’s direction, and said, “Welcome home, my son.”

Gabriel drank of the wine but said nothing. He was staring at the southern sky, waiting for the streak of a rocket, the flash of an Iron Dome missile strike. Welcome home . . .

“I had coffee with the prime minister this morning,” Shamron was saying. “He sends his best. He’d also like to know when you intend to take your oath.”

“Doesn’t he know I’m dead?”

“Nice try.”

“I’m going to need some time with my children, Ari.”

“How much time?”

“Assuming they’re healthy,” said Gabriel thoughtfully, “I would think three months.”

“Three months is a long time to be without a chief.”

“We won’t be without a chief. We have Uzi.”

Shamron deliberately crushed out his cigarette. “Is it still your intention to keep him on?”