The reaction to the report was swift and explosive. Prime Minister Lancaster denounced the Kremlin’s actions as “barbaric,” a sentiment echoed across the Atlantic in Washington, where politicians from both sides of the political divide called for Russia’s expulsion from the G8 and the other economic clubs of the West. In Moscow a Kremlin spokesman dismissed the Telegraph’s story as a piece of anti-Russian propaganda, and he called on the reporter, Samantha Cooke, to reveal the identities of her sources—something she steadfastly refused to do during a round of television interviews. Those in the know suggested the Israelis had surely been of assistance. After all, they pointed out, the Russian operation had claimed the life of a legend. If anyone wanted Russian blood, it was the Israelis.

No one in Israeli officialdom agreed to speak about the Telegraph’s piece—not in the prime minister’s office, not at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and surely not at King Saul Boulevard, where outside lines rang unanswered. A small piece on a gossipy Israeli Web site did provoke a comment, however. It stated that the same legendary Israeli operative who had died in the Brompton Road bombing had been spotted recently in the Mahane Yehuda Market looking none the worse for wear. An unidentified aide in an unnamed ministry dismissed the report as “hogwash.”

But his neighbors in Narkiss Street, were they not protective of him to a fault, would have told a different story. So, too, would the staff at Hadassah Medical Center, and the pair of rabbis who spotted him late that same afternoon placing a stone atop a grave on the Mount of Olives. They did not attempt to speak to him, for they could see he was grieving. He left the cemetery in twilight and traveled across Jerusalem to Mount Herzl. There was a woman there who needed to know he was still among the living, even if she would not remember him when he was gone.

84

MOUNT HERZL, JERUSALEM

DURING THE DRIVE FROM the Mount of Olives, a gentle snow began to fall upon God’s fractured city on a hill. It coated the tiny circular drive of the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital and whitened the limbs of the stone pine in the walled garden. Inside the clinic, Leah watched the snow vacantly from the windows of the common room. She was seated in her wheelchair. Her hair was gray and cut institutionally short; her hands were twisted and white with scar tissue. Her doctor, a rabbinical-looking man with a round face and a wondrous beard of many colors, had cleared the room of other patients. He seemed not entirely surprised to learn that Gabriel was still alive. He had been caring for Leah for more than ten years. He knew things about the legend others did not.

“You should have alerted me that it was all a ruse,” the doctor said. “We could have done something to shield her. As you might expect, your death caused quite a stir.”

“There wasn’t time.”

“I’m sure you had good reason,” the doctor said reproachfully.

“I did.” Gabriel allowed a few seconds to pass to take the sharp edge off the conversation. “I never know how much she understands.”

“She knows more than you realize. We had a rough few days.”

“And now?”

“She’s better, but you have to be careful with her.” He shook Gabriel’s hand. “Take as much time as you want. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

When the doctor was gone, Gabriel moved quietly across the limestone tiles of the common room. A chair had been placed at Leah’s side. She was still watching the snow. But upon what city was it falling? Was she in Jerusalem at that moment? Or was she trapped in the past? Leah suffered from a particularly acute combination of post-traumatic stress disorder and psychotic depression. In her watery memory, time was elusive. Gabriel never quite knew which Leah he would encounter. One minute she could be the stunningly gifted painter he had fallen in love with at the Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem. The next she could present herself as the mature mother of a beautiful young boy who had insisted on accompanying her husband on a work trip to Vienna.

For several minutes she watched the snow, unblinking. Perhaps she was unaware of his presence. Or perhaps she was punishing him for allowing her to think that he was dead. Finally, her head turned and her eyes traveled over him, as though she were searching for a lost object in the cluttered closets of her memory.

“Gabriel?” she asked.

“Yes, Leah.”

“Are you real, my love? Or am I hallucinating?”

“I’m real.”

“Where are we?”

“Jerusalem.”

Her head turned and she watched the snow. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, Leah.”

“The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. Snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain on Tel Aviv.” She came back to him. “I hear them at night,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“The missiles.”

“You’re safe here, Leah.”

“I want to talk to my mother. I want to hear the sound of my mother’s voice.”

“We’ll call her.”

“Make sure Dani is buckled into his seat. The streets are slippery.”

“He’s fine, Leah.”

She looked down at his hands and noticed smudges of paint. It seemed to wrench her back to the present. “You’ve been working?” she asked.

“A little.”

“Something important?”

He swallowed hard and said, “A nursery, Leah.”

“For your children?”

He nodded.

“Have they been born yet?”

“Soon,” he said.

“A boy and a girl?”

“Yes, Leah.”

“What are you going to call the girl?”

“She’ll be called Irene.”

“Irene is your mother’s name.”

“That’s right.”

“She’s dead, your mother?”

“A long time ago.”

“And the boy? What will you name the boy?”

Gabriel hesitated, then said, “The boy will be named Raphael.”

“The angel of healing.” She smiled and asked, “Are you healed, Gabriel?”

“Not quite.”

“Nor am I.”

She looked up at the television, puzzlement on her face. Gabriel held her hand. The scar tissue made it feel cold and firm. It was like a patch of bare canvas. He longed to retouch it but could not. Leah was the one thing in the world he could not restore.

“Are you dead?” she asked suddenly.

“No, Leah. I’m here with you.”

“The television said you were killed in London.”

“It was something we had to say.”

“Why?”

“It’s not important.”

“You always say that, my love.”

“Do I?”

“Only when it really is.” Her eyes settled on him. “Where were you?”

“I was looking for the man who helped Tariq build the bomb.”

“Did you find him?”

“Almost.”

She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It was a long time ago, Gabriel. And it won’t change a thing. I’ll still be the way I am. And you’ll still be married to another woman.”

Gabriel couldn’t bear her accusatory stare any longer, so he watched the snow instead. After a few seconds she joined him.

“You’ll let me see them, won’t you, Gabriel?”

“As soon as I can.”

“And you’ll take good care of them, especially the boy?”

“Of course.”

Her eyes widened suddenly. “I want to hear the sound of my mother’s voice.”

“So do I.”

“Make sure Dani is buckled into his car seat tightly.”

“I will,” said Gabriel. “The streets are slippery.”

During the drive back to Narkiss Street, Gabriel received a text message from Chiara requesting his estimated time of arrival. He didn’t bother to respond because he was just around the corner. He hurried up the garden walk, leaving a trail of telltale size-ten footprints in the undisturbed layer of snow, and climbed the stairs to his apartment. Entering, he saw the suitcase he had so carefully packed standing in the entrance hall. Chiara was seated on the couch, dressed and coated, singing softly to herself as she leafed through a glossy magazine.