“And the worst?”

“Significant loss of vision in one eye. Not exactly a helpful condition for someone who makes his living restoring paintings.”

“You make your living defending the State of Israel.” Greeted by Gabriel’s silence, Shamron looked up at the treetops moving in the wind. “What’s wrong, Gabriel? No speech about how you’re planning to leave the Office for good this time? No lecture about how you’ve given enough to your country and your people already?”

“I’ll always be here for you, Ari-as long as I can see, of course.”

“What are your plans?”

“I’m going to remain a guest of Count Gasparri until I wear out my welcome. And, if my vision permits, I’m going to quietly restore a few paintings for the Vatican Museums. You may recall I was working on one when you asked me to run that little errand in Rome. Unfortunately, I had to let someone else finish it for me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not terribly sympathetic. You saved thousands of lives with that little errand. That’s more important than restoring a painting.”

They came to the fork in the track. Shamron looked up at the large, wood-carved crucifix and shook his head slowly. “Did I mention that Gilah and I had dinner at the Vatican last night with Monsignor Donati and His Holiness?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“His Holiness was quite pleased that the Church was able to play a small role in Ivan’s demise. He’s quite anxious it remain a secret, though. He doesn’t want any more dead bodies in his Basilica.”

“You can see his point,” said Gabriel.

“Absolutely,” Shamron agreed.

It was one of the many aspects of the affair that remained secret- the fact that Ivan’s children, after leaving Saint-Tropez, had been taken to an isolated priory high in the Maritime Alps. They had remained there for nearly a week-under Church protection and with the full knowledge and approval of the Supreme Pontiff-before boarding a CIA Gulfstream jet and flying clandestinely to the United States.

“Where are they?” Gabriel asked.

“Elena and the children?” Shamron dropped his cigarette and crushed it out. “I have no idea. And, quite frankly, I don’t want to know. She’s Adrian ’s problem now. Ivan has started more than divorce proceedings. He’s created a special unit within his personal security service with one job: finding Elena and the children. He wants his children back. He wants Elena dead.”

“What about Olga and Grigori?”

“Your friend Graham Seymour is hearing rumors of Russian assassins heading for British shores. Olga is locked away in a safe house outside London, surrounded by armed guards. Grigori is another story. He’s told Graham he can look after himself.”

“Did Graham agree to this?”

“Not entirely. He’s got Grigori under full-time watch.”

“Watchers? Watchers can’t protect anyone from a Russian assassin. Grigori should be surrounded by men with guns.”

“So should you.” Shamron didn’t bother trying to conceal his irritation. “If it were up to me, you’d be locked away someplace in Israel where Ivan would never think to look for you.”

“And you wonder why I’d rather be here.”

“Just don’t think about setting foot outside this estate. Not until Ivan’s had a chance to cool down.”

“Ivan doesn’t strike me as the sort to forget a grudge.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Perhaps we should just kill him now and get it over with.”

Shamron looked at the bandage on Gabriel’s eye. “Ivan can wait, my son. You have more important things to worry about.”

They had arrived at the stables. In an adjacent pen, a pair of pigs were rolling about in the mud. Shamron looked at the animals and winced in disgust.

“First a crucifix. Now pigs. What’s next?”

“We have our own chapel.”

Shamron ignited another cigarette. “I’m getting tired,” he said. “Let’s head back.”

They turned around and started toward the villa. Shamron produced an envelope from the breast pocket of his leather bomber jacket and handed it to Gabriel.

“It’s a letter from Elena,” Shamron said. “Adrian Carter had it couriered to Tel Aviv.”

“Did you read it?”

“Of course.”

Gabriel removed the letter and read it for himself.

“Are you up to it?” Shamron asked.

“I’ll know after the great unveiling.”

“Maybe Gilah and I should stay here for a few days, just in case things don’t go well.”

“What about Mozart and Pinter?”

“I’d rather be here”-he looked around theatrically-“with the pigs and the crucifixes.”

“Then we’d love to have you.”

“Do the staff really have no idea who you are?”

“They think I’m an eccentric restorer who suffers from melancholia and mood swings.”

Shamron placed his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “It sounds to me as if they know you quite well.”

73 VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA

The doctor came the following morning. Israeli by way of Queens, he wore a rabbinical beard and had the small soft hands of a baby. He removed the dressing from Gabriel’s eye, frowned heavily, and began snipping away the sutures.

“Let me know if anything I do hurts.”

“Trust me, you’ll be the first to know.”

He shone a light directly into Gabriel’s eye and frowned some more.

“How does it feel?”

“Like you’re burning a hole in my cornea.”

The doctor switched off the light.

“How does it feel now?”

“Like it’s covered in cotton wool and Vaseline.”

“Can you see?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

He covered Gabriel’s good eye. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Twelve.”

“Come on. How many?”

“Four, I think, but I can’t be sure.”

The doctor uncovered the good eye. He was holding up two fingers. He put some drops in the damaged eye that burned like battery acid and covered it with a black patch.

“I look like an idiot.”

“Not for long. Your retina looks remarkably good for what you’ve been through. You’re a very lucky man. Wear the patch on and off for a few days until your eye regains some of its strength. An hour on, an hour off. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Avoid bright lights. And don’t do anything that might give you unnecessary eyestrain.”

“How about painting?”

“Don’t even think about it. Not for at least three days.”

The doctor put his light and suture cutters back in his bag and pulled the zipper closed. Gabriel thanked him for coming all the way from Tel Aviv for a five-minute job. “Just don’t tell anyone you were here,” he added. “If you do, that angry-looking little man over there will kill you with his bare hands.”

The doctor looked at Shamron, who had managed to watch the entire proceeding without offering a single piece of advice.

“Is it true what they say about him? Was he really the one who kidnapped Eichmann?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Is it all right if I shake his hand? I want to touch the hands that grabbed hold of that monster.”

"It’s fine,” said Gabriel. “But be careful. He bites.”

He didn’t want to wear the patch, but even he had to admit he looked better with it on than off. The tissue around the eye was still distorted with swelling and the new scar was raw and hideous. “You’ll look like yourself eventually,” Chiara assured him. “But it’s going to take a while. You older men don’t heal as fast.”

The doctor’s optimism about the pace of his recovery turned out to be accurate. By the next morning, Gabriel’s vision had improved dramatically, and by the morning after it seemed almost normal. He felt ready to begin work on Elena’s request but confined his efforts to only one small task: the fabrication of a stretcher, 38 ¾ inches by 29 ¼ inches. When the stretcher was finished, he pulled a linen canvas over it and covered the canvas with a layer of ground. Then he placed the canvas on his easel and waited for it to dry.