Shamron’s face set into an iron grimace. For a moment, he seemed a little less like a weary old man and more like the Sabra warrior who had pulled Gabriel from the womb of the Betsal’el School of Art thirty years earlier.

“They’d look worse than you when I was finished with them.”

Gabriel sat down and poured coffee for them both.

“Did we manage to keep it all a secret?”

“There were some rumors at King Saul Boulevard -rumors about unexplained movement of personnel and strange expenses incurred in Venice and Zurich. Somehow, these rumors reached the prime minister’s office.”

“Does he know?”

“He suspects, and he’s pleased. He says that if it’s true, he doesn’t want to know.”

“And the paintings?”

“We’ve been working quietly with a few art-restitution agencies and the American Department of Justice. Of the sixteen paintings you discovered in Rolfe’s safe-deposit box, nine have been returned to the heirs of their rightful owners, including the one that belonged to Julian’s father.”

“And the rest?”

“They’ll reside in the Israel Museum, just as Rolfe wished, until their owners can be located. If they can’t be found, they’ll hang there forever.”

“How’s Anna?”

“We still have a team with her. Rami is about to lose his mind. He says he’ll do anything to get off her detail. He’s ready to volunteer for patrol duty in Gaza.”

“Any threats?”

“None yet.”

“How long should we keep her under protection?”

“As long as you want. It was your operation. I’ll leave that decision to you.”

“At least a year.”

“Agreed.”

Shamron refilled his cup and lit one of his evil Turkish cigarettes. “She’s coming to England next week, you know. The Albert Hall. It’s the last stop on her tour.”

“I know, Ari. I can read the papers too.”

“She asked me to give you this.” He slid a small envelope across the tabletop. “It’s a ticket to the performance. She asked that you come backstage after the show to say hello.”

“I’m in the middle of a restoration right now.”

“You or a painting?”

“A painting.”

“Take a break.”

“I can’t take the time to go to London right now.”

“The Prince of Wales is going to make time to attend, but you’re too busy.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll never understand why you insist on allowing beautiful, talented women to slip through your fingers.”

“Who said I was going to do that?”

“You think she’s going to wait forever?”

“No, just until the swelling goes down.”

Shamron gave a dismissive wave of his thick hand. “You’re using your face as a convenient excuse not to see her. But I know the real reason. Life is for the living, Gabriel, and this pleasant little prison you’ve made for yourself is no life. It’s time for you to stop blaming yourself for what happened in Vienna. If you have to blame someone, blame me.”

“I’m not going to London looking like this.”

“If you won’t go to London, will you permit me to make another suggestion?”

Gabriel let out a long, exasperated breath. He had lost the will to resist him any longer.

“I’m listening,” he said.

49

THAT SAME AFTERNOON, the Englishman invited Anton Orsati up to his villa for lunch. It was gusty and cold-too cold to be outside on the terrace-so they ate at the kitchen table and discussed some mildly pressing matters concerning the company. Don Orsati had just won a contract to supply oil to a chain of two dozen bistros stretching from Nice to Normandy. Now an American import-export company wanted to introduce the oil to specialty shops in the United States. Demand was beginning to outpace supply. Orsati needed more land and more trees. But would the fruit stand up to his exacting standards? Would quality suffer with expansion? That was the question they debated throughout the meal.

After lunch, they settled next to the fire in the living room and drank red wine from an earthen pitcher. It was then that the Englishman confessed that he had acted with dishonor during the Rolfe affair.

Orsati poured himself some more of the wine and smiled. “When the signadora told me you came home from Venice without your talisman, I knew something out of the ordinary had taken place. What happened to it, by the way?”

“I gave it to Anna Rolfe.”

“How?”

The Englishman told him.

Orsati was impressed. “I’d say you won that confrontation on points. How did you get the blazer?”

“I borrowed it from a security guard at the scuola. ”

“What happened to him?”

The Englishman looked into the fire.

Orsati murmured, “Poor devil.”

“I asked nicely once.”

“The question is, why? Why did you betray me, Christopher? Haven’t I been good to you?”

The Englishman played the tape he’d taken from Emil Jacobi in Lyons. Then he gave Orsati the dossier he had prepared based on his own investigation and went into the kitchen to clean up the dishes from lunch. The Corsican was a notoriously slow reader.

When he returned, Orsati was finishing the dossier. He closed the file, and his dark gaze settled on the Englishman. “Professor Jacobi was a very good man, but we are paid to kill people. If we spent all our time wrestling with questions of right and wrong, no work would ever get done.”

“Is that the way your father conducted his business? And his father? And his?”

Orsati pointed his thick forefinger like a gun at the Englishman’s face. “My family is none of your affair, Christopher. You work for me. Don’t ever forget that.”

It was the first time Orsati had spoken to him in anger.

“I meant no disrespect, Don Orsati.”

The Corsican lowered his finger. “None taken.”

“Do you know the story of the signadora and what happened to her husband?”

“You know much about the history of this place, but not everything. How do you think the signadora keeps a roof over her head? Do you think she survives on the money she makes chasing away evil spirits with her magic oil and holy water?”

“You take care of her?”

Orsati gave a slow nod.

“She told me that sometimes a taddunaghiu can dispense justice as well as vengeance.”

“This is true. Don Tomasi certainly deserved to die.”

“I know a man who deserves to die.”

“The man in your dossier?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds as though he’s very well protected.”

“I’m better than any of them.”

Orsati held his glass up to the fire and watched the light dancing in the ruby-colored wine. “You’re very good, but killing a man like that will not be easy. You’ll need my help.”

“You?”

Orsati swallowed the last of his wine. “Who do you think climbed Don Tomasi’s mountain and slit his evil throat?”

50

CARLOS THE VINEYARD KEEPER was the first to see him arrive. He looked up from his work as the car pulled into the gravel drive and watched as the art restorer named Gabriel was greeted by the one called Rami. They exchanged a few words; Rami touched the scars on the art restorer’s face. This Carlos could see from his post at the base of the vineyard. He was not a military man, but Carlos recognized a changing of the guard when he saw one. Rami was leaving, and not soon enough. Rami had tired of Our Lady’s antics, as Carlos knew he would. Our Lady needed a man of unending patience to watch over her. Our Lady needed the restorer.

He watched as Gabriel crossed the drive and disappeared into the villa. Our Lady was upstairs in her room, practicing. Surely the restorer did not intend to interrupt her. For a moment Carlos considered running up the terrace to intervene, but then he thought better of it. The restorer needed to learn a lesson, and some lessons are best learned the hard way.