“She’s an Italian Jew, Ari. She has something of a temper and doesn’t like surprises.”

“All women like surprises, you dolt.”

Gabriel had to admit he liked the idea. “I’ll need help,” he said.

“So we’ll get you some help.”

“Where?”

Shamron smiled. “Silly boy.”

They were the dark side of a dark service, the ones who did the jobs no one else wanted, or dared, to do. But never before in the storied history of Special Ops had they ever planned a wedding, at least not a real one.

They gathered the following morning in Room 456C, Gabriel’s subterranean lair at King Saul Boulevard: Yaakov and Yossi, Dina and Rimona, Mordecai and Oded, Mikhail and Eli Lavon. Gabriel walked to the front of the room and tacked a photograph of Chiara to his bulletin board. “Ten days from now, I am going to marry this woman,” he said. “The wedding must be everything she wants and she must not know or suspect a thing. We must work quickly and we will make no mistakes.”

Like all good operations it started with intelligence gathering. They scoured her bridal magazines for telltale markings and interrogated Gabriel carefully about everything she had ever said to him. Alarmed by the poor quality of his answers, Dina and Rimona scheduled a crash luncheon meeting with Chiara the following afternoon at a trendy Tel Aviv restaurant. They returned to King Saul Boulevard slightly drunk but armed with all the information they needed to proceed.

The following morning Gabriel and Chiara were awakened at Narkiss Street by an officer from Personnel who informed Chiara that she was alarmingly overdue for a complete physical. There was an opening that morning, said the man from Personnel. Could she come to King Saul Boulevard immediately? Having nothing better to do that day, she complied with the request and by ten o’clock was being subjected to rather close scrutiny by two Office-affiliated physicians-one of whom was not a physician at all but a tailor from Identity. He was less interested in matters such as blood pressure and heart rate and more concerned with the length of her arms and legs and the size of her waist and bust. Later that afternoon he slipped down to Room 456C to ask Gabriel whether he was to leave room in the garment for a weapon. Gabriel said that would not be necessary.

With three days remaining, everything was in place with one notable exception: Chiara herself. For this phase of the operation Gabriel drafted none other than Gilah Shamron, who telephoned Chiara later that evening and asked whether they could come to Tiberias for a surprise birthday party for Shamron that Saturday. She agreed to Gilah’s request without even bothering to check with Gabriel and told him about their plans for the weekend that night over dinner.

“How old is he going to be?” she asked.

“It’s a carefully guarded state secret, but rumor has it he fought in the rebellion against Roman rule.”

“Did you know his birthday was in March?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said hastily.

It was in late August, actually, and the last person who had tried to throw Shamron a surprise party still walked with a limp. But Chiara didn’t know that. Chiara didn’t know anything.

It had rained steadily all week, a contingency for which they had not planned, but by midmorning Saturday the sun was shining brightly and the newly washed air was scented with stone pine and jasmine and eucalyptus. They slept late and ate a leisurely breakfast on the balcony, then packed a few things into an overnight bag and set out for the Galilee.

Gabriel drove down the Bab al-Wad to the Coastal Plain, then north to the Valley of Jezreel. They stopped there for a few minutes to collect Eli Lavon from the dig atop Tel Megiddo, then continued on to Tiberias. Shamron’s honey-colored villa was just a few miles north of the city, on a ledge overlooking the Sea of Galilee. Two dozen cars lined the steep drive, and in the forecourt was a large American Suburban with diplomatic license plates. Adrian Carter and Sarah Bancroft were standing at the balustrade of Shamron’s terrace, chatting with Uzi Navot and Bella.

“Gilah never told me Carter was coming,” Chiara said.

“She must have forgotten to mention it.”

“How do you forget to mention that the deputy director of the CIA is coming all the way from Washington? And what is Sarah doing here?”

“Gilah’s old, Chiara. Give her a break.”

Gabriel climbed out before she could pose another question, then retrieved the overnight bag from the trunk and led her up the steps. Gilah was standing in the entrance hall as they came inside. The large rooms had been emptied of their furniture and several round tables put in their place. Chiara stared at the place settings and the flower arrangements, then walked past Gilah and stepped on the terrace, where a hundred white chairs stood in neat rows around a chuppah hung with flowers. She spun round, mouth open, and looked at Gabriel.

“What’s going on here?”

Gabriel held up the overnight bag and said, “I’m going to take this up to our room.”

“Gabriel Allon, come back here.”

She followed quickly after him and chased him down the corridor to their room. As she stepped inside, she saw the dress laid out on the bed.

“My God, Gabriel, what have you done?”

“Made amends for all my mistakes, I hope.”

She threw her arms around him and kissed him, then ran a hand through her hair.

“It’s a mess. What am I going to do?”

“We brought a hair stylist from Tel Aviv. A very good one.”

“What about my family?”

He looked at his watch. “We flew them out of Venice aboard a charter. They landed at Ben-Gurion twenty minutes ago. We’re bringing them up here by helicopter.”

“And the rings?”

He pulled a small jewelry box from his coat pocket and opened it.

“They’re beautiful,” she said. “You thought of everything.”

“Weddings are operations.”

“No, they’re not, you dolt.” She slapped his arm playfully. “What time is the ceremony?”

“Whenever you want it to be.”

“What time is sundown?”

“Five-oh-eight.”

“We’ll start at five-oh-nine.” She kissed him again. “And don’t be late.”

Y ou and your team ran a very nice operation,” said Adrian Carter.

“Which one?”

“The wedding, of course. Too bad London didn’t go as smoothly.”

“If it had gone smoothly, we wouldn’t have gotten Elizabeth back.”

“This is true.”

A waiter approached their table and freshened Carter’s coffee. Gabriel turned and looked toward the walls of the Old City, which were glowing softly in the gentle sunlight. It was Monday morning. Carter had rung Gabriel’s apartment at seven on the off chance he was free for breakfast. Gabriel had agreed to meet him here, the terrace restaurant of the King David Hotel, knowing full well that Adrian Carter never did anything on the off chance.

“Why are you still in Jerusalem, Adrian?”

“Officially, I am here to conduct meetings with our generously staffed CIA station. Unofficially, I stayed in order to see you.”

“Is Sarah still here?”

“She left yesterday. Poor thing had to fly commercial.” Carter raised his coffee cup to his lips and stared at Gabriel for a moment without drinking. “Did anything ever happen between you two that I should know about?”

“No, Adrian, nothing happened between us, during this operation or the last one.” Gabriel made swirls in his Israeli yogurt. “Is that why you stayed in Jerusalem? To ask me whether I slept with one of your officers?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you here, Adrian?”

He reached into the breast pocket of his Brooks Brothers blazer, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to Gabriel. The front bore no markings, but when he turned it over he saw THE WHITE HOUSE printed on the flap in simple lettering.

“What’s this? An invitation to a White House barbecue?”

“It’s a note,” said Carter, then he added somewhat pedantically: “From the president of the United States.”

“Yes, I can see that, Adrian. What’s the topic of the letter?”

“I’m not in the habit of reading other people’s mail.”

“You should be.”

“I assume the president wrote to you in order to thank you for what you did in London.”

“It might have been helpful if he had said something publicly a month ago, while I was twisting in the wind.”

“Trust me, Gabriel. If he had spoken out on your behalf, you would have been in more trouble than you are now. These things have a way of blowing themselves out, and sometimes the best course of action is to take no action at all.”

A cloud passed in front of the sun, and for a moment it seemed several degrees colder. Gabriel opened the note, read it quickly, and slipped it into his coat pocket.

“What does it say?”

“It is private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”

“Good man,” said Carter.

“Did you get one, too?”

“A note from the president?” Carter shook his head. “I’m afraid that my position is somewhat tenuous at the moment. Isn’t it amazing? We got Elizabeth back and now we are under siege.”

“This, too, shall pass, Adrian.”

“I know,” he said. “But it doesn’t make it any more pleasant to go through. There are a band of Young Turks at Langley who think I’ve been running the DO for too long. They say I’ve lost a step. They say I should have never agreed to turn over so much of the operation to you.”

“Do you have any intention of ceding power?”

“None,” said Carter forcefully. “The world is too dangerous a place to be left to Young Turks. I intend to stay until this war against terrorism is won.”

“I hope longevity runs in your family.”

“My grandfather lived to be a hundred and four.”

“What about Sarah? Has she been hurt by this in any way?”

“None whatsoever,” Carter replied. “Only a handful of people even knew she was a part of it.”

The sun emerged from behind the clouds again. Gabriel slipped on his wraparound glasses while Carter pulled a second envelope from the pocket of his blazer. “This is from Robert Halton,” he said. “I’m afraid I know what’s inside that one.”

Gabriel withdrew the contents: a brief handwritten note and a check made out in Gabriel’s name for the sum of ten million dollars. Gabriel kept the letter and handed the check back to Carter.