Gabriel walked outside. The motorcycle was there. As Gabriel approached, the driver pressed the starter button and revved the engine into life. Gabriel threw his leg over the back and wrapped his arms around the driver's waist. The bike turned into traffic and sped in the direction of the river.

It did not take Gabriel long to realize that the agent driving the motorcycle was a woman: the hourglass hips, the narrow waist and slender blue-jeaned thighs, the bunch of hair poking from the bottom of the helmet. It was curly and smelled of jasmine and tobacco. He was certain he had smelled it before.

They raced along the Lungotevere. To his right Gabriel could see the dome of St. Peter's, looming over the Vatican Hill. Crossing the river, he hurled Alessio Rossi's Beretta into the black water.

They headed up the Janiculum Hill. At the Piazza Ceresi they turned into a steeply sloped residential street lined with stone pines and small apartment houses. The bike slowed as they approached an old palazzo that had been converted into a block of flats. The woman killed the engine and they coasted beneath an archway, coming to a stop in a darkened courtyard.

Gabriel dismounted and followed her into the foyer, then up two flights of stairs. She unlocked the door and pulled him inside. In the darkened entrance hall, she unzipped her leather riding jacket and removed her helmet. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders. Then she turned on the lights. "You?" said Gabriel. The girl smiled. It was Chiara, the rabbi's daughter from Venice.

 FOR THE second time that evening, Eric Lange's cellular telephone chirped softly on the bedside table of his Paris hotel room. He brought it to his ear and listened silently while Rashid Husseini told him about the gun battle at the Pensione Abruzzi. Obviously, Carlo Casagrande did know about Allon, and he had sent a mob of incompetent Italian policemen to do the job when it could have been handled quite easily by one good man with a gun. Lange's window of opportunity to deal with Allon himself may have just closed permanently.

"What are you doing now?" Lange asked. "We're looking for him, along with half the police in Italy. There's no guarantee we're going to find him. The Israelis are good at getting their people out of tight spots."

"Yes, they are," said Lange. "In fact, I'd say the Rome station of the Israeli secret service is very busy tonight. They've got quite a crisis on their hands."

"Indeed, they do."

"Have you identified any of their personnel in Rome?"

"Two or three that we're sure of," Husseini said.

"It might be wise to follow them. With a bit of luck, they'll lead

you straight to him."

"You remind me of Abu Jihad," Husseini. "He was brilliant too.'

"I'm coming to Rome in the morning." "

"Give me your flight information. I'll have a man meet you.'

Gabriel spent a long time in the shower washing his wound and scrubbing the blood from his hair. When he emerged, wrapped

in a white towel, Chiara was waiting for him. She cleaned his wounds carefully and bound his abdomen in a heavy dressing. Lastly she gave him a shot of antibiotics and handed him a pair of yellow capsules.

"What's this?"

"Something for the pain. Take them. You'll sleep better."

Gabriel washed down the tablets with a swig of mineral water from a plastic bottle.

"I laid some clean clothes for you on the bed. Are you hungry?"

Gabriel shook his head and walked into the bedroom to change. He was suddenly unsteady on his feet. While he was on the run, being fed by nerves and adrenalin, he had not felt the pain. Now his side felt as though it had a knife in it.

Chiara had left a blue sweatsuit on the bed. Gabriel carefully pulled it on. It was for a man several inches taller, and he had to roll up the sleeves and cuff the pant legs. When he came out again, she was sitting in the living room watching a bulletin on the television. She took her eyes from the screen long enough to glance at him and frown at his appearance.

"I'll get you some proper clothes in the morning."

"How many dead?"

"Five," she said. "Several more wounded."

Five dead. . . Gabriel closed his eyes and fought off a wave of nausea. A burst of pain shot through his side. Chiara, sensing his distress, laid a hand on his face.

"You're burning," she said. "You need to sleep."

"I've always found sleep difficult at times like this."

"I understand--I think. How about a glass of wine?"

"With the painkillers?"

"It might help you."

 "A small one."

She went into the kitchen. Gabriel aimed the remote at the television and the screen went black. Chiara returned and handed him a glass of red wine.

"Nothing for you?"

She shook her head. "It's my job to make sure you stay safe."

Gabriel swallowed some of the wine. "Is your name really Chiara Zolli?"

She nodded.

"And are you really the rabbi's daughter?"

"Yes, I am."

"Where are you posted?"

"Officially, I'm attached to Rome station, but I do a fair amount of traveling."

"What sort of work?"

"Oh, you know--a little of this, a little of that."

"And that routine the other night?"

"Shamron asked me to keep an eye on you while you were in Venice. Imagine my surprise when you walked into the community center to see my father."

"What did he tell you about our conversation ? "

"That you were asking him a lot of questions about the Italian Jews during the war--and about the Convent of the Sacred Heart on the Lago di Garda. Why don't you tell me the rest?"

Because I don't have the strength, he thought. Then he said, "How long do I have to stay here?"

"Pazner will tell you everything in the morning."

"Who's Pazner?"

Chiara smiled. "You have been out of the game for a while. Shimon Pazner is the head of Rome station. At the moment, he's trying to figure out how to get you out of Italy and back to Israel."

"I'm not going back to Israel."

"Well, you can't stay here. Shall I turn on the television again? Every policeman in Italy is looking for you. But that's not my decision. I'm just a lowly field hand. Pazner will make the call in the morning."

Gabriel was too weak to argue with her. The combination of the painkillers and the wine had left him feeling heavy-lidded and numb. Perhaps it was for the best. Chiara helped him to his feet and guided him into the bedroom. As he lay down, pain shot through his side. He settled his head carefully on the pillow. Chiara switched off the light and sat in an armchair at the side of the bed, a Beretta in her lap.

"I can't sleep with you there."

"You'll sleep."

"Go into the other room."

"I'm not allowed to leave you."

Gabriel closed his eyes. The girl was right. After a few minutes, he slipped into unconsciousness. His sleep was aflame with nightmares. He fought the gun battle in the courtyard for a second time and saw carabinieri drenched in blood. Alessio Rossi appeared in his room, but in Gabriel's dream he was dressed as a priest, and instead of a Beretta it was a crucifix he aimed at Gabriel's head. Rossi's death, with his arms flung wide and his side pierced by a bullet, Gabriel saw as a Caravaggio.

Leah came to him. She stepped down from her altarpiece and shed her robes. Gabriel stroked her skin and found that her scars had been healed. Her mouth tasted of olives; her nipples, pressed against his chest, were firm and cool. She took him inside her body and

 brought him slowly to climax. As Gabriel released inside her, she asked him why he had fallen in love with Anna Rolfe. It's you I love, Leah, he told her. It's you I'll always love.

He awakened briefly; the dream was so real he expected to find Leah in the room with him. But when he opened his eyes, it was the face of Chiara he saw, sitting in her chair, watching over him, a gun in her hand.