Daniel Silva - Prince of fire

“Because after the fiasco in Paris there’s not going to be an appetite for having another go at Khaled on European soil-at least not officially. Besides, I am the Office, and I’m giving it to you. I want you to find him, Eli. Quietly. That’s your special gift. You know how to do these sorts of things without making a racket.”

“True, but I’ve lost a step or two.”

“Are you fit enough to travel?”

“As long as there’s no rough stuff. That’s your department. I’m the bookish one, you’re the muscle Jew.”

Lavon dug a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, cupping his hand against the breeze. He looked out over the Valley of Jezreel for a moment before speaking again.

“But you always were, weren’t you, Gabriel?”

“What’s that?”

“The muscle Jew. You like to play the role of the sensitive artist, but deep down you’re more like Shamron than you realize.”

“He’s going to kill again. Maybe he’ll wait until next April, or maybe a target will come along sooner-something that will allow him to temporarily quench his thirst for Jewish blood.”

“Maybe you suffer from the same thirst?”

“A little,” Gabriel conceded, “but this isn’t about revenge. It’s about justice. And it’s about protecting the lives of innocents. Will you find him for me, Eli?”

Lavon nodded. “Don’t worry, Gabriel. I’ll find him-before he can kill again.”

They stood in silence for a moment, looking down at the land.

“Did we drive them out, Eli?”

“The Canaanites?”

“No, Eli. The Arabs.”

“We certainly didn’t ask them to stay,” Lavon said. “Maybe it was easier that way.”

A blue sedan was idling in Narkiss Street. Gabriel recognized the face of the man seated behind the wheel. He entered the apartment house and climbed quickly up the stairs. Two suitcases stood on the landing, outside the half-open door. Chiara was seated in the living room, dressed in a smart black European two-piece suit and high-heeled shoes. Her face had makeup on it. Gabriel had never seen Chiara with makeup before.

“Where are you going?”

“You know better than to ask me that.”

“A job?”

“Yes, of course a job.”

“How long will you be gone?”

Her silence told him she was not coming back.

“When it’s over, I’m going back to Venice.” Then she added: “To take care of my family.”

He stood motionless and looked down at her. Chiara’s tears, when they spilled down her cheeks, were black with mascara. To Gabriel they looked like streaks of dirty rain on a statue. She wiped them away and examined her blackened fingertips, angry at her inability to control her emotions. Then she straightened her back and blinked hard several times.

“You look disappointed in me, Gabriel.”

“For what?”

“Crying. You never cry, do you?”

“Not anymore.”

He sat down next to her and tried to hold her hand. She drew it away from him and dabbed at her smudged makeup with a tissue, then she opened a compact case and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

“I can’t get on a plane looking like this.”

“Good.”

“Don’t get any ideas. I’m still leaving. Besides, it’s what you want. You would never tell me to leave-you’re far too decent for that-but I know you want me to go.” She snapped the compact shut. “I don’t blame you. In a strange way, I love you more. I only wish you hadn’t told me that you wanted to marry me.”

“I did,” he said.

“Did?”

“I do want to marry you, Chiara”-he hesitated-“but I can’t. I’m married to Leah.”

“Fidelity, right, Gabriel? Devotion to duty or to one’s obligations. Loyalty. Faithfulness.”

“I can’t leave her now, not after what she’s just been put through by Khaled.”

“In another week, she won’t remember it.” Chiara, noticing the color in Gabriel’s face, took his hand. “God, I’m sorry. Please forget I ever said that.”

“It’s forgotten.”

“You’re a fool to let me walk out of here. No one will ever love you the way I’ve loved you.” She stood up. “But we’ll see each other again, I’m sure. Who knows, maybe I’ll be working for you soon.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Office is swirling with rumors.”

“It usually is. You shouldn’t pay attention to rumors, Chiara.”

“I once heard a rumor that you’d never leave Leah to marry me. I wish I’d paid attention to that one.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder, then bent down and kissed Gabriel’s lips.

“One last kiss,” she whispered.

“At least let me drive you to the airport.”

“The last thing we need is a tearful good-bye at Ben-Gurion. Help me with my bags.”

He carried the suitcases down and loaded them in the trunk of the car. Chiara climbed into the backseat and closed the door without looking at him. Gabriel stood in the shade of a eucalyptus tree and watched the car drive off. As he walked upstairs to the empty apartment, he realized he hadn’t asked her to stay. Eli had been right. It was easier that way.

Aweek after Chiara’s departure Gabriel drove to Tiberias for dinner at the Shamrons. Yonatan was there, along with his wife and three young children. So was Rimona and her husband. They both had just come off duty and were still in uniform. Shamron, surrounded by his family, seemed happier than Gabriel had seen him in years. After supper he led Yonatan and Gabriel onto the terrace. A bright three-quarter moon was reflected in the calm surface of the Sea of Galilee. Beyond the lake, black and shapeless, loomed the Golan Heights. Shamron liked it best on his terrace, because it faced east toward his enemies. He was content to sit quietly and say nothing for a time while Gabriel and Yonatan talked pessimistically about the matsav-the situation. After a while, Shamron gave Yonatan a look that said he needed to speak to Gabriel privately. “I get the message, Abba,” Yonatan said, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“He is a colonel in the IDF,” Gabriel said, when Yonatan had gone. “He doesn’t like when you treat him like that.”

“Yonatan has his line of work, and we have ours.” Shamron adroitly shifted the focus from his personal problems to Gabriel’s. “How’s Leah?”

“I’m taking her to the Mount of Olives tomorrow to see Dani’s grave.”

“I assume her doctor has approved this outing?”

“He’s coming with us, along with half the staff of the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital.”

Shamron lit a cigarette. “Have you heard from Chiara?”

“No, and I don’t expect to. Do you know where she is?”

Shamron looked theatrically at his wristwatch. “If the operation is proceeding as planned, she’s probably sipping brandy in a ski lodge in Zermatt with a certain Swiss gentleman of questionable character. This gentleman is about to ship a rather large consignment of arms to a Lebanese guerrilla group that doesn’t have our best interests at heart. We’d like to know when that shipment is leaving port and where it’s going.”

“Please tell me Operations isn’t using my former fiancee as bait in a honey trap.”

“I’m not privy to the details of the operation, only the overarching goals. As for Chiara, she’s a girl of high moral character. I’m sure she’ll play hard to get with our Helvetian friend.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Don’t worry,” Shamron said. “Soon you’ll be the one deciding how we use her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The prime minister would like a word with you. He has a job he’d like you to take.”