Daniel Silva - The defector

“Anna could have left us something to eat other than eggs and cheese.”

“You think she’s trying to kill you by clogging your arteries with cholesterol?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her. She detests me.”

“Try being nice to her.”

A strand of stray hair had escaped the restraint of Chiara’s clasp and fallen against her cheekbone. She tucked it behind her ear and treated Gabriel to a puckish smile.

“It seems to me you have a choice,” she said. “A choice about your future. A choice about your life.”

“I’m not good at making decisions about life.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. I remember a certain afternoon in Jerusalem not long ago. I’d grown weary of waiting for you to marry me, and so I’d finally worked up the nerve to leave you. When I got into that car outside your apartment, I kept waiting for you to chase after me and beg me to stay. But you didn’t. You were probably relieved I was the one walking out. It was easier that way.”

“I was a fool, Chiara, but that’s ancient history.”

She speared a piece of potato from the frying pan, tasted it, then added a bit more salt. “I knew it was Leah, of course. You were still married to her.” Chiara paused, then added softly, “And you were still in love with her.”

“What does any of this have to do with the situation at hand?”

“You are a man who takes vows seriously, Gabriel. You took a vow to Leah and you couldn’t break it, even though she no longer lived in the present. You took an oath to the Office as well. And you can’t seem to break that one, either.”

“I’ve given them more than half my life.”

“So what are you going to do? Give them the rest of it? Do you want to end up like Shamron? He’s eighty years old, and he can’t sleep at night because he’s worried about the security of the State. He sits on his terrace at night on the Sea of Galilee staring off to the east, watching his enemies.”

“There wouldn’t be an Israel if it weren’t for men like Shamron. He was there at the creation. And he doesn’t want to see his life’s work destroyed.”

“There are plenty of qualified men and women who can look after Israel ’s security.”

“Try telling that to Shamron.”

“Trust me, Gabriel. I have.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“Leave them-for good this time. Restore paintings. Live your life.”

“Where?”

She raised her arms to indicate that the present surroundings would do nicely indeed.

“This is a temporary arrangement. Eventually, the count is going to want his villa back again.”

“We’ll find a new one. Or we’ll move to Rome so you can be closer to the Vatican. The Italians will let you live wherever you like, so long as you don’t abuse that passport and new identity they generously gave you for saving the pope’s life.”

“Uzi says I’ll never have the nerve to walk away for good. He says the Office is the only family I’ve got.”

“Start a new family, Gabriel.” Chiara paused. “With me.”

She tasted a piece of zucchini and switched off the burner. Turning around, she saw Gabriel gazing at her intently with one hand pressed thoughtfully to his chin.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what, Chiara?”

“Like I’m one of your paintings.”

“I’m just wondering why you left that book about child rearing in our room where you knew I would see it. And why you haven’t taken a single sip of the wine I poured for you.”

“I have.”

“You haven’t, Chiara. I’ve been watching.”

“You just didn’t see me.”

“Take one now.”

“Gabriel! What’s got into you?” She lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip. “Are you satisfied?”

He wasn’t. “Are you pregnant, Chiara?”

“No, Gabriel, I’m not pregnant. But I would like to be at some point in the near future.” She took hold of his hand. “I know you’re afraid because of what happened to Dani. But the best way to honor his memory is to have another child. We’re Jews, Gabriel. That’s what we do. We mourn the dead and keep them in our hearts. But we live our lives.”

“With names that are not our own, stalked by men who wish to kill us.”

Chiara gave an exasperated sigh and cracked another egg against the side of the mixing bowl. This time, the shell broke to pieces in her hand.

“ Now look what you’ve made me do.” She mopped up the egg with a paper towel. “You have three days until Uzi comes back. What do you intend to do?”

“I need to go to London to find out what really happened to Grigori Bulganov.”

“Grigori isn’t your problem. Let the British handle it.”

“The British have bigger problems than one missing defector. They’ve swept Grigori under the rug. They’ve moved on.”

“And so should you.” Chiara added one more egg to the bowl and began beating. “Russians have long memories, Gabriel-almost as long as the Arabs. Ivan lost everything after Elena defected: his homes in England and France and all those bank accounts in London and Zurich filled with his dirty money. He’s the subject of an Interpol Red Notice and can’t set foot outside of Russia. He has nothing else to do except plot your death. And if you go to London and start poking around, there’s a good chance he’ll find out about it.”

“So I’ll do it quietly, then I’ll come home. And we’ll get on with our lives.”

Chiara’s arm went still. “You tell lies for a living, Gabriel. I hope you’re not lying to me now.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Chiara. And I never will.”

“What are you going to do about the bodyguards?”

“They’ll stay here with you.”

“Uzi’s not going to be happy.”

Gabriel held his wine to the light. “Uzi’s never happy.”

VILLA DEI FIORI • LONDON

THE OFFICE had a motto: By way of deception, thou shalt do war. The deception was usually visited upon Israel ’s enemies. Occasionally, it was necessary to deceive one’s own. Gabriel was sorry for them; they were good boys, with bright futures. They had just drawn the wrong assignment at the wrong time.

Their names were Lior and Motti-Lior being the older and more experienced of the pair, Motti a youthful probationer barely a year out of the Academy. Both boys had studied the exploits of the legend and had leapt at the opportunity to escort him safely back to Israel. Unlike Uzi Navot, they viewed the three additional days of duty at the beautiful villa in Umbria as a windfall. And when Chiara asked them to tread lightly so that Gabriel might finish his painting before returning home, they agreed without protest. They were simply honored to be in his presence. They would stand a distant post.

They spent that night in the drafty little guest cottage, sleeping in shifts and keeping a careful watch on the window of his studio, which was aglow with a searing white light. If they listened carefully, they could just make out the faint sound of music-first Tosca, then Madame Butterfly , and finally, as dawn was breaking over the estate, La Bohème . As the villa stirred to life around eight, they wandered up to the kitchen and found three women-Chiara, Anna, Margherita-sharing breakfast around the island. The door to the sitting room was tightly closed, and two vigilant hounds were curled on the floor before it. Accepting a bowl of steaming coffee, Lior wondered whether it might be possible to have a look at him. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” Chiara said sotto voce. “He tends to get a bit grouchy when he’s on deadline.” Lior, the child of a writer, understood completely.

The bodyguards spent the remainder of that day trying to keep themselves occupied. They went out on the odd reconnaissance mission and had a pleasant lunch with the staff, but for the most part they remained prisoners of their little stucco bunker. Every few hours, they would poke their heads inside the main villa to see if they could catch just a glimpse of the legend. Instead, they saw only the closed doors, watched over by the hounds. “He’s working at a feverish pace,” Chiara explained late that afternoon, when Lior again screwed up the courage to request permission to enter the studio. “There’s no telling what will happen if you disturb him. Trust me, it’s not for the faint of heart.”