“I agree,” said Gabriel.
He took Raphael from Chiara’s grasp and returned to the common room. Leah was gazing sightlessly out the window again, lost in memory. Gently, Gabriel placed his son in her lap. Her eyes focused, her mind came briefly back to the present.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“It’s him, Leah. It’s my son.”
She gazed at the child spellbound, clutching him tightly with her ruined hands.
“He looks exactly like—”
“Me,” interjected Gabriel hastily. “Everyone says he looks like his father.”
Leah trailed a twisted finger through the child’s hair and placed her lips to his forehead.
“Look at the snow,” she whispered. “Isn’t it beautiful.”
79
JERUSALEM—TIBERIAS
AT TEN THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the Israel Museum announced it had acquired a previously unknown work by Vincent van Gogh—Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table, oil on canvas, 104 by 60 centimeters—from the estate of Hannah Weinberg. Later, the museum would be forced to acknowledge that, in point of fact, it had received the painting from an anonymous donor, who in turn had inherited it from Mademoiselle Weinberg after her tragic murder in Paris. In time, the museum would face enormous pressure to reveal the donor’s identity. It steadfastly refused, as did the government of France, which had permitted the transfer of the painting to Israel from French soil, much to the dismay of the editorialists and the cultural elite. It was, they said, yet another blow to French pride, this one entirely self-inflicted.
On that Sunday in December, however, the painting was soon an afterthought. For at the stroke of noon, the prime minister announced that Gabriel Allon was very much alive and would be the next chief of the Office. There was little surprise; the press had been buzzing with rumors and speculation for days. Still, it was a shock to the country to see the angel in the flesh, looking for all the world like a mere mortal. His clothing for the occasion had been carefully chosen—a white oxford cloth shirt, a black leather jacket, slim-fitting khaki trousers, a pair of suede brogues with rubber soles that made no sound when he walked. Pointedly, the prime minister referred to him not as the ramsad but the memuneh, the one in charge.
The flash of the cameras was like the glow of his halogen work lamps. He stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at ease, while the prime minister delivered a highly sanitized version of his professional accomplishments. He then invited Gabriel to speak. His term, he promised, would be forward-looking but rooted in the great traditions of the past. The message was unmistakable. An assassin had been placed in charge of Israel’s intelligence service. Those who tried to harm the country or its citizenry would face serious, perhaps lethal, consequences.
When the reporters attempted to question him, he smiled and then followed the prime minister into the Cabinet room, where he spoke at length of his plans and priorities and the many challenges, some immediate, some looming, confronting the Jewish state. ISIS, he said, was a threat that could no longer be ignored. He also made it clear that the previous ramsad would be remaining at the Office.
“In what capacity?” asked the foreign minister incredulously.
“In whatever capacity I see fit.”
“It’s unprecedented.”
“Get used to it.”
The chief of the Office does not swear an oath; he merely signs his contract. When the paperwork was complete, Gabriel traveled to King Saul Boulevard, where he addressed his troops and met briefly with the outgoing senior staff. Afterward, he and Navot rode in the same armored SUV to Shamron’s villa in Tiberias. The steep drive was so jammed with cars they had to abandon the vehicle far from the entrance. When they stepped onto the terrace overlooking the lake, there arose a great cheer that might very well have carried across the Golan Heights into Syria. It seemed that everyone from Gabriel’s tangled past had made the trip: Adrian Carter, Fareed Barakat, Paul Rousseau, even Graham Seymour, who had come from London. So, too, had Julian Isherwood, the art dealer who had provided Gabriel’s cover as a restorer, and Samantha Cooke, the reporter from the Telegraph who had quite intentionally blown the story regarding his death.
“You owe me,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“The check is in the mail.”
“When should I expect it?”
“Soon.”
There were many others, of course. Timothy Peel, the Cornish boy who had lived next door to Gabriel when he was hiding out on the Helford Passage, made the trip at Office expense. So did Sarah Bancroft, the American art historian and curator whom Gabriel had used to penetrate the courts of Zizi and Ivan. She shook Mikhail’s hand coolly and glared at Natalie, but otherwise the evening proceeded without incident.
Maurice Durand, the world’s most successful art thief, popped in from Paris and somehow managed to avoid bumping into Paul Rousseau, who surely would have remembered him from the brasserie on the rue de Miromesnil. Monsignor Luigi Donati, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII, was in attendance, as was Christoph Bittel, Gabriel’s new ally inside the Swiss security service. Half the Knesset came, along with several senior IDF officers and the chiefs of all the other Israeli intelligence agencies. And watching over it all, smiling contentedly as though the entire production had been arranged for his private amusement, was Shamron. He was happier than Gabriel had ever seen him. His life’s work was finally complete. Gabriel was remarried, a father, and the chief of the Office. The restorer was restored.
But the evening was more than a celebration of Gabriel’s promotion, it was also the children’s first birthday party. Chiara presided over the lighting of the candles while Gabriel, playing the role of proud father, recorded the event on his secure mobile phone. When the entire gathering erupted into a rousing version of “Happy Birthday,” Irene wept hysterically. Then Shamron whispered a bit of Polish-accented nonsense into her ear, and she giggled with delight.
By ten o’clock the first cars were moving slowly down the drive, and by midnight the party was over. Afterward, Shamron and Gabriel sat in their usual spot at the edge of the terrace, a gas heater burning between them, while the caterers cleared away the debris of the celebration. Shamron refrained from smoking because Raphael was sleeping soundly in Gabriel’s arms.
“You made quite an impression today at the announcement,” Shamron said. “I liked your clothing. And your title.”
“I wanted to send a signal.”
“What signal is that?”
“That I intend to be an operational chief.” Gabriel paused, then added, “That I can walk and chew gum at the same time.”