“Finish your dinner,” she said. “I hear the food in Paris is terrible.”
Gabriel heard her voice next over the monitor, speaking soothingly in Italian to an infant who was no longer crying. Alone, he switched on the television and finished his supper while, four and a half hours to the northwest by airplane, Paris burned.
For thirty minutes she did not return. Gabriel saw to the dishes and wiped down the kitchen counters, thoroughly, so that Chiara would not feel it necessary to reprise his efforts, which was usually the case. He added coffee and water to the automatic maker and then stole softly down the hall to the master bedroom. There he found his wife and daughter, Chiara supine atop the bed, Irene prone across her breasts, both sleeping soundly.
Gabriel stood in the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the woodwork, and allowed his eyes to travel slowly across the walls of the room. They were hung with paintings—three paintings by Gabriel’s grandfather, the only three he had been able to track down, and several more by his mother. There was also a large portrait of a young man with prematurely gray temples and a gaunt, weary face haunted by the shadow of death. One day, thought Gabriel, his children would ask him about the troubled young man depicted in the portrait, and about the woman who had painted it. It was not a conversation he was looking forward to. Already, he feared their reaction. Would they pity him? Would they fear him? Would they think him a monster, a murderer? It was no matter; he had to tell them. It was better to hear the unhappy details of such a life from the lips of the man who had led it rather than from someone else. Mothers often portrayed fathers in too flattering a light. Obituaries rarely told the whole story, especially when their subjects led classified lives.
Gabriel lifted his daughter from Chiara’s breast and carried her into the nursery. He placed her gently in her crib, covered her with a blanket, and stood over her for a moment until he was sure she was settled. Finally, he returned to the master bedroom. Chiara was still sleeping soundly, watched over by the brooding young man in the portrait. It’s not me, he would tell his children. It’s just someone I had to become. I am not a monster or a murderer. You exist in this place, you sleep peacefully in this land tonight, because of people like me.
9
THE MARAIS, PARIS
AT TWENTY MINUTES PAST TEN the following morning, Christian Bouchard was standing in the arrivals hall of Charles de Gaulle, a tan raincoat over his crisp suit, a paper sign in his hand. The sign read SMITH. Even Bouchard found it less than convincing. He was watching the conveyor belt of humanity flowing into the hall from passport control—the international peddlers of goods and services, the seekers of asylum and employment, the tourists who had come to see a country that no longer existed. It was the job of the DGSI to sift through this daily deluge, identify the potential terrorists and agents of foreign intelligence, and monitor their movements until they left French soil. It was a near-impossible task. But for men such as Christian Bouchard, it meant there was no shortage of work or opportunities for career advancement. For better or worse, security was one of the few growth industries in France.
Just then, Bouchard’s mobile vibrated in his coat pocket. It was a text message stating that the reason for his visit to Charles de Gaulle had just been admitted into France on an Israeli passport bearing the name Gideon Argov. Two minutes later Bouchard spotted the selfsame Monsieur Argov, black leather jacket, black nylon overnight bag, adrift on the current of arriving passengers. Bouchard had seen him in surveillance photographs—there was that famous shot taken in the Gare de Lyon a few seconds before the explosion—but never had he seen the legend in the flesh. Bouchard had to admit he was sorely disappointed. The Israeli was five foot nothing and maybe, maybe, a hundred and fifty pounds. Still, there was a predatory swiftness in his gait and a slight outward bend to his legs that suggested speed and agility in his youth, which, thought Bouchard with misplaced arrogance, was quite some time ago.
Two paces behind him was a much younger man of nearly identical height and weight: dark hair, dark skin, the alert dark eyes of a Jew whose ancestors had lived in Arab lands. An employee of the Israeli Embassy was there to greet them, and together the three men—legend, bodyguard, and embassy functionary—filed outside to a waiting car. It headed directly into the center of Paris, followed by a second car in which Bouchard was the only passenger. He had anticipated his quarry would proceed directly to Madame Weinberg’s apartment on the rue Pavée, where Paul Rousseau was at that moment waiting. Instead, the legend made a stop on the rue des Rosiers. At the far western end of the street was a barricade. Behind it were the ruins of the Weinberg Center.
By Bouchard’s wristwatch, the Israeli remained at the barricade for three minutes. Then he headed eastward along the street, trailed by his bodyguard. After a few paces he paused in a shop window, a crude but effective touch of tradecraft that compelled Bouchard, who was discreetly following, to seek shelter in the boutique opposite. Instantly, a cloying saleswoman accosted him, and by the time he’d managed to extricate himself, the Israeli and his bodyguard had vanished. Bouchard stood frozen for a moment, staring up the length of the street. Then he wheeled round and saw the Israeli standing behind him, one hand pressed to his chin, head tilted to one side.
“Where’s your sign?” he asked finally in French.
“My what?”
“Your sign. The one you were holding at the airport.” The green eyes probed. “You must be Christian Bouchard.”
“And you must be—”
“I must be,” he interrupted with the terseness of a nail gun. “And I was assured there would be no surveillance.”
“I wasn’t watching you.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“Rousseau asked me to make sure you arrived safely.”
“You’re here to protect me—is that what you’re saying?”
Bouchard was silent.
“Allow me to make one thing clear from the outset,” said the legend. “I don’t need protection.”