“When she is dead,” answered Gabriel. “Then you will know the truth.”
It was a few minutes after nine o’clock by the time they returned to Narkiss Street, but Gabriel decided to spend some time at the easel. He slipped a copy of La Bohème into his paint-smudged portable CD player, lowered the volume to a whisper, and worked with a clarity of purpose that had eluded him since his return to Jerusalem. He did not hear when the opera reached its end, nor did he notice the sky beginning to lighten at his back. Finally, at dawn, he laid down his brush and stood motionless before the painting, his hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side.
“Is it finished?” Chiara asked, watching him intently.
“No,” replied Gabriel, still staring at the painting. “It’s just getting started.”
30
TIBERIAS, ISRAEL
That evening was Shabbat. Shamron invited them to dinner at his home in Tiberias. It was not truly an invitation, for invitations can be politely declined. It was a commandment, chiseled into stone, inviolable. Gabriel spent the morning making arrangements to have the painting shipped to Julian Isherwood in London. Then he drove across Jerusalem to collect Chiara at the Israel Museum. As they sped down the Bab al-Wad, the staircase-like gorge linking Jerusalem to the Coastal Plain, Palestinian militants in the Gaza Strip unleashed a barrage of rockets that landed as far north as Ashdod. There were only minor injuries in the attack, but it snarled traffic across the narrow waist of the country as thousands of commuters were rushing home for the Sabbath. Only in Israel, thought Gabriel, as he waited an hour for the traffic to budge. It was good to be back home again.
After finally reaching the flatlands of the Coastal Plain, they headed north to the Galilee, then eastward through a string of Arab towns and villages to Tiberias. Shamron’s honey-colored villa was a few miles outside the city, on a bluff overlooking the lake. To reach it required an ascent up a steeply sloped drive. As Gabriel and Chiara entered, it was Gilah who greeted them. Shamron was standing before the television, a phone pressed to his ear. His ugly metal spectacles were propped on his forehead, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. If they ever erected a statue of him, thought Gabriel, it would be cast in that pose.
“Who is he talking to?” Gabriel asked of Gilah.
“Who do you think?”
“The prime minister?”
Gilah nodded. “Ari thinks we need to retaliate. The prime minister isn’t so sure.”
Gabriel handed Gilah a bottle of wine, a Bordeaux-style red from the Judean Hills, and kissed her cheek. It was as smooth as velvet and smelled of lilac.
“Tell him to get off the phone, Gabriel. He’ll listen to you.”
“I’d rather take a direct hit from one of those Palestinian rockets.”
Gilah smiled and led them into the kitchen. Lining the counters were platters of delicious-looking food; she must have been cooking all day. Gabriel tried to snatch a piece of Gilah’s famous eggplant with Moroccan spice, but she playfully patted the back of his hand.
“How many people are you planning to feed?” he asked.
“Yonatan and his family were supposed to come, but he can’t get away because of the attack.”
Yonatan was Shamron’s eldest child. He was a general in the IDF, and there were rumors he was in the running to become the next chief of staff.
“We’ll eat in a few minutes,” Gilah said. “Go sit with him for a while. He missed you terribly while you were away.”
“I was only gone for two weeks, Gilah.”
“At this stage of his life, two weeks is a long time.”
Gabriel opened the wine, poured two glasses, and carried them into the next room. Shamron was no longer on the phone, but he was still staring at the television.
“They just launched another barrage,” he said. “The rockets should start landing in just a few seconds.”
“Is there going to be a response?”
“Not now. But if this keeps up, we’ll have no choice but to act. The question is, what will Egypt do, now that it’s ruled by the Muslim Brotherhood? Will it stand idly by while we attack Hamas, which, after all, is a wing of the Muslim Brotherhood? Will the Camp David peace treaty hold?”
“What does Uzi say?”
“At the moment, the Office is unable to predict with certainty how the Egyptian leader will react if we go into Gaza. Which is why the prime minister, at least for the moment, is willing to do nothing while the rockets rain on his people.”