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deliver. The assignment had one other potential windfall. It
    could be used as leverage to get Shamron off his back once and for all. As they crossed the Piazza del
    Commune, he listed his demands.
    “I listen to what he has to say, then I file a report and I’m done with it.”
    “That’s it.”
    “I go back to my farm in Umbria and finish my painting. No more complaints from Shamron. No
    more warnings about my security.”
    Navot hesitated, then nodded his head.
    “Say it, Uzi. Say it before God, here in the sacred city of Assisi.”
    “You can go back to Umbria and restore paintings to your heart’s content. No more complaints from
    Shamron. No more warnings from me or anyone else about the legion of terrorists who wish you dead.”
    “Is Ostrovsky under surveillance by assets from Rome Station?”
    “We put him under watch within an hour of the first contact.”
    “Tell them to back off. Otherwise, you run the risk of inadvertently telegraphing our interest to the
    Italian security services and anyone else who might be watching him.”
    “Done.”
    “I need a watcher I can trust.”
    “Someone like Eli?”
    “Yes, someone like Eli. Where is he?”
    “On a dig somewhere near the Dead Sea.”
    “Get him on the sunrise express out of Ben-Gurion. Tell him to meet me at Piperno. Tell him to have
    a bottle of Frascati and a plate of filetti di baccalà waiting.”
    “I love fried cod,” Navot said.
    "Piperno makes the best filetti in Rome. Why don’t you join us for lunch?”
    “Bella says I have to stay away from fried food.” Navot patted his ample midsection. “She says it’s
    very fattening.”
    5 LLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
    To restore an Old Master painting, Gabriel always said, was to surrender oneself body and soul to
    the canvas and the artist who had produced it. The painting was always the first thing in his thoughts when
    he woke and the last thing he saw before dropping off to sleep. Even in his dreams, he could not escape it;
    nor could he ever walk past a restoration in progress without stopping to examine his work.
    He switched off the halogen lamps now and climbed the stone steps to the second floor. Chiara was
    propped on one elbow in bed, leafing distractedly through a thick fashion magazine. Her skin was dark
    from the Umbrian sun and her auburn hair was moving faintly in the breeze of the open window. A
    dreadful Italian pop song was issuing from the bedside clock radio; two Italian celebrities were engaged
    in a deep but silent conversation on the muted television. Gabriel pointed the remote at the screen and
    fired.
    “I was watching that,” she said without looking at him.
    “Oh, really? What was it about?”
    “Something to do with a man and a woman.” She licked her forefingerand elaborately turned the
    page of her magazine. “Did you boys have a nice time?”
    “Where’s your gun?”
    She lifted the corner of the bedcover and the walnut grip of a Beretta 9mm shone in the light of her
    reading lamp. Gabriel would have preferred the weapon be more accessible, but he resisted the impulse
    to chide her. Despite the fact that she had never handled a gun before her recruitment, Chiara routinely
    outscored him in accuracy on the basement firing range at King Saul Boulevard -a rather remarkable
    achievement, considering the fact she was the daughter of the chief rabbi of Venice and had spent her
    youth in the tranquil streets of the city’s ancient Jewish Ghetto. Officially, she was still an Italian citizen.
    Her association with the Office was a secret, as was her marriage to Gabriel. She covered the Beretta
    again and flipped another page.
    “How’s Uzi?”
    “He and Bella are going to get married.”
    “Is it serious or just idle talk?”
    “You should see the eyeglasses she has him wearing.”
    “When a man lets a woman choose his eyeglasses, it’s only a matter of time before he’s standing
    under a chuppah with his foot on a glass.” She looked up and scrutinized him