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quietly after them. He didn’t like it but he had to admit he was curious about the nature of the message the Russian wanted to 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