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at his shoulder--and that some nights, while they made love, Leah stood in their bedroom, a silent spectator to their contentment. When Francesco Tiepolo offered him the San
    Zaccaria altarpiece, Gabriel accepted without hesitation. Anna Rolfe did not stand in his way.
    "I'm very fond of her, but it would never have worked."
    "Did she spend any time with you here in Venice?"
    "She performed at a benefit at the Frari. She stayed with me for two days. I'm afraid it only made things worse."
    Shamron slowly crushed out his cigarette. "I suppose I'm partly to blame. I pushed you into it before you were ready."
    As he always did on occasions such as these, Shamron asked if Gabriel had been to see Leah. Gabriel heard himself say that he had gone to the secluded psychiatric clinic in the south of England before coming to Venice; that he had spent an afternoon with her, pushing her about the grounds; that they had even had a picnic lunch beneath the bare limbs of a maple. But while he spoke, his mind was elsewhere: the tiny street in Vienna not far from the Juden-platz; the car bomb that killed his son; the inferno that destroyed Leah's body and stole her memory.
    "It's been twelve years and she still doesn't recognize me. To be honest with you, sometimes I don't recognize her." Gabriel paused, then said, "But you didn't come here to discuss my personal life."
    "No, I didn't," Shamron said. "But your personal life is relevant. You see, if you were still involved with Anna Rolfe, I couldn't ask you to come back to work for me--at least, not in good conscience."
    "When have you ever let your conscience get in the way of something you wanted?"
    "Now there's the old Gabriel that I know and love." Shamron flashed an iron smile. "How much do you know about the murder of Benjamin?"
    "Only what I read in the Herald Tribune. The Munich police say he was killed by neoNazis."
    Shamron snorted. Clearly, he did not agree with the findings of the Munich police, no matter how preliminary. "I suppose it's possible. Benjamin's writings on the Holocaust made him extremely unpopular among many segments of German society, and the fact that he was an Israeli made him a target. But I'm not convinced that some skinhead managed to kill him. You see, whenever Jews die on German soil, it makes me uneasy. I want to know more than what the Munich police are telling us on an official basis."
    "Why don't you send a fyatsa to Munich to investigate?"
    "Because if one of our field officers starts asking questions, people are going to get suspicious. Besides, you know that I always prefer the back door to the front."
    "What do you have in mind?"
    "In two days, the Munich detective in charge of the case is going to meet with Benjamin's half-brother, Ehud Landau. After briefing Landau on the investigation, he will allow him to take inventory of Benjamin's possessions and arrange a shipment back to Israel."
    "If memory serves, Benjamin doesn't have a half-brother."
    "He does now." Shamron placed an Israeli passport on the table and slid it toward Gabriel with the palm of his hand. Gabriel opened the cover and saw his own face staring back at him. Then he looked at the name: Ehud Landau.
    Shamron said, "You have the best eyes I've ever seen. Have a look around his apartment. See if there's something out of place. If you can, remove anything that might tie him to the Office."
    Gabriel closed the passport, but left it lying on the table.
    "I'm in the middle of a difficult restoration. I can't go running off to Munich now."
    "It will take a day--two at the most."
    "That's what you said last time."
    Shamron's temper, always seething below the surface, broke through. He pounded his fist on the table and shouted at Gabriel in Hebrew: "Do you wish to fix your silly painting or help me find out who killed your friend?"
    "It's always that simple for you, isn't it?"
    "Oh, but I wish it were so. Do you intend to help me, or will you force me to turn to one of Lev's oafs for this