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your safety. He has no ulterior motives.”
    “Shamron is ulterior motives personified, Uzi. And so are you.”
    Navot removed his hand from Gabriel’s shoulder. “I’m afraid this isn’t a debate, Gabriel. You might be the boss one day, but for now I’m ordering you to leave Italy and come home. You’re not going to disobey another order, are you?”
    Gabriel made no reply.
    “You have too many enemies to be alone in the world, Gabriel. You might think your friend the pope will look after you, but you’re wrong. You need us as much as we need you. Besides, we’re the only family you’ve got.”
    Navot gave a shrewd smile. The countless hours he had spent in the executive conference rooms of King Saul Boulevard had significantly sharpened his debating skills. He was now a formidable opponent, one who had to be handled with care.
    “I’m working on a painting,” Gabriel said. “I can’t leave until it’s finished.”
    “How long?” Navot asked.
    Three months, thought Gabriel. Then he said, “Three days.”
    Navot sighed. He oversaw a unit consisting of several hundred highly skilled operatives but only one whose movements were dictated by the fickle rhythms of restoring Old Master paintings.
    “I take it your wife is still in Venice?”
    “She’s coming back tonight.”
    “She should have told me she was going to Venice before she left. You might be a private contractor, Gabriel, but your wife is a full-time employee of Special Ops. As such, she is required to keep her supervisor, me, abreast of all her movements, personal and professional. Perhaps you would be good enough to remind her of that fact.”
    “I’ll try, Uzi, but she never listens to a thing I say.”
    Navot glared at his wristwatch. A large stainless steel device, it did everything except keep accurate time. It was a newer version of the one worn by Shamron, which is why Navot had bought it in the first place.
    “I have some business in Paris and Brussels. I’ll be back here in three days to pick up you and Chiara. We’ll go back to Israel together.”
    “I’m sure we can find the airport by ourselves, Uzi. We’re both well trained.”
    “That’s what concerns me.” Navot turned around and looked at the bodyguards. “And by the way, they’re staying here with you. Think of them as heavily armed houseguests.”
    “I don’t need them.”
    “You don’t have a choice,” Navot said.
    “I assume they don’t speak Italian.”
    “They’re settler boys from Judea and Samaria. They barely speak English.”
    “So how am I supposed to explain them to the staff ?”
    “That’s not my problem.” Navot held a trio of thick fingers in front of Gabriel’s face. “You have three days to finish that damn painting. Three days. Then you and your wife are going home.”
     
    7
    VILLA DEI FIORI, UMBRIA
    GABRIEL’S STUDIO was in semidarkness, the altarpiece shrouded by gloom. He attempted to walk past it but could not—as always, the pull of a work in progress was far too strong. Switching on a single halogen lamp, he gazed at the pale hand reaching toward the apex of the panel. For an instant, it belonged not to Saint Peter but to Grigori Bulganov. And it was reaching not toward God but toward Gabriel.
    Promise me one thing, Gabriel. Promise me I won’t end up in an unmarked grave.
    The vision was disturbed by the sound of singing. Gabriel switched off the lamp and climbed the stone steps to his room. The bed, unmade when he left, now looked as if it had been prepared for a photo shoot by a professional stylist. Chiara was executing one final adjustment to a pair of decorative pillows, two useless disks trimmed in white lace that Gabriel always hurled on the floor before climbing between the sheets. An overnight bag lay at the foot, along with a Beretta 9mm. Gabriel placed the weapon in the top drawer of the nightstand and lowered the volume on the radio.
    Chiara looked up, as if surprised by his presence. She was wearing faded blue