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changed to BOARDING .
    “Too bad you can’t stop the war so easily,” Chiara said.
    “Only Hamas can stop the war.”
    She gathered up her carry-on bag and a stack of glossy magazines and rose carefully to her feet. “Be a good boy,” she said. “And if someone asks you for a favor, remember those three lovely words.”
    “Find someone else.”
    Chiara smiled. Then she kissed Gabriel with surprising urgency.
    “Come home, Gabriel.”
    “Soon.”
    “No,” she said. “Come home now.”
    “You’d better hurry, Chiara. Otherwise, you’ll miss your flight.”
    She kissed him one last time. Then she turned away without another word and boarded the plane.

    Gabriel waited until Chiara’s flight was safely airborne before leaving the terminal and making his way to Fiumicino’s chaotic parking garage. His anonymous German sedan was at the far end of the third deck, the front end facing out, lest he had reason to flee the garage in a hurry. As always, he searched the undercarriage for evidence of a concealed explosive before sliding behind the wheel and starting the engine. An Italian pop song blasted from the radio, one of those silly tunes Chiara was always singing to herself when she thought no oneelse was listening. Gabriel switched to the BBC, but it was filled with news about the war so he lowered the volume. There would be time enough for war later, he thought. For the next few weeks there would only be the Caravaggio.
    He crossed the Tiber over the Ponte Cavour and made his way to the Via Gregoriana. The old Office safe flat was at the far end of the street, near the top of the Spanish Steps. He squeezed the sedan into an empty spot along the curb and retrieved his Beretta 9mm pistol from the glove box before climbing out. The chill night air smelled of frying garlic and faintly of wet leaves, the smell of Rome in autumn. Something about it always made Gabriel think of death.
    He walked past the entrance of his building, past the awnings of the Hassler Villa Medici Hotel, to the Church of the Trinità dei Monti. A moment later, after determining he was not being followed, he returned to his apartment building. A single energy-efficient bulb burned weakly in the foyer; he moved through its sphere of light and climbed the darkened staircase. As he stepped onto the third-floor landing, he froze. The door of the flat was ajar, and from within came the sound of drawers opening and closing. Calmly, he drew the Beretta from the small of his back and used the barrel to slowly push open the door. At first, he could see no sign of the intruder. Then the door yielded another inch and he glimpsed Graham Seymour standing at the kitchen counter, an unopened bottle of Gavi in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. Gabriel slipped the gun into his coat pocket and went inside. And in his head he was thinking of three lovely words.
    Find someone else . . .

6
VIA GREGORIANA, ROME
    P ERHAPS YOU ’ D BETTER SEE TO THIS , Gabriel. Otherwise, someone’s liable to get hurt.”
    Seymour surrendered the bottle of wine and the corkscrew and leaned against the kitchen counter. He wore gray flannel trousers, a herringbone jacket, and a blue dress shirt with French cuffs. The absence of personal aides or a security detail suggested he had traveled to Rome using a pseudonymous passport. It was a bad sign. The chief of MI6 traveled clandestinely only when he had a serious problem.
    “How did you get in here?” asked Gabriel.
    Seymour fished a key from the pocket of his trousers. Attached was the simple black medallion so beloved by Housekeeping, the Office division that procured and managed safe properties.
    “Where did you get that?”
    “Uzi gave it to me yesterday in London.”
    “And the code for the alarm? I suppose he gave you that, too.”
    Seymour recited the eight-digit number.
    “That’s a violation of Office protocol.”
    “There were extenuating circumstances. Besides,” added Seymour, “after all the operations