A Death in Vienna

further. He swore Tziona to secrecy about his involvement in the case, then hastily changed the subject.
    They spoke of art for a time, then politics, and finally the state of Gabriel’s life. Tziona knew of an empty flat a few streets over from her own. It was large enough to house a studio and was blessed with some of the most gorgeous light in the Upper Galilee. Gabriel promised he would think about it, but Tziona knew that he was merely placating her. The restlessness had returned to his eyes. He was ready to leave.
    Over coffee, he told her that he had found a place for some of his mother’s work.
    “Where?”
    “The Museum of Holocaust Art at Yad Vashem.”
    Tziona’s eyes welled over with tears. “How perfect,” she said.
    After lunch they climbed the cobblestone stairs to Tziona’s apartment. She unlocked the storage closet and carefully removed the paintings. They spent an hour selecting twenty of the best pieces for Yad Vashem. Tziona had discovered two more canvases bearing the image of Erich Radek. She asked Gabriel what he wanted her to do with them.
    “Burn them,” he replied.
    “But they’re probably worth a great deal of money now.”
    “I don’t care what they’re worth,” Gabriel said. “I never want to see his face again.”
    Tziona helped him load the paintings into his car. He set out for Jerusalem beneath a sky heavy with cloud. He went first to Yad Vashem. A curator took possession of the paintings, then hurried back inside to watch the beginning of Erich Radek’s testimony. So it seemed did the rest of the country. Gabriel drove through silent streets to the Mount of Olives. He laid a stone on his mother’s grave and recited the words of the mourner’s Kaddish for her. He did the same at the grave of his father. Then he drove to the airport and caught the evening flight for Rome.
    41
    VENICE • VIENNA
    THE FOLLOWING MORNING,in thesestière of Cannaregio, Francesco Tiepolo entered the Church of San Giovanni Crisostomo and made his way slowly across the nave. He peered into the Chapel of Saint Jerome and saw lights burning behind the shrouded work platform. He crept forward, seized the scaffolding in his bearlike paw, and shook it once violently. The restorer raised his magnifying visor and peered down at him like a gargoyle.
    “Welcome home, Mario,” Tiepolo called up. “I was beginning to worry about you. Where have you been?”
    The restorer lowered his visor and turned his gaze once more to the Bellini.
    “I’ve been gathering sparks, Francesco.”
    Gathering sparks?Tiepolo knew better than to ask. He only cared that the restorer was finally back in Venice.
    “How long before you finish?”
    “Three months,” said the restorer. “Maybe four.”
    “Three would be better.”
    “Yes, Francesco, I know three months would be better. But if you keep shaking my platform, I’ll never finish.”
    “You’re not planning on running any more errands, are you, Mario?”
    “Just one,” he said, his brush poised before the canvas. “But it won’t take long. I promise.”
    “That’s what you always say.”
    THE PACKAGE ARRIVEDat the clock shop in Vienna’s First District via motorcycle courier exactly three weeks later. The Clockmaker took delivery personally. He affixed his signature to the courier’s clipboard and gave him a small gratuity for his trouble. Then he carried the parcel into his workshop and placed it on the table.
    The courier climbed back on the motorbike and sped away, slowing briefly at the end of the street, just long enough to signal the woman seated behind the wheel of a Renault sedan. The woman punched in a number on her cell phone and pressed the Send button. A moment later, the Clockmaker answered.
    “I just sent you a clock,” she said. “Did you receive it?”
    “Who is this?”
    “I’m a friend of Max Klein,” she whispered. “And Eli Lavon. And Reveka Gazit. And Sarah Greenberg.”
    She lowered the phone and pressed four numbers in quick succession, then turned her head in time to see the bright red ball of fire erupt from the front of the Clockmaker’s shop.
    She eased away from the curb, her hands trembling on the wheel, and headed toward the Ringstrasse. Gabriel had abandoned his motorcycle and was waiting on the corner. She stopped long enough for him to climb in, then turned onto the broad boulevard and vanished into the evening traffic. A Staatspolizei car sped past in the opposite direction. Chiara kept her eyes on the