A Death in Vienna

the airline jacket and examined his travel itinerary.
    “I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to travel directly to Vienna from here. I’ll accompany you back to Tel Aviv in the morning—separate seats, of course. You’ll turn around and catch the afternoon flight into Vienna.”
    Gabriel lifted his gaze and stared at Shamron, his expression dubious. “And if I’m recognized at the airport and dragged into a room for some special Austrian attention?”
    “That’s always a possibility, but ithas been thirteen years. Besides, you’ve been to Vienna recently. I recall a meeting we had in Eli’s office last year concerning an imminent threat to the life of His Holiness Pope Paul the Seventh.”
    “I have been back to Vienna,” Gabriel conceded, holding up the false passport. “But never like this, and never through the airport.”
    Gabriel spent a long moment appraising the false passport with his restorer’s eye. Finally he closed the cover and slipped it into his pocket. Chiara stood and walked out of the room. Shamron watched her go, then looked at Gabriel.
    “It seems I’ve managed to disrupt your life once again.”
    “Why should this time be any different?”
    “Do you want me to talk to her?”
    Gabriel shook his head. “She’ll get over it,” he said. “She’s a professional.”
    THERE WERE MOMENTSof Gabriel’s life, fragments of time, which he rendered on canvas and hung in the cellar of his subconscious. To this gallery of memory he added Chiara as he saw her now, seated astride his body, bathed in a Rembrandt light from the streetlamps beyond their bedroom window, a satin duvet bunched at her hips, her breasts bared. Other images intruded. Shamron had opened the door to them, and Gabriel, as always, was powerless to push them back. There was Wadal Adel Zwaiter, a skinny intellectual in a plaid jacket, whom Gabriel had killed in the foyer of an apartment house in Rome. There was Ali Abdel Hamidi, who had died by Gabriel’s hand in a Zurich alley, and Mahmoud al-Hourani, older brother of Tariq al-Hourani, whom Gabriel had shot through the eye in Cologne as he lay in the arms of a lover.
    A mane of hair fell across Chiara’s breasts. Gabriel reached up and gently pushed it away. She looked at him. It was too dark to see the color of her eyes, but Gabriel could sense her thoughts. Shamron had trained him to read the emotions of others, just as Umberto Conti had taught him to mimic the Old Masters. Gabriel, even in the arms of a lover, could not suspend his ceaseless search for the warning signs of betrayal.
    “I don’t want you to go to Vienna.” She placed her hands on Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel could feel his heart beating against the cool skin of her palm. “It’s not safe for you there. Of all people, Shamron should know that.”
    “Shamron is right. It was a long time ago.”
    “Yes, it was, but if you go there and start asking questions about the bombing, you’ll rub up against the Austrian police and security services. Shamron is using you to keep his hand in the game. He doesn’t have your best interests in mind.”
    “You sound like a Lev man.”
    “It’s you I care about.” She bent down and kissed his mouth. Her lips tasted of blossom. “I don’t want you to go to Vienna and become lost in the past.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “I’m afraid I’ll lose you.”
    “To who?”
    She lifted the duvet to her shoulders and covered her breasts. Leah’s shadow fell between them. It was Chiara’s intention to let her into the room. Chiara only talked about Leah in bed, where she believed Gabriel would not lie to her. Gabriel’s entire life was a lie; with his lovers he was always painfully honest. He could make love to a woman only if she knew that he had killed men on behalf of his country. He never told lies about Leah. He considered it his duty to speak honestly of her, even to the women who had taken her place in his bed.
    “Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?” Chiara asked. “Everyone knows about Leah. She’s an Office legend, just like you and Shamron. How long am I supposed to live with the fear that one day you’ll decide you can’t do this anymore?”
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “Marry me, Gabriel. Stay in Venice and restore paintings. Tell Shamron to leave you alone. You have scars all over your body. Haven’t you given enough to your country?”
    He closed his eyes. Before him opened a gallery door.