Portrait of a Spy

dollars with TransArabian Bank. Then he climbed into a taxi and headed for Heathrow Airport.

Chapter 35
Zurich

    F EW COUNTRIES HAD PLAYED A more prominent role in the life and career of Gabriel Allon than the Swiss Confederation. He spoke three of its four languages fluently and knew its mountains and valleys like the clefts and curves of his wife’s body. He had killed in Switzerland, kidnapped in Switzerland, and exposed some of its most repulsive secrets. One year earlier, in a café at the base of the glacier at Les Diablerets, he had taken a solemn vow never to set foot in the country again. It was funny how things never seemed to go according to plan.
    Behind the wheel of a rented Audi, he glided past the dour banks and storefronts of the Bahnhofstrasse, then turned onto the busy road running along the western shore of Lake Zurich. The safe house was located two miles south of the city center. It was a modern structure, with far too many windows for Gabriel’s comfort, and a small T-shaped dock that had been sugared by a recent snow. Entering, he heard a female voice singing softly in Italian. He smiled. Chiara always sang to herself when she was alone.
    He left his bag in the foyer and followed the sound into the living room, which had been converted into a makeshift field command post. Chiara was staring at a computer screen while at the same time peeling the skin from an orange. Her lips, when kissed by Gabriel, were very warm, as though she were suffering from a fever. He kissed them for a long time.
    “I’m Chiara Allon,” she murmured, stroking the bristly gray hair on his cheeks. “And who might you be?”
    “I’m not sure any longer.”
    “They say aging can cause memory problems,” she said, still kissing him. “You should try fish oil. I hear it helps.”
    “I’d rather have a bite of that orange instead.”
    “I’m sure you would. It’s been a long time.”
    “A very long time.”
    She broke the fruit into segments and placed one in Gabriel’s mouth.
    “Where’s the rest of the team?” he asked.
    “They’re watching an employee of TransArabian Bank who also happens to have ties to the global jihadist movement.”
    “So you’re all alone?”
    “Not anymore.”
    Gabriel loosened the buttons of Chiara’s blouse. Her nipples firmed instantly to his touch. She gave him another piece of the fruit.
    “Maybe we shouldn’t do this in front of a computer,” she said. “You never know who might be watching.”
    “How much time do we have?”
    “As much as you need.”
    She took his hand and led him upstairs. “Slowly,” she said, as he lowered her onto the bed. “Slowly.”
    The room was in semidarkness by the time Gabriel fell away exhausted from Chiara’s body. They lay for a long time together in silence, close but not quite touching. From outside came the distant rumble of a passing boat, followed a moment later by the lapping of wavelets against the dock. Chiara rolled onto one elbow and traced her finger along the ridgeline of Gabriel’s nose.
    “How long are you planning to keep it?”
    “Since I require it to breathe, I intend to keep it for as long as possible.”
    “I was talking about your beard, darling.”
    “I hate it, but something tells me I might need it before this operation is through.”
    “Maybe you should keep it after the operation, too. I think it makes you look . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    “Don’t say it, Chiara.”
    “I was going to say distinguished.”
    “That’s like calling a woman elegant.”
    “What’s wrong with that?”
    “You’ll understand when people start saying you look elegant.”
    “It won’t be so bad.”
    “It will never happen, Chiara. You’re beautiful and you’ll always be beautiful. And if I keep this beard after the operation, people will start to mistake you for my daughter.”
    “Now you’re being unreasonable.”
    “It is biologically possible.”
    “What is?”
    “For you to be my daughter.”
    “I’ve never actually thought about it that way.”
    “Don’t,” he said.
    She laughed quietly and then said nothing more.
    “What are you thinking about now?” Gabriel asked.
    “What might have happened if you hadn’t noticed that boy with the bomb under his jacket walking along Wellington Street. We would have been sitting down to lunch when the bomb exploded. It would have been a tragedy, of course, but our lives would have gone on as normal, just like everyone else’s.”
    “Maybe this