The Confessor

as he was waiting for a bus to take him home.
    Gabriel was the only person who knew one other salient fact about that night in Argentina: Adolf Eichmann had nearly escaped because Shamron had tripped over a loose shoelace. That same edge-of-disaster quality would mark his many stopovers in the executive suite at King Saul Boulevard. Prime ministers never knew quite what to expect when Shamron appeared outside their door--word of another shocking success or a secret confession of another humiliating failure. His willingness to take risks was both a potent operational strength and a crippling political weakness. Gabriel had lost count of how many times the old man had been cast into exile, then recalled to colors with great fanfare.
    Shamron's hold on the executive suite had finally been broken, though his exile would never be permanent. He retained the dubious title of special administrative advisor, which gave him just enough entree to make a general nuisance of himself, and from his fortresslike villa overlooking the Sea of Galilee he still exercised considerable clandestine power. Spies and generals regularly went there to kiss his ring, and no major decision regarding the security of the state could be taken without first running it past the old man.
    His health was a carefully guarded secret. Gabriel had heard rumors about prostate cancer, a mild heart attack, recurring problems with his kidneys. It was clear the old man didn't have long to live. Shamron did not fear death--only that in his absence would spring complacency. And now, as they ambled slowly around the old ghetto, death walked beside them. Benjamin's death. And Shamron's. The nearness of death had made Shamron restless. He seemed like a man anxious to settle accounts. An old warrior, desperate for one last fight.
    "DID YOU GO to the funeral?"
    Shamron shook his head. "Benjamin feared his academic achievements would be tainted if it ever became known he'd worked for us. My presence at the burial would only have raised uncomfortable questions, in Israel and abroad, so I stayed away. I have to admit I wasn't anxious to attend. It's difficult to bury a child."
    "Was anyone there? He had no other family in Israel."
    "I'm told there were some old friends from the overt world and a few members of the faculty from Hebrew."
    "Who sent you here?"
    "What does it matter?"
    "It matters to me. Who sent you?"
    "I'm like a parolee," Shamron said wearily. "I cannot move or act without the approval of the supreme tribunal."
    "And who sits on this tribunal?"
    "Lev, for one. Of course, if it were up to Lev, I'd be locked in a room with an iron cot and bread and water. But fortunately for me, the other person on the tribunal is the prime minister."
    "Your old comrade in arms."
    "Let's just say we share similar opinions about the nature of the conflict and the true intentions of our enemies. We speak the same language and enjoy each other's company. He keeps me in the game, despite Lev's best efforts to wrap me in my burial shroud."
    "It's not a game, Ari. It never was a game."
    "You don't need to remind me of that, Gabriel. You spend your time here in the playgrounds of Europe while every day the shaheeds are blowing themselves to bits on Ben Yehuda Street and Jaffa Road."
    "I work here."
    "Forgive me, Gabriel. I didn't mean that to be as harsh as it sounded. What are you working on, by the way?"
    "Do you really care?"
    "Of course I do. I wouldn't have asked otherwise."
    "The Bellini altarpiece in the Church of the San Zaccaria. It's one of the most important paintings in Venice."
    Shamron's face broke into a genuine smile. "I would love to see the look on the patriarch's face if he ever found out that his precious altarpiece was being restored by a nice Jewish boy from the Jezreel Valley."
    Without warning, he stopped walking and coughed violently into a handkerchief. When he drew a few deep breaths to steady himself, Gabriel could hear a rattle in his chest. The old man needed to get out of the cold, but he was too stubborn ever to admit physical weakness. Gabriel decided to do it for him.
    "Do you mind if we sit down someplace? I've been standing on my scaffolding since eight o'clock this morning."
    Shamron managed a weary smile. He knew he was being deceived. He led Gabriel to a bakery on the edge of the campo. It was empty except for a tall girl behind the counter. She served them without taking their order: cups of espresso, small bottles of mineral water, a plate