The English Girl: A Novel

the macchia wood and smelled of rosemary and thyme. Soon, Gabriel and Chiara smelled of it, too.
    They had no plan other than to do little of anything at all. They slept late. They drank their morning coffee in the village square. They ate fish for lunch by the sea. In the afternoon, if it was warm, they would sun themselves on the granite terrace; and if it was cold they would retreat to their simple bedroom and make love until they slept with exhaustion. Shamron left numerous plaintive messages that Gabriel happily ignored. In a year his every waking moment would be consumed by the job of protecting Israel from those who wished to destroy it. For now, though, there was only Chiara, and the cold sun and the sea, and the intoxicating smell of the pine and the macchia .
    For the first few days, they avoided the newspapers, the Internet, and the television. But gradually Gabriel reconnected with a world of problems that would soon be his. The head of the IAEA, the UN’s nuclear watchdog agency, predicted Iran would be a nuclear power within a year. The next day there was a report the regime in Syria had transferred chemical weapons to Hezbollah. And the day after that the Muslim Brother who now ran Egypt was caught on tape talking about a new war with Israel. Indeed, the only good news Gabriel could find occurred in London, where Jonathan Lancaster, having survived the Downing Street Affair, appointed Graham Seymour to be the next chief of MI6. Gabriel called him that evening to offer his congratulations. Mainly, though, he was curious about Madeline.
    “She’s doing better than I expected,” said Seymour.
    “Where is she?”
    “It seems a friend offered her a cottage by the sea.”
    “Really?”
    “It’s a bit unorthodox,” Seymour conceded, “but we decided it was as good a place as any.”
    “Just don’t turn your back on her, Graham. The SVR has a very long reach.”
    I t was because of that long reach that Gabriel and Chiara kept a deliberately low profile on the island. They rarely left the villa after dark, and several times each night Gabriel stepped onto the terrace to listen for movement in the valley. A week into their stay, he heard the familiar rattle of a Renault hatchback, then, a moment later, saw lights burning for the first time in Keller’s villa. He waited until the following afternoon before dropping by unannounced. Keller was wearing a pair of loose-fitting white trousers and a white pullover. He opened a bottle of Sancerre, and they drank it outside in the sun. Sancerre in the afternoon, Corsican red in the evening—Gabriel thought he could get used to this. But there was no turning back now. His people needed him. He had an appointment with history.
    “The Cézanne could use a bit of work,” Gabriel said offhandedly. “Why don’t you let me clean it up for you while I’m in town?”
    “I like the Cézanne exactly the way it is. Besides,” Keller added, “you came here to rest.”
    “You don’t need any?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Rest,” answered Gabriel.
    Keller said nothing.
    “Where have you been, Christopher?”
    “I had a business trip.”
    “Olive oil or blood?”
    When Keller raised an eyebrow to indicate it was the latter, Gabriel shook his head reproachfully.
    “Money doesn’t come from singing,” said Keller quietly.
    “There are other ways of making money, you know.”
    “Not when your name is Christopher Keller and you’re supposed to be dead.”
    Gabriel drank some of his wine. “I didn’t include you on the team because I needed your help,” he said after a moment. “I wanted to show you that there’s more to life than killing people for money.”
    “You wanted to restore me? Is that what you’re saying?”
    “It’s a natural instinct of mine.”
    “Some things are beyond repair.” Keller paused, then added, “Beyond redemption.”
    “How many men have you killed?”
    “I don’t know,” Keller shot back. “How many have you killed?”
    “Mine are different. I’m a soldier. A secret soldier, but a soldier nevertheless.” He looked at Keller seriously for a moment. “And you can be one, too.”
    “Are you offering me a job?”
    “You’d have to become an Israeli citizen and learn to speak Hebrew to work for the Office.”
    “I’ve always felt a little Jewish.”
    “Yes,” said Gabriel, “you mentioned that before.”
    Keller smiled, and a silence fell between them. The afternoon wind was starting to get up.
    “There