The Fallen Angel

gun a few inches beyond his reach. Gabriel broke the man’s wrist, just to be on the safe side, and kicked the helmet from his head. The killer had the complexion of a Calabrian. His breath stank of tobacco and fear.
    “Do you have any idea who I am?” asked Gabriel calmly.
    “No,” the assassin gasped, clutching his broken limb.
    “That means you are the dumbest contract killer who ever walked the earth.” Gabriel picked up the gun, a Heckler & Koch .45-caliber, and pointed it at the assassin’s face. “Who sent you?”
    “I don’t know,” the assassin replied, panting. “I never know.”
    “Wrong answer.”
    Gabriel placed the end of the suppressor against the assassin’s kneecap.
    “Let’s try this one more time. Who sent you?”

17
     
    BEN GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL
     
    I N THE ARRIVALS HALL OF Israel’s Ben Gurion Airport is a special reception room reserved for Office personnel. As Gabriel and Chiara entered late the following afternoon, they were surprised to find it occupied by a single man. He was seated in one of the faux-leather lounge chairs with his thick legs crossed, reading the contents of a manila file folder by the glow of a halogen lamp. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, an open-neck dress shirt, and a pair of stylish silver eyeglasses that were far too small for his face. The overall impression was of a busy executive catching up on a bit of paperwork between flights, which was not far from the truth. Since taking control of the Office, Uzi Navot had spent a great deal of time on airplanes.
    “To what do we owe the honor?” asked Gabriel.
    Navot looked up from the file as if surprised by the interruption. “It’s not every day someone tries to kill a pair of Office agents in the middle of Rome,” he said. “In fact, it only seems to happen whenever you’re in town.”
    Navot placed the file in his secure briefcase and rose slowly to his feet. He was several pounds heavier than the last time Gabriel had seen him, evidence he was not adhering to the strict diet and exercise regime imposed by his demanding wife, Bella. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, looking at the additional gray in Navot’s cropped hair, he was merely feeling the stress of his enormous job. He had a right to. The State of Israel was confronted by an Arab world in turmoil and faced threats too numerous to count. Topping the list was the prospect that Iran’s nuclear program was about to bear fruit despite the secret war of sabotage and assassination waged by the Office and its allies.
    “Actually,” Navot said, raising one eyebrow, “you don’t look half bad for someone who narrowly survived an assassination attempt.”
    “You wouldn’t say that if you could see the bruises on my shoulder.”
    “That’s what you get for walking into the home of a man like Carlo Marchese without a gun in your pocket.” Navot pulled a disapproving frown. “You should have had a word with Shimon Pazner before accepting that invitation. He could have told you a few things about Carlo that even your friend Monsignor Donati doesn’t know.”
    “Such as?”
    “Let’s just say the Office has had its eye on Carlo for some time.”
    “Why?”
    “Because Carlo’s never been terribly discerning about the company he keeps. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Navot added. “The Old Man wants to tell you the rest. He’s been counting the minutes until your arrival.”
    “Is there any chance you would let us get on the next plane out of the country?”
    Navot placed his heavy hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere,” he said. “At least, not yet.”
     
     
    In the heart of Jerusalem, not far from the Old City, was a quiet, leafy lane known as Narkiss Street. The apartment house at Number 16 was small, just three stories in height, and partially concealed behind a sturdy limestone wall. An overgrown eucalyptus tree shaded the tiny balconies; the garden gate screeched when opened. In the foyer was an intercom panel with three buttons and three corresponding nameplates. Few people ever called upon the occupants of the unit on the top floor, for they were rarely there. The neighbors had been told that the husband, a taciturn man with ash-colored temples and vivid green eyes, was an artist who traveled often and jealously guarded his privacy. They no longer believed that to be true.
    The sitting room of the apartment was hung with paintings. There were three canvases by