The Fallen Angel

Shamron, he had always entered and departed her world with little or no warning.
    She was seated in her wheelchair with the twisted remnants of her hands resting in her lap. Her hair, once long and dark like Chiara’s, was now cut institutional short and shot with gray. Gabriel kissed the cool, firm scar tissue of her cheek before lowering himself into the armless little chair the doctor had placed at her side. Leah seemed unaware of his presence. She was staring sightlessly into the darkened garden.
    “Do you love this girl?” she asked suddenly, her gaze still straight ahead.
    “Which girl?” asked Gabriel. And then, when he realized Leah was merely reliving the conversation that had dissolved their marriage, his heart gave a sideways lurch. “I love you,” he said softly, squeezing her frozen hands. “I’ll always love you, Leah.”
    A smile briefly graced her lips. Then she looked directly at Gabriel for a moment with an expression of wifely disapproval. “You’re working for Shamron again,” she said.
    “How can you tell?”
    “I can see it in your eyes. You’re someone else.”
    “I’m Gabriel,” he said.
    “Only a part of you is Gabriel.” She turned her face toward the glass.
    “Don’t go yet, Leah.”
    She came back to him. “Who are you fighting this time? Black September?”
    “There is no Black September anymore.”
    “Who is it then?”
    “Hezbollah,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s Hezbollah, Leah.”
    The name appeared to mean nothing to her. “Tell me about it,” she said.
    “I can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s secret.”
    “Like before?”
    “Yes, Leah, like before.”
    Leah frowned. She hated secrets. Secrets had destroyed her life.
    “Where will you go this time?”
    “Paris,” Gabriel replied truthfully.
    Her expression darkened. “Why Paris?”
    “There’s a man there who can help me.”
    “A spy?”
    “A thief.”
    “What does he steal?”
    “Paintings.”
    She seemed genuinely troubled. “Why would a man like you want to work with someone who steals paintings?”
    “Sometimes it’s necessary to work with bad people to accomplish good things.”
    “Is this man bad?”
    “Not really.”
    “Tell me about him.”
    Gabriel could see no harm in it, so he complied with her request. But after a moment, she appeared to lose interest, and her face turned once again toward the window.
    “Look at the snow,” she said, gazing at the cloudless evening sky. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
    “Yes, Leah, it’s beautiful.”
    Her hands began to tremble. Gabriel closed his eyes.
     
     
    When Gabriel returned to Narkiss Street, he found Chiara stretched on the couch in the half-light, a glass of red wine balanced on her abdomen. She offered him the wine and watched him carefully as he drank, as though searching for evidence of betrayal. Then she led him into the bedroom and wordlessly removed her clothing. Her body was feverishly warm. She made love as though it were for the last time.
    “Take me with you to Paris.”
    “No.”
    She didn’t press the issue. She knew there was no point. Not after what had happened in Rome. And not after what had happened in Vienna before that.
    “Did she remember you this time?”
    “She remembered.”
    “Which version of you?”
    “Both,” he answered.
    Chiara was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Does she know you love me, Gabriel?”
    “She knows.”
    A pause. “ Do you?” she asked.
    “What?”
    “Love me.”
    “Chiara . . .”
    She turned her back to him. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.
    “For what?”
    “The baby. If I hadn’t lost the baby, you wouldn’t be going to Paris without me.”
    Gabriel made no reply. Chiara climbed slowly atop his body.
    “Do you love me?” she asked again.
    “More than anything.”
    “Show me.”
    “How?”
    She kissed his lips and whispered, “Show me, Gabriel.”

21
     
    RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS
     
    A NTIQUITÉS S CIENTIFIQUES OCCUPIED A LONELY outpost at the end of rue de Miromesnil where tourists rarely ventured. There were some in the Parisian antiques trade who had urged its owner, the fastidious Maurice Durand, to relocate to the rue de Rivoli or perhaps even the Champs-Élysées. But Monsieur Durand had always resisted for fear he would spend his days watching overweight Americans pawing his precious antique microscopes, cameras, spectacles, barometers, and surveyors, only to depart the shop empty-handed.