The Fallen Angel

music.”
    Gabriel lowered the Beretta and looked at her. She was leaning against the doorjamb of the bathroom, her body wrapped in a toweling robe, her face flushed from the heat of the shower.
    “I thought I told you to stay in Jerusalem.”
    “You did.”
    “So why are you here?”
    “I didn’t want you to have to come back here alone.”
    Gabriel ejected the magazine from the Beretta and unscrewed the suppressor.
    “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
    “Because the Austrians have never dealt with a scenario like this before. And even if they had, I wouldn’t be willing to entrust them with Jewish lives.”
    “Is that the only reason?”
    “Why else would I be doing it?”
    Chiara sat on the edge of the bed and studied him carefully. “You look dreadful,” she said.
    “Thank you, Chiara. You look lovely as always.”
    She ignored his remark. “I don’t know what that night was really like,” she said, “but I have a fairly good idea. You relive it in your dreams more often than you realize. I hear everything. I hear you weeping over Dani’s body. I hear you telling Leah that the ambulance will be there soon.”
    She lapsed into silence and brushed a tear from her cheek. “But sometimes,” she continued, “everything turns out differently. You kill the terrorists before they can set off the bomb. Leah and Dani are unharmed. You live happily ever after. No explosion. No funeral for a child.” She paused. “No Chiara.”
    “It’s just a dream.”
    “But it’s how you wish things had turned out.”
    “You’re right, Chiara. I do wish Dani hadn’t been killed that night. And I do wish Leah—”
    “I don’t blame you, Gabriel,” she said, cutting him off. “I knew that when I fell in love with you. I always knew I would only have part of your heart. The rest would always belong to Leah.”
    Gabriel reached down and touched her face. “What does any of this have to do with tonight?”
    “Because you’re right about one thing, Gabriel. It is only a dream. Killing those terrorists tonight won’t bring Dani back to life. And it won’t make Leah the way she was. In fact, the only thing you might achieve is getting yourself killed in the same city where your son died.”
    “The only people who are going to die tonight are the terrorists.”
    “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe you’ll make a mistake, and I’ll leave Vienna a widow.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Wouldn’t that be poetic?”
    “I’m not a poet. And I’m not going to make a mistake.”
    She exhaled heavily in capitulation and pulled the robe tightly across her breasts. “I don’t suppose you have room for one more person on your team tonight?”
    Gabriel stared at her blankly.
    “I thought that would be your answer.” She took hold of his hand. “How will I know, Gabriel? How will I know if you’re alive or dead?”
    “If you hear explosions, you’ll know I’m dead. But if you hear sirens . . .” He shrugged.
    “What?”
    “It will all be over.” He kissed her lips and whispered, “And then we’ll go home and live happily ever after.”
     
     
    Gabriel showered and tried to sleep, but it was no good. His mind was aflame with too many memories of the past, his nerves too brittle with anxiety about what the next few hours would bring. And so he lay quietly next to Chiara as the afternoon shadows grew thin upon the bed, listening to the chatter over the radio that Jonas Kessler had given to him. EKO Cobra had established an observation post outside the apartment house on the Koppstrasse and, using a thermographic camera, had confirmed the presence of at least four people inside. Additional EKO Cobra teams were posted at various points along the route from the Koppstrasse to the Innere Stadt. It meant the terrorists would be running a gauntlet—a gauntlet that would lead them directly to the guns of Gabriel and Mikhail.
    Sunset that evening was at 6:12. At half past four, Gabriel drank two cups of coffee—enough to make him alert, but not enough to make his hands shake—and dressed in the clothing that Chiara had brought from Jerusalem. Faded blue jeans, a dark woolen pullover, a shoulder holster: the uniform of a soldier of the night. He reassembled and loaded the Beretta and inserted it into the holster. Then, as Chiara looked on in silence, he repeatedly practiced drawing the weapon and firing two shots in rapid succession, both at a sharp upward trajectory.
    When he felt ready, he