The Messenger

Megiddo to collect Eli Lavon, then continued on to the Sea of Galilee. It was nearly sunset by the time they reached the honey-colored limestone villa perched on a ledge overlooking the sea. Shamron greeted them at the front door. His face looked thin and drawn, and he moved with the help of a cane. It was olive wood and very handsome.
    “The prime minister gave it to me this morning when I left the rehabilitation center in Jerusalem. I nearly hit him with it. Gilah thinks it makes me look more distinguished.” He showed them inside and looked at Gabriel. “I see you’re wearing my jacket. Now that it’s clear I’m going to live for a very long time, I’d like it back.”
    Gabriel removed the coat and hung it on a hook in the entrance hall. From inside the villa he heard the voice of Gilah calling them to the table for supper. When they entered the dining room she was already starting to light the candles. Yonatan and his wife were there. So were Rimona and her husband. Ronit sat next to her father and tactfully filled his plate from the serving dishes as they were passed round the table. They did not speak of the bin Shafiq operation or the Vatican. Instead they talked about Gabriel’s appearance before the American Congress. Judging from Shamron’s sour expression, he did not approve. This was made clear to Gabriel after supper, when Shamron led him out onto the terrace to talk in private.
    “You were right to reject the subpoena the first time, Gabriel. You should have never changed your mind. The thought of you seated before that congressional committee, even in secret, set back my rehabilitation six months.”
    “The wellspring of global jihad is Saudi Arabia and Wahhabism,” Gabriel said. “The Senate needed to be told that. So did the American people.”
    “You could have put your thoughts in a secret cable. You didn’t have to sit there before them answering questions—like a mere mortal.”
    They sat down in a pair of comfortable chairs facing the balustrade. A full moon was reflected in the calm surface of the Sea of Galilee, and beyond the lake, black and shapeless, loomed the Golan Heights. Shamron liked it best on his terrace because it faced eastward, toward his enemies. He reached beneath his seat cushion and came out with a silver cigarette case and his old Zippo lighter.
    “You shouldn’t smoke, Ari.”
    “I couldn’t while I was at Hadassah and the rehabilitation center. This is my first since the night of the attack.”
    “Mazel tov,” said Gabriel bitterly.
    “If you breathe a word to Gilah, I’ll cane you.”
    “You think you can fool Gilah? She knows everything.”
    Shamron brought the topic of conversation back to Gabriel’s testimony in Washington.
    “Perhaps you had an ulterior motive,” Shamron said. “Perhaps you wanted to do more than just tell the American people the truth about their friends the Saudis.”
    “And what might my ulterior motive have been?”
    “After your performance at the Vatican, you were arguably the most famous intelligence officer in the world. And now…” Shamron shrugged. “Ours is a business that does not look fondly on notoriety. You’ve made it nearly impossible for us ever to use you again in a covert capacity.”
    “I’m not taking the Special Ops job, Ari. Besides, they’ve already offered it to Uzi.”
    “Uzi is a fine officer, but he’s not you .”
    “Uzi is the reason Sarah Bancroft is alive. He’s exactly the right man to lead Special Ops.”
    “You should have never used an American girl.”
    “I wish we had two more just like her.”
    Shamron seemed to have lost interest in his cigarette. He slipped it back into the case and asked Gabriel about his plans.
    “I have some unfinished business, starting with the van Gogh. I promised Hannah Weinberg I’d get it back for her. It’s a promise I intend to keep, regardless of my newfound notoriety.”
    “Do you know where it is?”
    Gabriel nodded. “I inserted a beacon into the stretcher during the restoration,” he said. “The painting is in Zizi’s mansion on the Île de la Cité.”
    “After everything you’ve been through with the French, you’re planning to steal a painting in Paris?” Shamron shook his head. “It would be easier for you to break into the house of your friend the American president than one of Zizi’s mansions.”
    Gabriel dismissed the old man’s concerns with a Shamronian wave of his hand.
    “And then?”
    Gabriel was