The Rembrandt Affair

tightly closed in pain. Gabriel managed to shield her from the hailstorm of masonry and shattered glass that rained down upon them but not from the sight of Alfonso Ramirez. He was lying in the center of the street, his clothing blackened by fire. Fluttering all around them were thousands of pieces of paper, the priceless files of Ramirez’s archives. Gabriel crawled to Ramirez’s side and felt his neck for a pulse. Then he rose and returned to Chiara.
    “Are you all right?”
    “I think so.”
    “Can you stand up?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “You have to try.”
    “Help me.”
    Gabriel pulled Chiara gently to her feet, then picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Chiara’s first steps were unsteady, but by the time the sirens began to sound in the distance she was moving along the devastated street at a brisk pace. Gabriel led her around a corner, then pulled out his mobile phone and dialed a number from memory. A female voice answered calmly in Hebrew; in the same language, Gabriel recited a code phrase followed by a series of numbers. After a few seconds, the female voice asked, “What is the nature of your emergency?”
    “I need an extraction.”
    “How soon?”
    “Immediately.”
    “Are you alone?”
    “No.”
    “How many in your party?”
    “Two.”
    “What is your present location?”
    “Avenida Caseros, San Telmo, Buenos Aires…”

37
    BEN GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL
    T here is a room at Ben Gurion Airport known to only a handful of people. It is located to the left of passport control, behind an unmarked door kept locked at all times. Its walls are faux Jerusalem limestone; its furnishings are typical airport fare: black vinyl couches and chairs, modular end tables, cheap modern lamps that cast an unforgiving light. There are two windows, one looking onto the tarmac, the other onto the arrivals hall. Both are fashioned of high-quality one-way glass. Reserved for Office personnel, it is the first stop for operatives returning from secret battlefields abroad, thus the permanent odor of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee, and male tension. The cleaning staff has tried every product imaginable to expel it, but the smell remains. Like Israel’s enemies, it cannot be defeated by conventional means.
    Gabriel had entered this room, or versions of it, many times before. He had entered it in triumph and staggered into it in failure. He had been fêted in this room, consoled in it, and once he had been wheeled into it with a bullet wound in his chest. Usually it was Ari Shamron who was waiting to receive him. Now, as Gabriel slipped through the door with Chiara at his side, he was greeted by the sight of Uzi Navot. He had shed at least thirty pounds since Gabriel had seen him last and was wearing a new pair of stylish spectacles that made him look like the editor of a trendy magazine. The stainless steel chronometer he had always worn to emulate Shamron was gone, replaced by a tank-style watch that went well with his tailored navy blue suit and white open-collared dress shirt. The metamorphosis was complete, thought Gabriel. Any trace of the hard-bitten field operative had been carefully erased. Uzi Navot was now a headquarters man, a spy in the prime of life.
    Navot stared at them wordlessly for a moment, a look of genuine relief on his face. Then, satisfied that Gabriel and Chiara had suffered no serious injuries, his expression darkened.
    “This is a special occasion,” he said finally. “My first personnel crisis as chief. I suppose it’s only fitting that you’re involved. Then again, it was rather mild by your exalted standards—just an apartment building in ruins and eight people dead, including one of Argentina’s most prominent journalists and social critics.”
    “Chiara and I are fine, Uzi, but thank you for asking.”
    Navot made a placatory gesture, as if to say he wanted the tone of the conversation to remain civil.
    “I realize your status is somewhat vague at the moment, Gabriel, but there is no ambiguity over the rules governing your movements. Because your passports and identities are still managed by the Office, you’re supposed to tell me when you travel.” Navot paused. “You do recall making that promise, don’t you, Gabriel?”
    With a nod, Gabriel conceded the point.
    “When were you planning to tell me about your little adventure?”
    “It was a private matter.”
    “Private? There’s no such thing where you’re concerned.” Navot frowned. “And what