“Do you know how I spent my day?” he asked when Gabriel had finished.
“I can only imagine.”
“Eighteen of my foreign counterparts took it upon themselves to phone me directly. Eighteen! That’s the most in a single day since our last war in Gaza. And all of them asked the same question. How could I be so reckless as to permit my celebrated intelligence chief to gun down a Russian intelligence officer in the heart of Vienna?”
“You did no such thing. Nor did I.”
“I tried to explain that, and not a single one believed me.”
“I’m not sure I would have believed you, either,” admitted Gabriel.
“Even my friend in the White House was skeptical. Some nerve,” murmured the prime minister. “He’s in more trouble than I am. And that’s saying something.”
“I don’t suppose Jonathan Lancaster called.”
The prime minister shook his head. “But the chancellor of Austria kept me on the phone for almost an hour. He told me he had incontrovertible proof we were behind the Russian’s murder. He also asked me whether we wanted the body of our assassin back.”
“Did he elaborate on the evidence?”
“No. But it didn’t sound like he was bluffing. He made it clear that diplomatic sanctions are on the table.”
“How serious?”
“Expulsions. Maybe a full break in diplomatic relations. Who knows? They might issue an arrest warrant or two.” The prime minister regarded Gabriel for a moment. “I don’t want to lose a Western European embassy over this. Or the chief of my intelligence service.”
“On that,” said Gabriel, “we are in complete agreement.”
The prime minister glanced at the television, where a newscast played silently. “You’ve managed to dislodge me from the lead position. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t my intention.”
“There are serious voices calling for an independent review.”
“There’s nothing to review. We didn’t kill Konstantin Kirov.”
“It certainly looks like you did. A review might be necessary for appearances’ sake.”
“We can handle it ourselves.”
“Can you?” The prime minister’s tone was dubious.
“We’ll find out what went wrong,” said Gabriel. “And if we bear any blame, appropriate measures will be taken.”
“You’re starting to sound like a politician.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
The prime minister smiled coldly. “Not at all.”
8
Narkiss Street, Jerusalem
Chiara rarely watched television in the evening. Raised in the cloistered world of Venice’s Jewish ghetto, educated at the University of Padua, she regarded herself as an ancient woman and was disdainful of modern distractions such as smartphones, social media, and fiber-optic television systems that delivered one thousand high-definition channels of largely unwatchable fare. Usually, Gabriel arrived home to find her engrossed in some weighty historical tract—she was commencing work on a PhD in the history of the Roman Empire when she was recruited by the Office—or in one of the serious literary novels she received by post from a bookseller on the Via Condotti in Rome. Lately, she had started reading pulp spy novels as well. They provided her with a connection, however tenuous and improbable, to the life she had gladly given up to become a mother.
On that evening, however, Gabriel arrived at his heavily guarded apartment in the Nachlaot neighborhood of Jerusalem to find his wife glaring at one of the American cable news networks. A reporter was recounting, with obvious skepticism, Israel’s stated contention that it had had nothing to do with the events in Vienna. The chief of Israel’s secret intelligence service, he intoned, had just departed Kaplan Street. According to one of the prime minister’s national security aides, who wished to remain anonymous, the meeting had gone as well as could be expected.
“Is any of it true?” asked Chiara.
