Gabriel ignored the question. “How did you know I was coming back tonight?”
“I have a highly placed source.” Shamron paused, then added, “A mole.”
“Only one?”
Shamron gave a half smile.
“I’m surprised you weren’t waiting at Ben Gurion.”
“I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”
“Since when?”
Shamron’s smile widened, deepening the cracks and fissures in his aged face. It had been many years since his last term as chief, but he still meddled in the affairs of the Office as though it were his private fiefdom. His retirement was restless and, like Kim Philby’s, largely unhappy. He passed his days repairing antique radios in the workshop of his fortress-like home in Tiberias, on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. Nights he reserved for Gabriel.
“My mole tells me you’ve been traveling a great deal of late,” he said.
“Does he?”
“Never make assumptions about the gender of a mole.” Shamron’s tone was admonitory. “Women are just as capable of betrayal as men.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. What else does your mole tell you?”
“The mole is concerned that what started as a noble pursuit to clear your name after the disaster in Vienna has become something of an obsession. The mole believes you are neglecting your service and your family at a time when both need you desperately.”
“The mole,” said Gabriel, “is mistaken.”
“The mole’s access,” countered Shamron, “is unlimited.”
“Is it the prime minister?”
Shamron frowned. “Perhaps you weren’t listening earlier when I said the mole ishighlyplaced.”
“That leaves my wife,” said Gabriel. “Which would explain why you haven’t dared to light one of those cigarettes. You and Chiara had a nice long talk tonight, and she read you the riot act about smoking in the house before she went to bed.”
“I’m afraid your clearance doesn’t allow you to know the mole’s true identity.”
“I see. In that case, please tell the mole the operation is almost over and that life will soon be returning to normal, whatever that means in the context of the Allon family.”
Gabriel took down two wineglasses from the cabinet and opened a bottle of Bordeaux-style red wine from the Judean Hills.
“I would prefer coffee,” said Shamron with a frown.
“And I would prefer to be in bed next to my wife. Instead, I will have a single drink with you and then send you happily into the night.”
“I doubt it.”
Shamron accepted the wine with a tremulous hand. It was blue-veined and liver-spotted and looked as though it had been borrowed from a man twice his size. It was one of the reasons why he had been chosen for the Eichmann operation, the immense size and strength of his hands. Even now, Shamron could not go out in public without being approached by aging survivors who simply wanted to touch the hands that had clamped around the neck of the monster.
“Is it true?” he asked.
“That I would prefer to be with my wife instead of you?”
“That this mole hunt of yours is almost over.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it already is. My friend Graham Seymour would like me to stick around for the final act.”
“I would advise you,” said Shamron pointedly, “to choose another path.”
