Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (10)

The Israeli martial arts discipline known as Krav Maga is characterized by constant aggression, simultaneous offensive and defensive measures, and utter ruthlessness. Speed is prized above all else. Typically contests are short in duration—no more than a few seconds—and decisive in outcome. Once launched, an attack does not cease until the adversary has been completely incapacitated. Permanent injury is commonplace. Death is not out of the question.

No part of the body is off-limits. Indeed, practitioners of Krav Maga are encouraged to focus their attacks on vulnerable, sensitive regions. Gabriel’s opening gambit consisted of a vicious kick to his opponent’s exposed left kneecap, followed by a crushing downward heel strike on the instep of the left foot. Next he ventured north to the groin and solar plexus before directing several rapid elbows and side-handed blows to the throat, the nose, and the head. At no point did the younger, larger Italian manage to land a punch or kick of his own. Still, Gabriel did not emerge unscathed. His right hand was throbbing painfully, probably from a minor fracture, the Krav Maga equivalent of an own goal.

With the fingers of his left hand, he checked his fallen opponent for evidence of a pulse and respiration. Finding both, he reached inside the front of the man’s jacket and confirmed that he was indeed armed—with a Beretta 8000, the standard-issue sidearm for officers of the Carabinieri. Which explained the credentials that Gabriel found in the unconscious man’s pocket. They identified him as Capitano Luca Rossetti of the Venice division of Il Nucleo Tutela Patrimonio Artistico.

The Art Squad . . .

Gabriel returned the gun to its holster and the credentials to their pocket, then rang the regional headquarters of the Carabinieri to report an injured man lying in a corte near the Campo Sant’Aponal. He did so anonymously, with his phone number concealed, and in perfect veneziano. He would deal with General Ferrari in the morning. In the meantime, he had to concoct a plausible cover story to explain his injured hand to Chiara. It came to him as he crossed the Ponte San Polo. It wasn’t his fault, he would tell her. The bloody lamppost attacked him.





6

San Polo




Five minutes later, while climbing the staircase toward the door of the apartment, Gabriel encountered the tantalizing fragrance of veal simmering in wine and aromatics. He entered the passcode into the keypad and turned the latch, performing both tasks with his left hand. His right was concealed in the pocket of his jacket. It remained there as he entered the sitting room, where he found Irene stretched upon the carpet, a pencil in her fist, her tiny porcelain brow furrowed.

Gabriel addressed her in Italian. “There’s a lovely desk in your room, you know.”

“I prefer to work on the floor. It helps me concentrate.”

“What sort of work are you doing?”

“Math, silly.” She looked up at Gabriel with the eyes of his mother. “Where have you been?”

“I had an appointment.”

“With whom?”

“An old friend.”

“Does he work for the Office?”

“Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

“Because it seems like all your old friends do.”

“Not all of them,” said Gabriel, and looked at Raphael. The boy was sprawled on the couch, his long-lashed, jade-colored eyes focused with unnerving intensity on the screen of his handheld video console. “What’s he playing?”

“Mario.”

“Who?”

“It’s a computer game.”

“Why isn’t he doing his schoolwork?”

“He’s finished.” With the tip of her pencil, Irene pointed toward her brother’s notebook. “See for yourself.”

Gabriel craned his head to one side and reviewed Raphael’s work. Twenty rudimentary equations involving addition and subtraction, all answered correctly on the first attempt.

“Were you good at math when you were little?” asked Irene.

“It didn’t interest me much.”

“What about Mama?”

“She studied Roman history.”

“In Padua?”

“Yes.”

“Is that where Raphael and I will go to university?”

“You’re rather young to be thinking about that, aren’t you?”

Sighing, she licked the tip of her forefinger and turned to a fresh page in her workbook. In the warmth of the kitchen, Gabriel found Chiara removing the cork from a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino. Andrea Bocelli flowed from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter.

“I’ve always loved that song,” said Gabriel.

“I wonder why.” Chiara used her phone to lower the volume. “Going somewhere?”

“Sorry?”

“You’re still wearing your overcoat.”

“I’m a little chilled, that’s all.” He wandered over to the gleaming stainless-steel Vulcan oven and peered through the window. Inside was the orange casserole dish that Chiara used for preparing osso buco. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“I can think of one or two things. Or three,” she added.

“How long until it’s ready?”

“It needs another thirty minutes.” She poured two glasses of the Brunello. “Leaving you just enough time to tell me about your conversation with Julian.”