Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (13)

He swallowed another dose of ibuprofen with his coffee. Then he showered and dressed and placed a few items of clothing into an overnight bag while Chiara, tangled in Egyptian cotton, slept on in the next room. The children spilled from their beds at half past six and demanded to be fed. Irene fixed Gabriel with an accusatory stare over her customary breakfast of muesli and yogurt.

“Mama says you’re going to France.”

“Not for long.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that your grandmother will be picking you up at school for the next few days.”

“How many days?”

“To be determined.”

“We like it when you pick us up,” declared Raphael.

“That’s because I always take you to the pasticceria on the way home.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“I like picking you up, too,” said Gabriel. “In fact, it’s one of my favorite parts of the day.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Next question.”

“Why do you have to leave again?” asked Irene.

“A friend needs my help.”

“Another friend?”

“Same friend, actually.”

She inflated her cheeks and stirred the contents of her bowl without appetite. Gabriel knew full well the source of her anxiety. Three times during his tenure as director-general of the Office he had been targeted for assassination. The last attempt had taken place on Inauguration Day in Washington, when he had been shot in the chest by a congresswoman from the American Midwest who believed him to be a member of a blood-drinking, Satan-worshipping cult of pedophiles. The two preceding attempts, though more prosaic, had both taken place in France. For the most part, the children pretended that none of the incidents, though widely publicized, had transpired. Gabriel, who still suffered from the unpleasant aftereffects, was similarly inclined.

“Nothing is going to happen,” he assured his daughter.

“You always say that. But something always happens.”

Having no retort at the ready, Gabriel looked up and saw Chiara standing in the doorway of the kitchen, an expression of mild bemusement on her face.

“She does have a point, you know.” Chiara poured herself a cup of coffee and looked at Gabriel’s hand. “How does it feel?”

“Good as new.”

She gave it a gentle squeeze. “No pain at all?”

He grimaced but said nothing.

“I thought so.” She released his hand. “Are you packed?”

“Almost.”

“Who’s taking Thing One and Thing Two to school?”

“Papa,” sang the children in unison.

He returned to the bedroom and unlocked the safe concealed in the walk-in closet. Inside were two false German passports, €20,000 in cash, and his Beretta. He removed one of the passports but left the gun behind, as his arrangement with the Italian authorities did not permit him to carry firearms on airplanes. Besides, if circumstances warranted, he could acquire an untraceable weapon in France with a single phone call, with or without the connivance of his old service.

He deposited the bag in the entrance hall and at 7:45 a.m. followed Chiara and the children down the stairs of the palazzo. Outside in the street, Chiara set off toward the San Tomà vaporetto station. Then she stopped abruptly and kissed Gabriel’s lips.

“You will be careful in France, won’t you?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Wrong answer, darling.” She placed her palm on the left side of Gabriel’s chest and felt the sudden pulse of his phone. “Oh, dear. I wonder who that could be.”





9

Bar Dogale




After entrusting Irene and Raphael to Signora Antonelli, their environmentally conscious and reliably democratic socialist teacher, Gabriel made his way through empty streets to the Campo dei Frari. The square remained in morning shadow, but a benevolent sun had established dominion over the red-tile rooftops of the mighty Gothic basilica. At the foot of the bell tower, the second-tallest in Venice, stood eight chrome tables covered in blue, the property of Bar Dogale, one of the better tourist cafés in San Polo.

At one of the tables sat General Ferrari. He had forsaken his blue uniform, with its many medals and insignia, and was wearing a business suit and overcoat instead. The hand he offered in greeting was missing two fingers, the result of a letter bomb he received in 1988 while serving as chief of the Carabinieri’s Naples division. Nevertheless, his grip was viselike.

“Something wrong?” he asked as Gabriel sat down.

“Too many years holding a paintbrush.”

“Consider yourself lucky. I had to learn how to do almost everything with my left hand. And then, of course, there’s this.” The general pointed toward his prosthetic right eye. “You, however, appear to have come through your most recent brush with death with scarcely a scratch.”

“Hardly.”

“How close did we come to losing you in Washington?”

“I flatlined twice. The second time, I was clinically dead for nearly ten minutes.”

“Did you happen to see anything?”

“Like what?”

“A brilliant white light? The face of the Almighty?”