House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(23)
“When are you planning to go to Washington?” asked the prime minister.
“I haven’t been invited.”
“Since when do you need an invitation?” The Israeli leader attempted to pick up an egg roll with a pair of chopsticks and, failing, impaled it. “You sure you won’t have one?”
“Thank you, no.”
“How about some of the chicken?”
Gabriel held up a hand defensively.
“But it’s kung pao,” said the prime minister, incredulous.
It was nearly midnight by the time Gabriel’s SUV turned into Narkiss Street. Once among the city’s most tranquil, it now resembled something of an armed camp. There were security checkpoints at each end, and outside the old limestone apartment house at Number 16 a guard stood watch always. Otherwise, little had changed. The garden gate still screeched when opened, an overgrown eucalyptus tree still obscured the three little terraces, the light in the stairwell was still seasick green. Arriving on the third-floor landing, Gabriel found the door slightly ajar. He entered silently and saw Chiara seated at one end of the couch, an open book in her lap. He gently removed it from her grasp and looked at the cover. It was an Italian-language edition of an American spy thriller.
“Don’t you get enough of this in real life?”
“It seems so much more glamorous when he writes about it.”
“What’s his hero like?”
“A killer with a conscience, a bit like you.”
“Is he an art restorer, too?”
She made a face. “Who could invent such a thing?”
Gabriel removed his overcoat and suit jacket and tossed both provocatively across the back of an armchair. Chiara shook her head slowly in disapproval and, licking the tip of her forefinger, turned the page of her book. She was wearing a pair of ordinary gray sweatpants and a fleece pullover against the winter chill. Even so, with her long riotous hair drawn over one shoulder, she looked astonishingly beautiful. Chiara was nearing forty now, but neither time nor the intense stress of Gabriel’s work had left a mark on her face. In it Gabriel saw traces of Arabia and North Africa and Spain and all the other places her ancestors had wandered before finding themselves in the ancient Jewish ghetto of Venice. But it was her eyes that had always enthralled him most. They were the color of caramel and flecked with gold, a combination he had been unable to reproduce on canvas. When they were happy, they filled him with a contentment he had never known. And when they were disappointed or angry, he felt like the lowliest creature to walk the earth.
“How are the children?” he asked.
“If you wake them . . .” She licked her forefinger and turned another page.
Gabriel removed his shoes and in stocking feet entered the nursery without a sound. Two cribs stood end to end against a wall that Gabriel had painted with clouds. Two infants, a boy and a girl, aged fourteen months, slept head to head, as they had in their mother’s womb. Gabriel reached down toward his daughter, who was called Irene after her grandmother, but stopped. She was a creature of the night, easily woken, a spy by nature. Raphael, however, could sleep through anything, even the midnight touch of his father’s hand.
Suddenly, Gabriel realized that three days had passed since he had last seen the children when they were awake. He had been chief for little more than a month and already he had missed important milestones—Raphael’s first word, Irene’s first halting steps. He had promised himself it would not be so, that he would not allow his work to intrude on his personal life. It was a fantasy, of course; the chief of the Office had no personal life. No family, no wife other than the country he was sworn to protect. It was not a life sentence, he assured himself. Just six years. The children would be seven at the end of his term. There would be plenty of time to make amends. Unless, of course, the prime minister imposed upon him to stay on. He calculated how old he would be at the end of two terms. The number depressed him. It was Abrahamic. Noah . . .
He slipped out and went into the kitchen, where the small café-style table had been laid with his supper. Tagliatelle with fava beans and cheese, an assortment of bruschetta, an omelet with tomato and herbs, all arranged as though for a photograph in a cookbook. Gabriel sat down and placed his mobile phone at the center of the table, gingerly, as if it were a live grenade. After accepting the job as chief, he had briefly considered moving his family to one of the secular suburbs of Tel Aviv to be closer to King Saul Boulevard. He realized now that it was better to remain in Jerusalem to be close to the prime minister’s office. Three times he had been summoned to Kaplan Street in the middle of the night, once because the prime minister was restless and in need of company. They had discussed the state of the world while watching an American action film on television. Gabriel had nodded off during the climax and at dawn had been driven, bleary-eyed, to his desk.
“Wine?” asked Chiara, holding aloft a bottle of Galilean red.
Gabriel declined. “It’s late,” he said.
Chiara placed the wine on the counter. “How was the prime minister?”
“Unusually interested in Asian affairs.”
“Chinese food again?”
“Kung pao and egg rolls.”
“He’s very consistent.”
Chiara sat down opposite Gabriel and watched with appreciation as he filled his plate.
“Aren’t you going to have something?” he asked.