“He’s very good.”

“Yes, he is. When will he be back?”

“He never says. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

“Actually, I think I’d like to wait for him.” He looked like a man who could wait a long time if he set his mind to it. “Is there someplace to get some coffee around here?”

Peel pointed toward the village.

But the old man didn’t go into the village for coffee. In fact he didn’t go anywhere. He just climbed into the Mercedes and settled himself behind the wheel like a statue. Peel walked to the point and made a base camp next to the oyster farm, staring down the river toward the sea, waiting for the stranger. By midafternoon there were whitecaps on the river, and a rainstorm was coming up. At four o’clock it was thoroughly dark. Peel was soaked, freezing half to death. He was about to give up his vigil when he spotted a cluster of soft blue running lights floating upriver through the mist. A moment later he heard the rhythmic rattle of an engine: the stranger’s fine wooden ketch, heading for home under power.

Peel switched on his flashlight and signaled the stranger. The ketch made a gentle turn to starboard, headed toward the point, slicing through black water. When the boat was within a few yards of the shore, the stranger shouted, “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a man waiting for you.”

“What does he want?”

“He says he’s a friend of yours.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

“No.”

Peel heard his voice coming back at him from the other side of the creek.

“How did he look?”

“Unhappy.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“A bit like yours, only heavier.”

“Go home.”

But Peel didn’t want to leave him alone. “I’ll meet you at the quay and help you tie her up.”

“Just do as I say,” said the stranger, and he vanished below the deck.

Gabriel Allon entered the galley. In the cabinet above the propane stove he found his gun, a Glock 9mm semiautomatic. Gabriel preferred the midsized model, which was slightly less accurate because of the shorter barrel but easier to conceal. He pulled the square, chunky slide, chambering the first round, dropped the gun into the front right-hand pocket of his amber oilskin slicker. Then he doused the running lights and clambered back onto the deck.

He reduced speed as the ketch rounded the point and entered the quiet of the creek. He spotted the large Mercedes parked outside his cottage, heard the door opening and the tinny electronic warning chime. The interior light had been switched off. A professional. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the Glock, his finger outside the trigger guard.

The intruder crossed the quay and descended a short set of stone steps to the water level. Gabriel would have recognized him anywhere: the bullet head, the weather-beaten jaw, the distinctive march, like a fighter advancing toward the center of the ring. For an instant he considered turning around and heading back downriver into the squall, but instead he released his grip on the Glock and guided the boat toward the quay.

Shamron led himself on a restless tour of Gabriel’s studio, pausing in front of the Vecellio. “So this is Isherwood’s great coup, the lost Vecellio altarpiece. Imagine, a nice Jewish boy, working on a painting like this. I can’t understand why people waste time and money on such things.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. What did you do to poor Julian to make him betray me?”

“I bought him lunch at Green’s. Julian never was the stoic sort.”

“What are you doing here?”

But Shamron wasn’t ready to show his hand. “You’ve done very well for yourself,” he said. “This cottage must have cost you quite a bit of money.”

“I’m one of the most respected art restorers in the world.”

“How much is Julian paying you for fixing that Vecellio?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You can tell me, or Julian can tell me. I would prefer to hear it from you. It might bear some semblance to the truth.”

“One hundred thousand pounds.”

“Have you seen any of it yet?”

“We’re talking about Julian Isherwood. I get paid when he sells the Vecellio, and even then I’ll probably be forced to beat it out of him.”

“And the Rembrandt?”

“A quick job for Christie’s. It doesn’t need much work, a clean coat of varnish, maybe a bit of retouching. I haven’t finished the assessment yet.”

Shamron moved from the Vecellio to the trolley containing Gabriel’s pigments and oils. “Which identity are you using these days?”

“Not one of yours, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Italian?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Rudolf Heller.”

“Ah, Herr Heller, one of my favorites. I trust business has been good for Herr Heller of late?”

“We have our good days and our bad days.”

Gabriel switched on the bank of fluorescent lights and turned the lights on Shamron.

Shamron squinted. “Gabriel, shut that thing off.”

“I know you prefer to work in the dark, Herr Heller, but I want to see your face. What do you want?”

“Let’s take a drive.”

They sped along a narrow road lined with tall hedgerows. Gabriel drove one-handed and very fast. When Shamron asked him to slow down, Gabriel pressed the accelerator even harder. Shamron tried to punish him with smoke, but Gabriel lowered the windows, filling the car with freezing air. Shamron signaled his surrender by tossing his cigarette into the darkness.

“You know about Paris?”

“I saw the television and read the papers.”

“They were good, the people who did Paris -better than anything we’ve seen for a long time. They were good like Black September was good. These were not stone throwers or boys who walk into a market with fifty pounds of Semtex strapped to their bodies. These were professionals, Gabriel.”

Gabriel concentrated on his driving and not the drumbeat cadence of Shamron’s speech. He didn’t like the reaction it had already provoked within him. His pulse had quickened and his palms were damp.

“They had a large team-ten, maybe twelve operatives. They had money, transport, false passports. They planned the hit down to the last detail. The entire thing was over and done in thirty seconds. Within a minute every member of the hit team was off the bridge. They all managed to escape. The French have come up with nothing.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

Shamron closed his eyes and recited a verse from Scripture: “And the enemy shall know I am Lord when I can lay down my vengeance upon them.”

“Ezekiel,” said Gabriel.

“I believe that if someone kills one of my people, I should kill him in return. Do you believe that, Gabriel?”

“I used to believe it.”

“Better yet, I believe that if a boy picks up a stone to throw at me, I should shoot him before it ever leaves his hand.” Shamron’s lighter flared in the dark, making shadows in the fissures of his face. “Maybe I’m just a relic. I remember huddling against my mother’s breast while the Arabs burned and looted our settlement. The Arabs killed my father during the general strike in ‘thirty-seven. Did I ever tell you that?”

Gabriel kept his eyes fastened on the winding Cornish road and said nothing.

“They killed your father, too. In the Sinai. And your mother, Gabriel? How long did she live after your father’s death? Two years? Three?”

Actually it was a little more than a year, thought Gabriel, remembering the day they laid her cancer-ridden body into a hillside overlooking the Jezreel Valley. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that revenge is good. Revenge is healthy. Revenge is purifying.”

“Revenge only leads to more killing and more revenge. For every terrorist we kill, there’s another boy waiting to step forward and pick up the stone or the gun. They’re like sharks’ teeth: break one and another will rise in its place.”

“So we should do nothing? Is that what you mean to say, Gabriel? We should stand aside and wring our hands while these bastards kill our people?”