The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,109
returned to Jerusalem after several days in Paris, hoping to spend a quiet weekend with his wife and children. But within minutes of his arrival, Chiara informed him that they were all expected for dinner that evening at Shamron’s villa in Tiberias.
“Not a chance,” said Gabriel.
“It’s Shabbat,” replied Chiara. She said nothing more. She was the daughter of the chief rabbi of Venice. In Chiara’s world, Shabbat was the ultimate trump card. No further argument was necessary. The case was closed.
“I’m too tired. Call Gilah and tell her we’ll do it another night.”
“You call her.”
Which he did. The conversation was brief, less than a minute.
“What did she say?”
“She said it’s Shabbat.”
“Is that all?”
“No. She said Ari isn’t doing well.”
“He’s been sick all autumn. You’ve been too busy to notice, and Gilah didn’t want to worry you.”
“What is it this time?”
She shrugged. “Your abba is getting old, Gabriel.”
To move the Allon family was no easy feat. The children’s car seats had to be buckled into the back of Gabriel’s SUV, and an additional vehicle added to the motorcade. It barreled down the Bab al-Wad at rush hour, sped northward up the Coastal Plain, and then raced westward across the Galilee. Shamron’s honey-colored villa stood atop a rocky bluff overlooking the lake. At the base of the drive was a small guardhouse where a security detail kept watch behind a metal gate. It was like entering a forward military base in a hostile land.
It was precisely three minutes before sunset when the motorcade rumbled to a stop outside the entrance of the villa. Gilah Shamron was standing on the steps, tapping her wristwatch to indicate that time was running short if they were going to light the candles in time. Gabriel carried the children inside while Chiara saw to the food she had spent the afternoon preparing. Gilah, too, had spent the day cooking. There was enough to feed a multitude.
Chiara’s description of Shamron’s failing health had left Gabriel expecting the worst, and he was deeply relieved to find Shamron looking rather well. Indeed, if anything, his appearance had improved since Gabriel saw him last. He was dressed, as usual, in a white oxford cloth shirt and pressed khaki trousers, though tonight he had added a navy cardigan against the November chill. Little remained of his hair and his skin was pale and translucent, but his blue eyes shone brightly behind his ugly steel spectacles when Gabriel entered with a child in each arm. Shamron raised his liver-spotted hands—hands that were far too large for so small a man—and without apprehension Gabriel entrusted them with Raphael. Shamron held the child as though he were a live grenade and whispered nonsense into his ear in his murderous Polish accent. When Raphael emitted a peal of laughter, Gabriel was instantly glad he had come.
He had been raised in a home without religion, but as always, when Gilah drew the light of the Sabbath candles to her eyes while reciting the blessing, he thought it the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Shamron then recited the blessings of the bread and the wine in the Yiddish intonations of his youth, and the meal commenced. Gabriel had yet to take his first bite when Shamron attempted to quiz him on the operation, but Gilah adroitly changed the subject to the children. Chiara briefed them on the latest developments—the dietary changes, the growth and weight gain, the attempts at speech and movement. Gabriel had caught only passing glimpses of the changes during the many months of the operation. In a few weeks’ time they would gather again in Tiberias to celebrate the children’s first birthday. He wondered whether Saladin would allow him to attend the party.
For the most part, though, he tried to forget the operation long enough to enjoy a quiet evening in the company of his family. He didn’t dare turn off his phone, but he didn’t check for updates from Paris, either. It wasn’t necessary. He knew that in a few minutes Natalie would be leaving the clinic on the Avenue Victor Hugo, in the banlieue of Aubervilliers. Perhaps she would go to her café for something to eat or drink, or perhaps she would repair directly to her flat for another evening alone. Gabriel felt a stab of guilt—Natalie, he thought, should be passing the Sabbath in the company of her family, too. He wondered how much longer she could go on. Long enough, he hoped, for Saladin to come calling.