“And your respiration,” she said, “is very shallow.”

“That’s because it hurts to breathe. And every time I cough or sneeze I see stars.”

“Are you getting any sleep?”

“Enough.” Then he asked quietly, “You?”

Natalie drew the cork from a bottle of Galilean white and poured two glasses. She drank only a small amount from hers and then returned the glass to the tabletop. During the many months she had lived as a radicalized Muslim, she had largely abstained from alcohol. Her daily consumption of white wine—the Office talent spotters had regarded it as her one and only vice—had fallen sharply since her return to Israel.

“Are you?” asked Gabriel a second time.

“Sleeping? I was never really good at it, even before the operation. Besides,” she added with a glance toward the exterior of the bungalow, “it’s not exactly a house of secrets, is it? Every room is wired, and every move I make is recorded and analyzed by your psychiatrists.”

Gabriel didn’t bother with a denial. The bungalow was indeed wired for both audio and video, and a team of Office physicians had charted every facet of Natalie’s recovery. Their assessments painted a portrait of an officer who was still struggling with the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. The officer suffered from prolonged periods of insomnia, night terrors, and bouts of severe depression. Her daily training runs in the valley had improved her overall health and tempered her mood swings. So, too, had her romantic relationship with Mikhail, who was a regular visitor to Nahalal. All in all, it was the opinion of Natalie’s doctors—and Mikhail—that she was ready to return to limited duty. Limited duty, however, was not what Gabriel had in mind. He had Saladin in his sights.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Natalie frowned.

“At least drink some of the wine. It might take the edge off the pain.”

He did. It didn’t.

“He was the same way,” said Natalie.

“Who?”

“Saladin. He didn’t want pain medication. I practically had to torture him to convince him he needed it. And every time I fed morphine into his drip he fought to remain conscious. If only I’d—”

“You did the right thing.”

“I’m not sure the victims in London would agree. Or Paris,” she added. “You’re lucky to be alive. And none of it would have happened if I’d killed him when I had the chance.”

“We’re not like them, Natalie. We don’t do suicide missions. Besides,” Gabriel went on, “someone else would have taken his place.”

“There is no one else like Saladin. He’s special. Trust me, I know.”

She warmed her hand over the candle that burned between them. The direction of the wind shifted subtly, bringing with it the acrid scent of the fires. Gabriel preferred it to the smell of the valley. Even as a child he had hated it.

Natalie removed her hand from the flame. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“Not for a minute. And I haven’t forgotten what you went through, either.”

“That makes two of us.”

She reached for her wine but stopped. Leila’s temperance, it seemed, had reclaimed her.

“Mikhail assures me that one day I won’t remember any of it, that it will be like an unpleasant memory from childhood, like the time I almost sliced my finger off playing with one of my mother’s kitchen knives.” She raised a hand in the darkness. “I still have the scar.”

The wind died, the flame of the candle burned straight.

“Do you approve of him?” she asked.

“Mikhail?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“Of course it does. You’re the chief.”

He smiled. “Yes, Natalie, I approve. Wholeheartedly, in fact.”

“And did you approve of that American girl he was involved with? The one who worked for the CIA? Her name,” added Natalie coolly, “escapes me.”

“Her name was Sarah.”

“Sarah Bancroft,” she added, stressing the first syllable of the rather patrician-sounding family name.

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Sarah Bancroft.”

“It doesn’t sound Jewish, Bancroft.”

“With good reason. And no,” said Gabriel, “I did not approve of the relationship. At least not in the beginning.”

“Because she wasn’t Jewish?”

“Because relationships between intelligence officers are inherently complicated. And relationships between officers who work for services from different countries are unheard of.”

“But she was close to the Office.”

“Very.”

“And you were fond of her.”

“I was.”

“Who ended it?”

“I wasn’t privy to all the details.”

“Please,” she said dismissively.

“I believe,” he said guardedly, “it was Mikhail.”

Natalie appeared to consider his last statement carefully. Gabriel hoped he hadn’t spoken out of turn. One never really knew what passed between lovers, especially where old relationships were concerned. It was possible Mikhail had portrayed himself as the aggrieved party. No, he thought, that wasn’t Mikhail’s style. He had many fine qualities, but his heart was fashioned of cast iron.