The English Girl. Daniel Silva

making love to a figure painted by the hand of Veronese.

      Now the figure turned her head and, noticing Gabriel’s presence for the first time, smiled. Her eyes, wide and oriental in shape, were the color of caramel and flecked with gold, a combination that Gabriel had never been able to accurately reproduce on canvas. It had been many months since Chiara had agreed to sit for him; the exhibit had left her with little time for anything else. It was a distinct change in the pattern of their marriage. Usually, it was Gabriel who was consumed by a project, be it a painting or an operation, but now the roles were reversed. Chiara, a natural organizer who was meticulous in all things, had thrived under the intense pressure of the exhibit. But secretly Gabriel was looking forward to the day he could have her back.

      She walked to the next pillar and examined the way the light was falling across it. “I called the apartment a few minutes ago,” she said, “but there was no answer.”

      “I was having brunch with Graham Seymour at the King David.”

      “How lovely,” she said sardonically. Then, still studying the pillar, she asked, “What’s in the envelope?”

      “A job offer.”

      “Who’s the artist?”

      “Unknown.”

      “And the subject matter?”

      “A girl named Madeline Hart.”

      Gabriel returned to the sculpture garden and sat on a bench overlooking the tan hills of West Jerusalem. A few minutes later Chiara joined him. A soft autumnal wind moved in her hair. She brushed a stray tendril from her face and then crossed one long leg over the other so that her sandal dangled from her suntanned toes. Suddenly, the last thing Gabriel wanted to do was to leave Jerusalem and go looking for a girl he didn’t know.

      “Let’s try this again,” she said at last. “What’s in the envelope?”

      “A photograph.”

      “What kind of photograph?”

      “Proof of life.”

      Chiara held out her hand. Gabriel hesitated.

      “Are you sure?”

      When Chiara nodded, Gabriel surrendered the envelope and watched as she lifted the flap and removed the print. As she examined the image, a shadow fell across her face. It was the shadow of a Russian arms dealer named Ivan Kharkov. Gabriel had taken everything from Ivan: his business, his money, his wife and children. Then Ivan had retaliated by taking Chiara. The operation to rescue her was the bloodiest of Gabriel’s long career. Afterward, he had killed eleven of Ivan’s operatives in retaliation. Then, on a quiet street in Saint-Tropez, he had killed Ivan, too. Yet even in death, Ivan remained a part of their lives. The ketamine injections his men had given Chiara had caused her to lose the child she was carrying. Untreated, the miscarriage had damaged her ability to conceive. Privately, she had all but given up hope she would ever become pregnant again.

      She returned the photograph to the envelope and the envelope to Gabriel. Then she listened intently as he described how the case had ended up in Graham Seymour’s lap, then in his.

      “So the British prime minister is forcing Graham Seymour to do his dirty work for him,” she said when Gabriel had finished, “and Graham is doing the same to you.”

      “He’s been a good friend.”

      Chiara’s face was expressionless. Her eyes, usually a reliable window into her thoughts, were concealed behind sunglasses.

      “What do you suppose they want?” she asked after a moment.

      “Money,” said Gabriel. “They always want money.”

      “Almost always,” responded Chiara. “But sometimes they want things that are impossible to surrender.”

      She removed her sunglasses and hung them from the front of her shirt. “How long do you have before they kill her?” she asked. And when Gabriel answered, she shook her head slowly. “It can’t be done,” she said. “You can’t possibly find her in that amount of time.”

      “Look at the building behind you. Then tell me if you still feel the same way.”

      Chiara looked at nothing other than Gabriel’s face. “The French police have been searching for Madeline Hart for over a month. What makes you think you can find her?”

      “Maybe they haven’t been looking in the right place—or talking to the right people.”

      “Where would you start?”

      “I’ve always believed the best place to begin an investigation is the scene of the crime.”

      Chiara removed her sunglasses from the front of her shirt and absently polished the lenses against her jeans. Gabriel knew it was a bad sign. Chiara always cleaned things when she was annoyed.

      “You’ll scratch them if you don’t stop,” he said.

      “They’re filthy,” she replied distantly.

      “Maybe you should get a case instead of just throwing them into your purse.”

      She made no response.

      “You surprise me, Chiara.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you know better than anyone that Madeline Hart is in hell. And she’s going to stay in hell until someone brings her out.”

      “I just wish it could be someone else.”

      “There is no one else.”

      “No one like you.” She examined the lenses of her sunglasses and frowned.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “They’re scratched.”

      “I told you you’d scratch them.”

      “You’re always right, darling.”

      She slipped on the glasses and looked across the city. “I assume Shamron and Uzi have given their blessing?”

      “Graham went to them before talking to me.”

      “How clever of him.” She uncrossed her legs and rose. “I should be getting back. We don’t have much time left before the opening.”

      “You’ve done a magnificent job, Chiara.”

      “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

      “It was worth a try.”

      “When will I see you again?”

      “I only have seven days to find her.”

      “Six,” she corrected him. “Six days or the girl dies.”

      She leaned down and kissed his lips softly. Then she turned and walked across the sun-bleached garden, her hips swinging gently, as if to music only she could hear. Gabriel watched until she disappeared into the tarpaulin-covered building. Suddenly, the last thing he wanted to do was to leave Jerusalem and go looking for a girl he didn’t know.

      Gabriel returned to the King David Hotel to collect the rest of the dossier from Graham Seymour—the demand note that contained no demand, the DVD of Madeline’s confession, and the two photographs of the man from Les Palmiers in Calvi. In addition, he requested a copy of Madeline’s Party personnel file, deliverable to an address in Nice.

      “How did it go with Chiara?” asked Seymour.

      “At this moment, my marriage might be in worse shape than Lancaster’s.”

      “Is there anything I can do?”

      “Leave