“A moment,” said the camerlengo.

The room slowly emptied. Cardinal Albanese was the last to leave.

“Tell me something, Domenico.”

The camerlengo paused in the doorway. “Excellency?”

“Who closed the curtains in the study?”

“The curtains?”

“They were open when I left at nine. The shutters, too.”

“I closed them, Excellency. I didn’t want anyone in the square to see lights burning in the apartments so late.”

“Yes, of course. That was wise of you, Domenico.”

The camerlengo went out, leaving the door open. Alone with his master, Donati fought back tears. There would be time for grieving later. He leaned close to Lucchesi’s ear and gently squeezed the cold hand. “Speak to me, old friend,” he whispered. “Tell me what really happened here tonight.”

2

JERUSALEM—VENICE

IT WAS CHIARA WHO SECRETLY informed the prime minister that her husband was in desperate need of a holiday. Since reluctantly settling into the executive suite of King Saul Boulevard, he had scarcely granted himself even an afternoon off, only a few days of working convalescence after the bombing in Paris that had fractured two vertebrae in his lower back. Still, it was not something to be undertaken lightly. Gabriel required secure communications and, more important, heavy security. So, too, did Chiara and the twins. Irene and Raphael would soon celebrate their fourth birthday. The threat against the Allon family was so immense they had never once set foot outside the State of Israel.

But where would they go? Exotic travel to a distant destination was not an option. They would have to remain reasonably close to Israel so Gabriel, in the all-too-likely event of a national emergency, could be back at King Saul Boulevard in a matter of hours. There was no South African safari in their future, no trip to Australia or the Galapagos. It was probably for the best; Gabriel had a troubled relationship with wild animals. Besides, the last thing Chiara wanted was to exhaust him with yet another long flight. Now that he was the director-general of the Office, he was constantly shuttling to Washington to consult with his American partners at Langley. What he needed most was rest.

Then again, recreation did not come naturally to him. He was a man of enormous talent but few hobbies. He did not ski or snorkel, and he had never once wielded a golf club or a tennis racket except as a weapon. Beaches bored him unless they were cold and windblown. He enjoyed sailing, especially in the challenging waters off the west of England, or strapping a rucksack to his back and pounding across a barren moorland. Even Chiara, a retired Office field operative, was incapable of matching his breakneck pace for more than a mile or two. The children would surely wilt.

The trick would be to find something for Gabriel to do while they were on holiday, a small project that might occupy him for a few hours each morning until the children were awake and dressed and ready to begin their day. And what if this project could be carried out in a city where he was already comfortable? The city where he had studied the craft of art restoration and served his apprenticeship? The city where he and Chiara had met and fallen in love? She was a native of this city, and her father served as chief rabbi to its dwindling community of Jews. Furthermore, her mother had been pestering her about bringing the children for a visit. It would be perfect, she thought. The proverbial two birds with one stone.

But when? August was out of the question. It was far too hot and humid, and the city would be submerged beneath a sea of package tourists, the selfie-snapping hordes who followed snarling guides around the city for an hour or two before gulping down an overpriced cappuccino at Caffè Florian and returning to their cruise ships. But if they waited until, say, November, the weather would be cool and clear and they would have the sestiere largely to themselves. It would give them a chance to ponder their future without the distraction of the Office or daily life in Israel. Gabriel had informed the prime minister that he would serve only a single term. It was not too early to begin thinking about how they were going to spend the rest of their lives and where they were going to raise their children. Neither of them was getting any younger, Gabriel especially.

She did not inform him of her plans, as it would only invite a lengthy oration concerning all the reasons why the State of Israel would collapse if he took so much as a single day off from work. Instead, she conspired with Uzi Navot, the deputy director, to select the dates. Housekeeping, the Office division that acquired and managed safe properties, saw to the accommodations. The local police and intelligence services, with whom Gabriel was very close, agreed to handle the security.

All that remained was the project to keep Gabriel busy. In late October, Chiara rang Francesco Tiepolo, owner of the region’s most prominent restoration firm.

“I have just the thing. I’ll e-mail a photo.”

Three weeks later, after a particularly contentious meeting of Israel’s fractious Cabinet, Gabriel returned home to find the Allon family’s bags packed.

“You’re leaving me?”

“No,” said Chiara. “We’re going on vacation. All of us.”

“I can’t possibly—”

“It’s taken care of, darling.”

“Does Uzi know?”

Chiara nodded. “And so does the prime minister.”

“Where are we going? And for how long?”

She answered.

“What will I do with myself for two weeks?”

Chiara handed him the photograph.

“There’s no way I can possibly finish it.”

“You’ll do as much as you can.”

“And let someone else touch my work?”

“It won’t be the end of the world.”

“You never know, Chiara. It just might be.”

THE APARTMENT OCCUPIED the piano nobile of a crumbling old palazzo in Cannaregio, the northernmost of Venice’s six traditional sestieri. It had a grand salon, a large kitchen filled with modern appliances, and a terrace overlooking the Rio della Misericordia. In one of the four bedrooms, Housekeeping had established a secure link to King Saul Boulevard, complete with a tentlike structure—in the jargon of the Office, it was known as a chuppah—that allowed Gabriel to speak on the phone without fear of electronic eavesdropping. Carabinieri officers in plain clothes kept watch outside on the Fondamenta dei Ormesini. With their consent, Gabriel carried a 9mm Beretta pistol. So did Chiara, who was a much better shot than he.

A few paces along the embankment was an iron bridge—the only one in Venice—and on the opposite side of the canal was a broad square called the Campo di Ghetto Nuovo. There was a museum, a bookstore, and the offices of the Jewish community. The Casa Israelitica di Riposo, a rest home for the elderly, occupied the northern flank. Next to it was a stark bas-relief memorial to the Jews of Venice who, in December 1943, were rounded up, interned in concentration camps, and later murdered at Auschwitz. Two heavily armed carabinieri kept watch over the memorial from a fortified kiosk. Of the two hundred and fifty thousand people who still made the sinking islands of Venice their home, only the Jews required round-the-clock police protection.

The apartment buildings lining the campo were the tallest in Venice, for in the Middle Ages their occupants had been forbidden by the Church to reside anywhere else in the city. On the uppermost floors of several of the buildings were small synagogues, now meticulously restored, that had once served the communities of Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews who dwelled beneath. The ghetto’s two functioning synagogues were located just to the south of the campo. Both were clandestine; there was nothing in their outward appearance to suggest they were Jewish houses of worship. The Spanish Synagogue had been founded by Chiara’s ancestors in 1580. Unheated, it was open from Passover to the High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The Levantine Synagogue, located across a tiny square, served the community in winter.