Page 17 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

8

San Polo

Exhausted, Gabriel crawled into bed and, with his hand cradled gently against his chest, fell into a dreamless sleep. The pain roused him at four o’clock. He lay awake for another hour, listening to the barges making their way up the Grand Canal toward the Rialto Market, before padding into the kitchen and pressing the power button on the Lavazzaautomatico.

While waiting for the coffee to brew, he stirred his phone into life and was relieved to discover he had received no overnight correspondence from General Ferrari. A check ofSud Ouestconfirmed that Valerie Bérrangar, seventy-four years of age, was still dead. There was a small update to the story regarding the arrangements for her funeral. It was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. on Friday, at the Église Saint-Sauveur in Saint-Macaire. Regardless of Madame Bérrangar’s religious affiliation at the beginning of her life, thought Gabriel, it appeared as though she had ended it as a Roman Catholic.

He swallowed another dose of ibuprofen with his coffee. Then he showered and dressed and placed a few items of clothing into an overnight bag while Chiara, tangled in Egyptian cotton, slept on in the next room. The children spilled from their beds at half past six anddemanded to be fed. Irene fixed Gabriel with an accusatory stare over her customary breakfast of muesli and yogurt.

“Mama says you’re going to France.”

“Not for long.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that your grandmother will be picking you up at school for the next few days.”

“How many days?”

“To be determined.”

“We like it whenyoupick us up,” declared Raphael.

“That’s because I always take you to thepasticceriaon the way home.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“I like picking you up, too,” said Gabriel. “In fact, it’s one of my favorite parts of the day.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Next question.”

“Why do you have to leave again?” asked Irene.

“A friend needs my help.”

“Anotherfriend?”

“Same friend, actually.”

She inflated her cheeks and stirred the contents of her bowl without appetite. Gabriel knew full well the source of her anxiety. Three times during his tenure as director-general of the Office he had been targeted for assassination. The last attempt had taken place on Inauguration Day in Washington, when he had been shot in the chest by a congresswoman from the American Midwest who believed him to be a member of a blood-drinking, Satan-worshipping cult of pedophiles. The two preceding attempts, though more prosaic, had both taken place in France. For the most part, the children pretended that none of the incidents, though widely publicized, had transpired. Gabriel, who still suffered from the unpleasant aftereffects, was similarly inclined.

“Nothing is going to happen,” he assured his daughter.

“You always say that. But somethingalwayshappens.”

Having no retort at the ready, Gabriel looked up and saw Chiara standing in the doorway of the kitchen, an expression of mild bemusement on her face.

“She does have a point, you know.” Chiara poured herself a cup of coffee and looked at Gabriel’s hand. “How does it feel?”

“Good as new.”

She gave it a gentle squeeze. “No pain at all?”

He grimaced but said nothing.

“I thought so.” She released his hand. “Are you packed?”