“It doesn’t feel like Bin Laden to me,” Chiara said. “It feels more like—”

“Baghdad,” said Gabriel. “These death tolls are high for open-air attacks. It suggests the bomb maker knew what he was doing. If we’re lucky, he left behind his signature.”

“We?” asked Chiara.

Gabriel wordlessly returned the phone to his coat pocket. They had reached the chaotic traffic circle at the end of Cranbourn Street. There were two Italian restaurants—the Spaghetti House and Bella Italia. He looked at Chiara and asked her to choose.

“I’m not going to start my long weekend in London at Bella Italia,” she said, frowning. “You promised to take me to a proper lunch.”

“In my opinion, one can do far worse in London than Bella Italia.”

“Unless one was born in Venice.”

Gabriel smiled. “We have a reservation at a lovely place called Orso in Wellington Street. It’s very Italian. I thought we could walk through Covent Garden on our way.”

“Do you still feel up to it?”

“We have to eat,” he said, “and the walk will do us both good.”

They hurried across the traffic circle into Garrick Street where two Metropolitan Police officers in lime green coats were questioning the Arab-looking driver of a white panel van. The anxiety of the pedestrians was almost palpable. In some of the faces Gabriel saw genuine fear; in others, a grim resolution to carry on as normal. Chiara held his hand tightly as they strolled past the shop windows. She had been looking forward to this weekend for a long time and was determined not to let the news from Paris and Copenhagen spoil it.

“You were a bit hard on Julian,” she said. “Two hundred thousand is twice your usual fee.”

“It’s a Titian, Chiara. Julian is going to do quite nicely.”