"I won't say it because it's not true. I loved Martin."

"Did you?" He looked up from the gun as if genuinely surprised, then at Mikhail. "And what about your friend, Mr. Danilov? Are you in love with him, too?"

"I hardly know him."

"That's not what he says. According to Mr. Danilov, you two are working together on the Landesmann case."

"I'm not working with anyone. And I don't know anything about a Landesmann case. I don't know why there would even be a Landesmann case."

"That's not what Mr. Danilov says."

Zoe looked directly at Mikhail for the first time since the interrogation had begun. He held her gaze for a few seconds, then almost imperceptibly shook his head. Zoe's inquisitor noticed. He walked slowly over to Mikhail and struck him hard across the face with the butt of the gun, opening another gash high on his cheek. Then the man took a fistful of Mikhail's hair and pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple. A guard standing on the opposite side took a hasty step backward. The man holding the gun screwed the barrel into Mikhail's skin, then turned his head and looked at Zoe.

"You have one chance to tell the truth, Zoe. Otherwise, Mr. Danilov is going to die. And if he dies, you die. Because we can't have witnesses lying around, can we? Confess your sins, Zoe. Tell me the truth."

Mikhail was wincing with pain. But this time he didn't try to hide his message to Zoe. He was shaking his head violently from side to side, shouting something into the duct tape covering his mouth. This earned him two more blows with the butt of the gun. Zoe closed her eyes.

"Last chance, Zoe."

"Put the gun down."

"Only if you tell me the truth."

"Put the gun down." She opened her eyes. "Put it down, and I'll tell you everything you want to know."

"Tell me now."

"Stop, damn it. You're hurting him."

"I'm going to do much worse if you don't start talking. Tell me the truth, Zoe. Tell me you're a spy."

"I'm not a spy."

"So why did you help them?"

"Because they asked me to."

"Who did?"

"British intelligence."

"Who else?"

"Israeli intelligence."

"Who's in charge of the operation?"

"I don't know."

"Who's in charge, Zoe?"

"I don't know his real name."

"You're lying, Zoe. Tell me his name."

"His name is Gabriel."

"Gabriel Allon?"

"Yes, Gabriel Allon."

"Was he in Geneva tonight?"

"I don't know."

"Answer me, Zoe. Was he in Geneva tonight?"

"Yes."

"Were there others?"

"Yes."

"Tell me their names, Zoe. All of them."

72

MAYFAIR, LONDON

The digital clock at the front of the London ops center read 05:53:17. Less than seven minutes remaining until Graham Seymour's deadline. Shamron stared at the numbers despondently as if trying to mentally blunt their advance. It was odd, he thought, but in his youth time had always seemed to slow to a crawl at moments like these. Now the clock was roaring along at a gallop. He wondered whether it was yet another consequence of growing old. Time was his most implacable foe.

Regrettably, Shamron had lived through many such Office catastrophes and knew how the next few hours were likely to unfold. Once upon a time, the Europeans might have been expected to turn a blind eye. But no more. These days, they no longer had much use for the enterprise known as the State of Israel, and Shamron knew full well that the operation against Martin Landesmann was not going to go over well in the halls of European power. Yes, the British and Americans had been along for the ride, but none of that would matter when the arrest warrants were issued. Not one would bear an American or British name. Only Israeli names. Yossi Gavish, Dina Sarid, Yaakov Rossman, Rimona Stern, Gabriel Allon...They had carried out some of the greatest operations in the history of the Office. But not tonight. Tonight, Saint Martin had beaten them.

Shamron turned his gaze toward Uzi Navot. He was seated in a cubicle reserved for the FBI, a secure telephone pressed to his ear. At the other end of the call was the prime minister. It was never pleasant to wake a prime minister—especially when the news involved a looming diplomatic and political disaster—and Shamron could only imagine the tirade Navot was now enduring. He could not help but feel an ache of guilt. Navot had wanted no part of Landesmann and would now be forced to pay the price for Shamron's folly. Shamron would do his best to shield Navot from harm, but he knew how these things went. A head would have to roll. And it was likely to be Navot's.

He looked at the clock again: 05:56:38...Three and a half minutes until Graham Seymour telephoned the Swiss police. Three and a half minutes for the team of computer technicians and specialists to find the bargaining chip Shamron needed to achieve peace with honor. With Chiara peering anxiously over their shoulders, their labors were growing more frantic. Shamron wished he could help in some way. But he barely knew how to turn on a computer, let alone find a document buried in a pile of cybermush. Only the young knew how to do such things, Shamron thought gloomily. Yet more proof he had finally outlived his usefulness.

Another glance at the clock: 05:58:41...Graham Seymour was now watching the time with an intensity matching Shamron's. At his right elbow was a telephone. An hour earlier, Seymour had taken the liberty of storing the DAP's emergency number in the phone's memory. One press of a button was all it would take.

The clock advanced: 05:59:57...05:59:58...05:59:59...06:00:00...

Seymour lifted the receiver and looked at Shamron. "Sorry, Ari, but I'm afraid we've run out of time. I know it's not my call, but you might want to tell Gabriel to start heading for the border."

Seymour jabbed at the speed dial button and lifted the receiver to his ear. Shamron closed his eyes and waited for the words he would no doubt hear for the rest of his life. Instead, he heard the heavy glass door of the fishbowl open with a bang, followed by the triumphant voice of Chiara.

"We've got him, Graham! He's ours now! Hang up the phone! We've got him!"

SEYMOUR KILLED the connection. The receiver, however, was still in his hand.

"What exactly do you have?"

"The next shipment of centrifuges is due to leave Shenzhen in six weeks, arriving in Dubai sometime in mid-March, final payment due upon delivery to Meissner Privatbank of Liechtenstein."

"What's the source?"

"An encrypted temporary file that had once been attached to an e-mail."

"Who were the parties to the e-mail?"

"Ulrich Muller and Martin Landesmann."

"Let me see it."

Chiara handed Seymour a printout of the documents. Seymour examined them, then replaced the receiver.

"You just bought yourself one more hour, Ari."

Shamron turned to Chiara. "Can you get those documents to Gabriel securely?"

"No problem."

THE E-MAIL and supporting documentation were five pages in length. The computer technicians converted them to an encrypted PDF file and fired it to Gabriel over the secure link. It arrived on his computer at the Metropole at 7:05 local time, accompanied by the number for Ulrich Muller's mobile phone and his private e-mail address. Locating them had not been difficult. Both appeared hundreds of times in the memory of Martin's Nokia N900. Gabriel quickly prepared an e-mail to Muller with two PDF attachments and dialed his number. There was no answer. Gabriel killed the connection and dialed again.

ULRICH MULLER was driving past the floodlit Gstaad Palace Hotel when his mobile rang for the first time. Because he did not recognize the number, he did not answer. When the phone immediately rang a second time, he felt he had no choice. He tapped the CALL button and lifted the phone to his ear.