VEVAK’s travel department had arranged a car for Reza Nazari through the Iranian consulate. It collected him at the arrivals level of the terminal and took him directly to the Marriott Hotel in the Neustadt. He arrived at 7:45 p.m., checked in, and went upstairs to his room, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign on the latch before entering. Two minutes later there was a knock at the door. He opened it and Yaakov Rossman came inside.

“Any last questions?” he asked.

“No questions,” replied Nazari. “Just a demand.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands, Reza.”

Nazari managed a weak smile. “Alexei always calls me before we meet. If I don’t pick up, he won’t come. It’s as simple as that.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“It must have slipped my mind.”

“You’re lying.”

“Whatever you say.”

The Iranian was still smiling. Yaakov was staring at the ceiling in anger.

“How much is it going to cost me to make you answer the phone?” he asked.

“I want to hear the sound of my wife’s voice.”

“It’s not possible. Not now.”

“All things are possible, Mr. Taylor. Especially tonight.”

Until that moment, Reza Nazari had been a model prisoner. Even so, Gabriel had been anticipating one final act of defiance. Only in movies, Shamron always said, did the condemned man accept the noose without a struggle—and only in operational planning rooms did coerced assets face their moment of ultimate betrayal without a last ultimatum. Nazari could have made any number of demands. That he insisted only on speaking to his wife elevated him, however slightly, in the eyes of those who held his fate in their hands. Indeed, it might very well have saved his life.

The arrangements for an emergency contact between Nazari and his wife had been made shortly after his initial interrogation in Austria. Yaakov had only to dial a number in Tel Aviv, and the call would be routed securely to the villa in eastern Turkey where an Office team was babysitting Nazari’s wife and children. The conversation would be recorded at King Saul Boulevard, and a Persian speaker would be listening for any irregularities. The only danger was that the Russians and the Iranians might be listening, too.

With Gabriel’s approval, Yaakov dialed the number at 8:05. By 8:10 Nazari’s wife was on the line, and the translator was in place at King Saul Boulevard. Yaakov held out the phone toward Nazari.

“No tears, no good-byes. Just ask her about her day, and do your best to sound normal.”

Nazari took the phone and lifted it to his ear. “Tala, my darling,” he said, closing his eyes with relief. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

The conversation was slightly more than five minutes in duration, longer than Gabriel would have preferred. He had not wanted to risk a direct live feed to Hamburg, so he had to wait several additional minutes to learn the call had gone off without a problem. Outside his window, the clock of St. Michael’s Church read 8:20. With a few clicks on his computer keyboard, he moved his team into place. The evening’s first crisis had been averted. All he needed now was Alexei Rozanov.

56

NEUSTADT, HAMBURG

FOUR HUNDRED TRANQUIL FEET separated the Marriott Hotel from Die Bank restaurant—a walk of perhaps three minutes, two if one were running late for a reservation. The guests who departed the hotel at 8:37 p.m. were in no particular hurry because like many in Hamburg that evening they had been unable to secure a coveted table. Their names were Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern, though both were registered at the hotel under operational aliases. Yossi was a senior analyst in the Office’s Research division who happened to have a flair for the dramatic and was good on his feet in the field. Rimona was the chief of the Office unit that spied on Iran’s nuclear program. As such, she had been the primary recipient of Reza Nazari’s false intelligence. She had never met the Iranian spy personally and was not looking forward to being in the same room with him tonight. In fact, earlier that evening, she had stated her preference for sending Nazari back to Tehran in a pine box. Her anger had come as no surprise to Gabriel. Rimona was the niece of Ari Shamron, and like her famous uncle she did not take betrayal lightly, especially where Iranians were involved.

She was an analyst by training and experience, but she shared Yossi’s natural instincts in the field. As she moved along the elegant street, a bag in the window of Prada seemed to catch her eye. She paused there for a moment while a car overtook them and while Yossi, playing the role of annoyed spouse, glared at his wristwatch. It was 8:41 when they passed through the imposing entrance of Die Bank. The maître d’ informed them there were no tables available, so they moped off to the bar to await a cancellation. Rimona sat facing the entrance, Yossi the dining room. From the breast pocket of his jacket he removed a gold pen identical to the one Gabriel had given to Reza Nazari. Yossi twisted the cap to the right and then returned the pen to his pocket. Two minutes later a text message appeared on his secure mobile. The transmitter was working, the signal was strong and clear. Yossi snared a passing waitress and ordered drinks. It was 8:44 p.m.

In the streets surrounding Die Bank, the rest of Gabriel’s team was moving quietly into place. On the Poststrasse, Dina Sarid was easing a Volkswagen sedan into an empty space outside a Vodafone outlet. Mordecai sat next to her in the front passenger seat, and in the back Oded was doing a few deep-breathing exercises to slow his racing heart rate. Fifty meters farther along the street, Mikhail Abramov sat astride a parked motorbike, watching the pedestrians with an expression of profound boredom on his face. Keller sat next to him atop a motorbike of his own. He was peering at the screen of his mobile. The message told him the man of the hour had not yet surfaced. It was 8:48 p.m.

At 8:50 Alexei Rozanov had still not made contact with Reza Nazari. Gabriel stood in the window of the safe flat watching the clock atop St. Michael’s Church as two more minutes passed without a call. Eli Lavon stood next to him, a consoling presence, a fellow mourner at the grave of an old friend.

“You have to send him, Gabriel. Otherwise, he’s going to be late.”

“What if he’s not supposed to go to the restaurant until he hears from Alexei?”

“We’ll have him make up an excuse.”

“Maybe Alexei won’t buy it.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Or maybe he isn’t coming.”

“You’re jumping at shadows.”

“A five-hundred-pound bomb exploded in my face two weeks ago. I’m entitled.”

Another minute passed with no call. Gabriel walked over to the laptop, keyed in a message, and clicked SEND. Then he returned to the window and stood at the side of his oldest friend in the world.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do?” asked Lavon.

“About what?”

“Alexei.”

“I’m going to give him a chance to sign my death certificate.”

“And if he does?”

Gabriel turned away from the clock and looked at Lavon. “I want my face to be the last one he ever sees.”

“Chiefs don’t kill KGB officers.”

“It’s called the SVR now, Eli. And I’m not the chief yet.”

“Give me your phone,” said Yaakov.

“Why?”

“Just give me the damn thing. We don’t have much time.”

Reza Nazari surrendered his mobile. Yaakov removed the SIM card and inserted it into an identical device. Nazari hesitated before accepting it.

“A bomb?” he asked.