“Your phone for the evening.”

“Should I assume it’s compromised?”

“In every way imaginable.”

Nazari slipped the phone into his coat pocket, next to the pen. “What happens at the end of dinner?”

“Whatever you do,” Yaakov said, “don’t walk out the door with him at the same time. I’ll pick you up in front of the restaurant once Alexei is gone.”

“Gone?”

Yaakov said nothing more. Reza Nazari pulled on his overcoat and headed down to the lobby.

It was 8:57 p.m.

Because the Marriott was an American hotel, its forecourt contained stainless-steel posts and ugly concrete flowerpots to protect the building against terrorist attack. Reza Nazari, servant of the world’s largest state sponsor of international terrorism, navigated the defenses under the watchful gaze of Yaakov and turned into the street. It was empty of traffic, and the pavements were deserted. Nothing in the shop windows slowed Nazari’s progress, though he did seem to take note of the two men on motorcycles in the little esplanade across the street from Die Bank. He entered the restaurant at nine precisely and presented himself to the maître d’. “Romanov,” said the Iranian, and the maître d’ ran a manicured finger along his reservations list. “Ah, yes, here it is. Romanov.”

Nazari shed his overcoat and was shown into the high-ceilinged dining room. Passing the bar, he noticed a woman with sandstone-colored hair watching him. The man seated next to her was typing something into his mobile—confirmation of the asset’s safe arrival, thought Nazari. The table was in the corner of the room, beneath an unnerving black-and-white photograph of a maniacal-looking bald man. Nazari took the seat facing the room. It would upset Alexei, but at that point Alexei’s feelings were the least of his concerns. He was thinking only of his wife and children and the list of questions that Allon wanted answered. A waiter filled his glass with water; a sommelier offered him a wine list. Then, at 9:07, he felt the new mobile phone vibrate against his heart with an unfamiliar pattern. He didn’t recognize the number. Even so, he accepted the call.

“Where are you?” asked a voice in Russian.

“In the restaurant,” replied Nazari in the same language. Then he asked, “Where are you?”

“Running a few minutes behind schedule. But I’m close.”

“Should I order you a drink?”

“Actually, we need to make a small change.”

“How small?”

Rozanov explained what he wanted Nazari to do. Then he said, “Two minutes. Do you understand me?”

Before Nazari could answer, the connection was lost. Nazari quickly dialed the man he knew as Mr. Taylor.

“Did you hear that?”

“Every word.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“If I were you, Reza, I’d be standing outside the restaurant in two minutes.”

“But—”

“Two minutes, Reza. Or the deal’s off.”

The car was an S-Class Mercedes, Hamburg registration, black as a hearse. It appeared at the top of the street as Reza Nazari was rising to his feet and slid sedately past the darkened shops before stopping outside Die Bank. A valet approached, but the man in the front passenger seat waved him away. The driver was clinging to the wheel with both hands as though he had a gun to his head, and in the backseat a man held a mobile phone tensely to his ear. From the esplanade across the street, Keller could see him clearly. Wide cheekbones, fair hair thinning on top. A Moscow Center hood, if ever there was one.

“It’s him,” said Keller into the microphone of his secure radio. “Tell Reza to stay inside the restaurant. Let us put him down now and be done with it.”

“No,” snapped Gabriel.

“Why not?”

“Because I want to know why he changed the plan. And I want Quinn.”

The radio crackled as Gabriel keyed out. Then the door of the restaurant swung open and Reza Nazari stepped into the street. Keller frowned. The best-laid plans, he thought.

Alexei Rozanov was still on the phone when Nazari lowered himself into the backseat. As the car shot forward, he glanced toward the esplanade where the two men sat astride their motorbikes. They made no attempt to follow, at least not one that Nazari could detect. He seized the armrest as the car rounded a corner at speed. Then he looked at Alexei Rozanov as the Russian terminated his phone call.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Nazari.

“I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to be sitting in a restaurant in Hamburg.”

“Why not?”

“Because we have a problem, Reza. A very serious problem.”

57

HAMBURG

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, he’s still alive?”

“I mean,” replied Alexei Rozanov pointedly, “that Gabriel Allon is still walking the face of the earth.”

“His death was in the newspapers. The Office confirmed it.”

“The newspapers know nothing. And the Office,” added Rozanov, “was obviously lying.”

“Has your service seen him?”

“No.”

“Heard his voice?”

Rozanov shook his head.

“Then how do you know?”

“Our information comes from a human source. We’ve been told that Allon survived the explosion with only superficial injuries and was taken to an MI6 safe house.”

“Where is he now?”

“Our source doesn’t know.”

“When did you learn about this?”

“A few minutes after my plane landed in Hamburg. Moscow Center advised me to cancel our meeting.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s only one reason why Gabriel Allon would fake his own death.”

“He intends to kill us?”

The Russian was silent.

“You’re not really worried, are you, Alexei?”

“Ask Ivan Kharkov whether I should be worried about Gabriel Allon’s penchant for revenge.” Rozanov glanced over his shoulder. “The only reason I came here tonight is because the Kremlin is nervous about the prospect of radioactive material in the hands of Chechen terrorists.”

“The Kremlin has good reason to be worried.”

“So it’s true, then?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m relieved, Reza.”

“Why would you be relieved about the Chechens being able to make a dirty bomb?”

“Because the timing of this whole thing was rather interesting, don’t you think?” Rozanov stared out his window. “First, Allon fakes his own death. Then a hundred pounds of highly radioactive waste material goes missing from an Iranian lab.” He paused, then added, “And now here we are in Hamburg together.”

“What are you suggesting, Alexei?”

“Neither the SVR nor the FSB has uncovered any intelligence to suggest the Chechens have acquired Iranian nuclear waste material. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your e-mail.”

“I sent you that e-mail because the reports are true.”

“Or maybe you sent it because Allon told you to.”

This time, it was Nazari who stared out his window. “You’re starting to make me nervous, Alexei.”

“That was my intention.” The Russian was silent for a moment. “You’re the only one who could have given Allon my name, Reza.”

“You’re forgetting Quinn.”

Rozanov lit a Dunhill thoughtfully, as though he were moving pieces around a mental chessboard.

“Where is he?” asked Nazari.

“Quinn?”

Nazari nodded.

“Why would you ask such a question?”

“He was our asset.”

“That’s true, Reza. But now he belongs to us. And his whereabouts are none of your concern.”

Nazari reached inside his overcoat for his cigarettes, but Rozanov seized his wrist with surprising strength.

“What are you doing?” the Russian asked.

“I was hoping to have a cigarette.”

“You didn’t bring a gun tonight, did you, Reza?”