“Of course not.”

“You should have.” Rozanov smiled coldly. “That was another mistake on your part.”

The Mercedes was headed west on the Feldstrasse, a busy street linking the Neustadt to the quarter of St. Pauli. Two men on motorbikes followed, along with two cars, each containing three seasoned operatives of the Israeli secret intelligence service. None was aware of what had transpired between Alexei Rozanov and Reza Nazari. Only Gabriel and Eli Lavon, hunched over a laptop computer in the safe flat, were privy to the tense confrontation. The pen in the Iranian’s pocket was no longer relevant—it was well out of range of the receiver—but Nazari’s mobile phone was providing clear audio coverage.

For the moment the audio feed had gone quiet, never a good sign. No one in the car was speaking. No one, it seemed, was breathing. Gabriel tried to picture the scene inside. Two men in front, two in back, one a hostage. Perhaps Alexei had drawn a gun. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, a display of weaponry was unnecessary. Perhaps Nazari, worn down by days of fear, had already signaled his guilt.

Gabriel looked at the winking light on his computer screen and asked, “What’s Alexei doing?”

“I can think of several possibilities,” replied Lavon. “None of them good.”

“Why no evasive action? Why no countersurveillance moves?”

“Maybe Alexei doesn’t quite believe it himself.”

“Believe what?”

“That you were able to find him so quickly.”

“He underestimates me? Is that what you’re saying, Eli?”

“Hard to believe, but—”

Lavon fell silent as the sound of Rozanov’s voice came over the feed. He was speaking in Russian.

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s giving the driver directions.”

“Where are they headed?”

“Unclear. But I suspect it’s someplace where they can give him a good going-over.”

“I wouldn’t mind listening to the questions.”

“Could get ugly.” Lavon paused, then added, “Terminally ugly.”

Gabriel watched the winking light moving across the computer screen. The car was turning onto the Stresemannstrasse, a wider road, faster traffic.

“It’s not a bad spot,” said Gabriel.

“Doesn’t get much better, actually.”

Gabriel raised the radio to his lips and gave the order. Within seconds, two additional blinking lights appeared on the screen. One was Mikhail. The other was Keller.

“Killings are always cleaner than snatches,” said Lavon quietly.

“Yes, Eli, I realize that.”

“So why not end it here and now?”

“I’ve added another question to my list.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to know the name of the man who told the Russians I was alive.”

The lights of Mikhail and Keller were moving closer. The Mercedes was still traveling at the same rate of speed.

“Let’s hope there’s no collateral damage,” said Lavon.

Yes, thought Gabriel, as he heard gunshots. Let us hope.

There are quarters of Hamburg where the Germans hide behind a dowdy English facade. The spot where the black Mercedes eventually ran aground was just such a place—a triangular common, small and grassy, bordered on one side by the street and on the other two by terraces of redbrick houses where one might have assumed the occupants were drinking tea and watching the News at Ten on the BBC. To reach it, the car had to first careen rudderless across two lanes of oncoming traffic. Along the way it toppled a lamppost and smashed a small sidewalk billboard before finally coming to rest against a slender young elm. Later, the neighborhood would go to great lengths to save the tree, but to no avail.

The two men in the front seat of the car were dead long before it shuddered to a halt. It was not the crash that killed them but the bullets that were fired expertly into their heads at close range while the car was still moving. Witnesses would tell of two men on motorcycles, one tall and lanky, the other more powerfully built. Each fired two shots only, and the shots were so perfectly synchronized that the reports were scarcely distinguishable. Surveillance video would later confirm the accounts. One Hamburg detective called it the most beautiful assassination he had ever seen, a rather tasteless remark that would earn him a stern rebuke from his superior. Dead bodies on German soil were never beautiful, the senior man would say. Especially dead Russians. It didn’t matter that they were a couple of Moscow Center gorillas. It was still an outrage.

The two motorcyclists quickly fled and were never seen again. Nor did the authorities ever locate the Volkswagen sedan that appeared within seconds of the crash. A stout troll-like man emerged from the back and flung open the rear passenger-side door of the Mercedes as though it were made of papier-mâché. One witness would speak of a brief but severe beating, though others would take issue with that account. Regardless of what transpired, the tall Slavic-looking passenger who emerged from the Mercedes was dazed and bleeding. How he found his way into the Volkswagen was again a matter of some controversy. Some said he climbed into the Volkswagen willingly. Others said he was compelled to enter the car because the troll-like man was at that instant breaking his arm. The entire maneuver took just ten seconds. Then the Volkswagen and the unfortunate man of Slavic appearance were gone. The same Hamburg policeman saw no artistry in the troll’s handiwork, but was no less impressed. Any fool can pull a trigger, he told colleagues, but only a real pro can snatch a Moscow Center hood like he was plucking an apple from a tree.

Which left only the passenger who had been seated behind the ill-fated driver. All the witnesses stated that he climbed out of the car under his own power, and all suggested he was undoubtedly something other than a Russian—an Arab maybe, perhaps a Turk, but not a Russian. Not in a million years. For a few seconds he appeared confused as to his whereabouts and current predicament. Then he noticed a man with pockmarked cheeks waving to him from the open window of yet another car. As he stumbled gratefully toward it, he was calling out the same word over and over again. The word was “Tala.” On that the witnesses were in complete agreement.

58

HAMBURG

THERE IS A STRICT ROUTINE to vacating an Office safe property, rules to follow, rituals to observe. They are prescribed by God and chiseled into stone. They are inviolable, even when a pair of Russians sit dead in a grassy common. And even when the operation’s brass ring lies bound and gagged in the back of an escape car. Gabriel and Eli Lavon engaged in the ceremonial purification of the safe flat now, silently and automatically, but with the devotion of zealots. Like their enemies, they were true believers.

At half past nine they locked the door and went down to the street. Another ritual ensued, the close inspection of the car for a bomb. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, they climbed inside. Gabriel allowed Lavon to drive. He was a pavement artist by instinct, not a wheelman, but his natural caution when operating a motor vehicle was at that moment an operational asset.

From Hamburg they drove south to a town called Döhle. Beyond it was a stand of dense trees accessed by only a rutted track with a sign that read privat. Mikhail had found it a day earlier, along with three suitable backup sites. The backups weren’t necessary; the woods were deserted. Lavon doused the headlights as he entered and navigated with only the yellow glow of the parking lamps. The trees were a mixture of evergreen and deciduous. Gabriel would have preferred birch trees, but birch forests weren’t common in the west of Germany. Only in the east.