“He said there would be some people from the opposition there.”

“Is that how he described the invited guests? As members of the opposition?”

“Actually, I think he referred to them as ‘brave souls’ who’ve had the chutzpah to challenge the regime.”

“And why did your ambassador feel it was necessary to throw such a party? Was it his intention to meddle in the internal affairs of the Russian Federation?”

“I can assure you no meddling took place. It was just dinner and pleasant conversation.”

“Who was in attendance?”

“Why don’t you ask the agents who were watching the embassy that night? They photographed everyone who entered the compound, including me. Look in your file. I’m sure it’s there.”

The interrogator smiled. “Who was in attendance, Mr. Golani?”

Gabriel listed the names to the best of his recollection. The last name he recited was Olga Sukhova.

“Was that the first time you and Miss Sukhova had met?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her by reputation?”

“No, I’d never heard her name.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“You seem to have hit it off quite well.”

“We were seated next to each other at dinner. We had a pleasant conversation.”

“Did you discuss the recent murders of her colleagues?”

“The topic might have come up. I can’t remember.”

“What do you remember, Mr. Golani?”

“We talked about Palestine and the Middle East. We talked about the war in Iraq. We talked about Russia.”

“What about Russia?”

“Politics, of course-the coming election.”

“What did Miss Sukhova say about the election?”

“She said Russian politics are nothing more than professional wrestling. She said the winners and losers are chosen in advance. That the campaign itself is much sound and fury, signifying nothing. She said the president and the Russian Unity Party will win in a landslide and claim another sweeping mandate. The only question is, how many votes will they feel compelled to steal in order to achieve their goals.”

“The Russian Federation is a democracy. Miss Sukhova’s political commentary, while entertaining and provocative, is slanderous and completely false.”

The interrogator turned to a fresh page of his notebook.

“Did you and Miss Sukhova spend any time alone at the party?”

“Olga said she needed a cigarette. She invited me to join her.”

“There were no cigarettes among your possessions tonight.”

“That’s hardly surprising, given the fact that I don’t smoke.”

“But you joined her in any case?”

“Yes.”

“Because you wanted to have a word alone with her in a place where no one could overhear?”

“Because I was attracted to her-and, yes, because I wanted to have a word alone with her in a place no one else could hear.”

“Where did you go?”

“The terrace.”

“How long were you alone?”

“A minute or two, no more.”

“What did you discuss?”

“I asked if I could see her again. If she would be willing to give me a tour of Moscow.”

“Did you also tell her you were a married man?”

“We’d already discussed that.”

“At dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Whose idea was it to visit Novodevichy?”

“Hers.”

“Why did she select this place?”

“She said that to understand Russia today you had to walk among her bones.”

“Did you travel to the cemetery together?”

“No, I met her there.”

“How did you travel? By taxi?”

“I took the Metro.”

“Who arrived first?”

“Olga was waiting at the gates when I got there.”

“And you entered the cemetery together?”

“Of course.”

“Which grave did you visit first?”

“It was Chekhov’s.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Describe it for me.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, as if trying to summon an image of the gravestone, but instead he heard the voice of Olga whispering softly into his ear. You mustn’t give them her name, she was saying. If Ivan discovers it was Elena who betrayed him, he’ll kill her.

19 FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW

They forged on together-for how long, Gabriel could only guess. At times, they wandered through unexplored territory. At others, they retraced their steps over familiar ground. Trivial inconsistencies were pounced upon as proof of treachery, minor lapses in memory as proof of deceit. There is a strange paradox to an interrogation: it can often impart more information to the subject than to the officer posing the questions. Gabriel had concluded that his opponent was but a small cog in a much larger machine. His questions, like Russia ’s campaign politics, were much sound and fury signifying nothing. Gabriel’s real enemies resided elsewhere. Since he was supposed to be dead by now, his very presence in Lubyanka was something of an inconvenience for them. One factor would determine whether he survived the night: Did they have the power to reach into the basement of Lubyanka and kill him?

The interrogator’s final questions were posed with the bored air of a traffic cop recording the details of a minor accident. He jotted the responses in his notebook, then closed the cover and regarded Gabriel through his little spectacles.

“I find it interesting that, after killing the two Chechen gangsters, you did not become ill. I take it you’ve killed before, Mr. Golani?”

“Like all Israeli men, I had to serve in the IDF. I fought in Sinai in ’seventy-three and in Lebanon in ’eighty-two.”

“So you’ve killed many innocent Arabs?”

“Yes, many.”

“You are a Zionist oppressor of innocent Palestinians?”

“An unrepentant one.”

“You are not who you say you are, Mr. Golani. Your diplomatic passport is false, as is the name written in it. The sooner you confess your crimes, the better.”

The interrogator placed the cap on his pen and screwed it slowly into place. It must have been a signal, for the door flew open and the four handlers burst into the room. They took him down another flight of stairs and placed him in a cell no larger than a broom closet. It stank of damp and feces. If there were other prisoners nearby, he could not tell, for when the windowless door was closed, the silence, like the darkness, was absolute.

He placed his cheek against the cold floor and closed his eyes. Olga Sukhova appeared in the form of an icon, head tilted to one side, hands folded in prayer. If you are fortunate enough to make it out of Russia alive, don’t even think about trying to make contact with her. She’s surrounded by bodyguards every minute of the day. Ivan sees everything. Ivan hears everything. Ivan is a monster.

He was sweating one minute and shivering violently the next. His kidney throbbed with pain, and he could not draw a proper breath because of the bruising to his ribs. During one intense period of cold, he groped the interior of the cell to see if they had left him a blanket but found only four slick walls instead.

He closed his eyes and slept. In his dreams, he walked through the streets of his past and encountered many of the men he had killed. They were pale and bloodless, with bullet holes in their hearts and faces. Chiara appeared, dressed in her wedding gown, and told him it was time to come back to Umbria. Olga mopped the sweat from his forehead and laid a bouquet of dead carnations at a grave in the Novodevichy Cemetery. The engraving on the headstone was in Hebrew instead of Cyrillic. It read: GABRIEL ALLON…

He woke finally to the sight of flashlights blazing in his face. The men holding them lifted him to his feet and frog-marched him up several flights of steps. Gabriel tried to count, but soon gave up. Five? Ten? Twenty? He couldn’t be sure. Using his head as a battering ram, they burst through a doorway, into the cold night air. For a moment, he was blinded by the sudden darkness. He feared they were about to hurl him from the roof-Lubyanka had a long history of such unfortunate accidents-but then his eyes adjusted and he could see they were only in the courtyard instead.