“Pulse?”

“Okay.”

“How’s the blood loss?”

“Not too bad. I think the rounds cauterized the vessels.”

“ King Saul Boulevard is sending a doctor to the interrogation site. Can he make it?”

“He’ll be fine.” Navot handed Gabriel a small ziplock plastic bag. “Here’s a souvenir.”

Inside was Petrov’s ring. Gabriel carefully slipped the bag into his coat pocket and gestured for Sarah to get out of the van. He helped her into the backseat of the Audi, then climbed behind the wheel. Five minutes later, both vehicles were safely over the invisible border and heading north into Germany. Sarah managed to keep her emotions in check for a few minutes longer. Then she leaned her head against the window and began to weep.

“You did the right thing, Sarah. You saved Uzi’s life.”

“I’ve never shot anyone before.”

“Really?”

“Don’t make jokes, Gabriel. I don’t feel so well.”

“You will.”

“When?”

“Eventually.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Should I pull over?”

“No, keep going.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll stop just in case.”

“Maybe you should.”

Gabriel pulled to the side of the motorway and crouched at Sarah’s side as her body retched.

“I did it for you, Gabriel.”

“I know, Sarah.”

“I did it for Chiara.”

“I know.”

“How long am I going to feel this way?”

“Not long.”

“How long, Gabriel?”

He rubbed Sarah’s back as her body convulsed again.

Not long, he thought. Only forever.

FOR EVERY safe house, there is a story. A salesman who lives out of a suitcase and rarely sees home. A couple with too much money to be tied to one place for long. An adventurous soul who travels to faraway lands to take pictures and scale mountains. These are the tales told to neighbors and landlords. These are the lies that explain short-term tenants and guests who arrive in the middle of the night with keys in their pockets.

The villa near the Danish border had a story, too, though some of it happened to be true. Before the Second World War, it had been owned by a family called Rosenthal. All but one member, a young girl, perished in the Holocaust, and after emigrating to Israel in the mid-1950s she bequeathed her family home to the Office. Known as Site 22XB, the property was the jewel in Housekeeping’s crown, reserved for only the most sensitive and important operations. Gabriel believed a Russian assassin with two bullet wounds and a head filled with vital secrets certainly fell into that category. Housekeeping had agreed. They had given him the keys and made certain the pantry was well provisioned.

The house stood a hundred yards from a quiet farm road, a lonely outpost on the stark, flat plain of western Jutland. Time had taken its toll. The stucco needed a good scrubbing, the shutters were broken and peeling for want of paint, and the roof leaked when the big storms swept in from the North Sea. Inside was a similar story: dust and cobwebs, rooms not quite furnished, fixtures and appliances from a bygone era.

Indeed, to wander the halls was to step back in time, especially for Gabriel and Eli Lavon. Known to Office veterans as Château Shamron, the house had served as a planning base during Operation Wrath of God. Men had been condemned to death here, fates had been sealed. On the second floor was the room Lavon and Gabriel had shared. Now, as then, it contained nothing but a pair of narrow beds separated by a chipped nightstand. As Gabriel stood in the doorway, an image flashed in his memory: the watcher and the executioner lying awake in the darkness, one made sleepless by stress, the other by visions of blood. The ancient transistor radio that had filled the empty hours still stood on the table. It had been their link to the outside world. It had told them about wars won and lost, about an American president who resigned in disgrace; and, sometimes, on summer nights, it played music for them. The music normal boys were listening to. Boys who weren’t killing terrorists for Ari Shamron.

Gabriel tossed his bag onto his old bed-the one nearest the window-and headed downstairs to the cellar. Anton Petrov lay supine across a bare stone floor, Navot, Yaakov, and Mikhail standing over him. His hands and feet were secured, though at this point it was scarcely necessary. Petrov’s skin was ghostly white, his forehead damp with perspiration, his jaw distorted from swelling at the spot where Navot had hit him. The Russian was in desperate need of medical attention. He would get it only if he talked. If not, Gabriel would allow the rounds still lodged in his pelvis and shoulder to poison his body with sepsis. The death would be slow, feverish, and agonizing. It was the death he deserved, and Gabriel was more than prepared to grant it. He crouched at the Russian’s side and spoke to him in German.

“I believe this is yours.”

He reached into his coat pocket and removed the plastic bag Navot had given him at the Swiss border. Petrov’s ring was still inside. Gabriel removed it and pressed firmly on the stone. From the base emerged a small stylus, not much larger than a phonograph needle. Gabriel made a show of examining it, then moved it suddenly toward Petrov’s face. The Russian recoiled in fear, twisting his head violently to the right.

“What’s wrong, Anton? It’s just a ring.”

Gabriel inched it closer to the soft skin of Petrov’s neck. The Russian was now writhing in terror. Gabriel pressed the stone again, and the needle retreated safely into the base of the ring. He slipped it back into the plastic bag and handed it carefully to Navot.

“In the interest of full disclosure, we worked on a similar device. But to be honest with you, I’ve never really cared for poisons. They’re for cheap hoods like you, Anton. I’ve always preferred to do my killing with one of these.”

Gabriel removed the.45 caliber Glock from the waistband of his trousers and pointed it at Petrov’s face. The suppressor was no longer screwed into the end of the barrel. It wasn’t necessary here.

“One meter, Anton. That’s how I prefer to kill. One meter. That way I can see my enemy’s eyes before he dies. Vyshaya mera: the highest measure of punishment.” Gabriel pressed the barrel of the gun against the base of the Russian’s chin. “A grave without a marker. A corpse without a face.”

Gabriel used the barrel of the gun to open the front of Petrov’s shirt. The shoulder wound didn’t look good: bone fragments, threads of clothing. No doubt the hip was just as bad. Gabriel closed the shirt and looked directly into Petrov’s eyes.

“You’re here because your friend Vladimir Chernov betrayed you. We didn’t have to hurt him. In fact, we didn’t even have to threaten him. We just gave him a bit of money, and he told us everything we needed to know. Now it’s your turn, Anton. If you cooperate, you will be given medical attention and treated humanely. If not…”

Gabriel placed the barrel against Petrov’s shoulder and corkscrewed it into the wound. Petrov’s screams echoed off the stone walls of the cellar. Gabriel stopped before the Russian could pass out.

“Do you understand, Anton?”

The Russian nodded.

“If I stay in your presence much longer, I’m going to beat you to death with my bare hands.” He glanced at Navot. “I’m going to let my friend handle the questioning. Since you tried to kill him with your ring back in Zurich, it only seems fair. Wouldn’t you agree, Anton?”

The Russian was silent.

Gabriel stood and headed upstairs without another word. The rest of the team was sprawled in the sitting room in various states of exhaustion. Gabriel’s gaze immediately settled on the newest member of the group, a doctor who had been dispatched by King Saul Boulevard to treat Petrov’s injuries. In the lexicon of the Office, he was a sayan, a volunteer helper. Gabriel recognized him. He was a Jew from Paris who had once treated Gabriel for a severe gash to his hand.