“Don’t fuck with us,” she said coldly. “Especially when it comes to matters of money. Those drilling rights in the North Sea would have been worth billions to the Kremlin. And Lancaster snatched them away.”

“Actually, I was the one who snatched them away. Which is why the Russian president and his henchmen wanted me dead.”

“And now you want to make them think they succeeded?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“Because it will make my job easier.”

“What job?”

He said nothing.

“I see,” she said softly. She sat down and drank some of her whisky. “If it were ever to become public that I—”

“I think you know me better than that.”

“How would you want it sourced?”

“British intelligence.”

“Another lie.”

“Deception,” he corrected her gently.

“And if I call your service?”

“They won’t answer. But if you call this number,” he said, handing her a slip of paper, “a rather taciturn gentleman will confirm my untimely passing.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Uzi Navot.”

“The chief of the Office?”

Gabriel nodded. “Call him on an open line. And whatever you do, don’t mention the fact that you spoke to the decedent recently. Moscow Center will be listening.”

“I’ll need a British source. A real one.”

He handed her another slip of paper. Another telephone number. “It’s his private line. Don’t abuse the privilege.”

She tucked both numbers into her handbag.

“How quickly can you get it into print?”

“If I crash it, I can do it for tomorrow’s paper.”

“What time will it appear on the Web site?”

“Midnight or so.”

A silence fell between them. She raised the drink to her lips but stopped. She had a long night ahead of her.

“What happens when the world discovers you’re not dead?” she asked.

“Who says they will?”

“You don’t intend to stay dead, do you?”

“There’s one major advantage,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“No one will ever try to kill me again.”

She placed her drink on the end table and rose. “Is there anything special you want me to say about you?”

“Say that I loved my country and my people. And say that I was very fond of England, too.”

Gabriel helped her into her coat. She slung her handbag over her shoulder and extended her hand. “It was a pleasure almost getting to know you,” she said. “I think I’m going to miss you.”

“No more tears now, Samantha.”

“No,” she said. “We will think upon revenge.”

37

WORMWOOD COTTAGE, DARTMOOR

WHEN GABRIEL RETURNED TO Wormwood Cottage that evening, he found an official-looking sedan parked in the drive. In the kitchen Miss Coventry was clearing dinner from the table, and in the study two men were hunched over a heated game of chess. Both combatants were smoking. The pieces looked like soldiers lost in the fog of war.

“Who’s winning?” asked Gabriel.

“Who do you think?” replied Ari Shamron. He looked at Keller and asked, “Are you ever going to move?”

Keller did. Shamron exhaled sadly and added Keller’s second knight to his tiny prisoner-of-war camp. The pieces stood in two neat rows next to the ashtray. Shamron had always imposed a certain discipline on those unfortunate enough to fall into his hands.

“Eat something,” he said to Gabriel. “This won’t take long.”

Miss Coventry had left a plate of lamb and peas in a warm oven. He ate alone at the kitchen table and listened to the game unfolding in the next room. The click of the chess pieces, the snap of Shamron’s old Zippo lighter: it was oddly comforting. From Keller’s agonized silence he inferred the battle was not going well. He washed his plate and cutlery, placed them on the rack to dry, and returned to the sitting room. Shamron was warming his hands against the coal-and-wood fire in the grate. He wore pressed khaki trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and an old leather bomber jacket with a tear in the left shoulder. Firelight reflected in the lenses of his ugly steel spectacles.

“Well?” asked Gabriel.

“He fought hard, but to no avail.”

“How’s his game?”

“Courageous, skillful, but lacking in strategic vision. He takes great pleasure in killing, but hasn’t the sense to realize that sometimes it’s better to let an enemy live than put him to the sword.” Shamron glanced at Gabriel and smiled. “He’s an operator, not a planner.”

Shamron returned his gaze to the fire. “Is this how you imagined it would be?”

“What’s that?”

“Your last night on earth.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “This is exactly how I imagined it would be.”

“Trapped in a safe house with me. A British safe house,” Shamron added with disdain. He looked around at the walls and ceiling. “Are they listening?”

“They say they’re not.”

“Do you trust them?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t. In fact,” Shamron said, “you should never have got mixed up in this quest for Quinn in the first place. For the record, I was against it. Uzi overruled me.”

“Since when do you listen to Uzi?”

Shamron shrugged, conceding the point. “I’ve had an empty box next to Eamon Quinn’s name for quite some time,” he said. “I wanted you and your friend to put a check in it before another plane fell out of the sky.”

“The box is still empty.”

“Not for long.” Shamron’s lighter flared. The acrid smell of Turkish tobacco mixed with the scent of English wood and coal.

“And what about you?” asked Gabriel. “Did you think it would end this way?”

“With your death?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Too many times to count.”

“There was that night in the Empty Quarter,” said Gabriel.

“What about Harwich?”

“And Moscow.”

“Yes,” said Shamron. “We’ll always have Moscow. Moscow is why we’re here.”

He smoked in silence for a moment. Normally, Gabriel would have pleaded with him to stop, but not now. Shamron was grieving. He was about to lose a son.

“Your friend from the Telegraph just got off the phone with Uzi.”

“How did it go?”

“Apparently, he spoke quite well of you. A towering talent, a great loss to the country. It seems Israel is less safe tonight.” Shamron paused, then added, “I think he actually enjoyed it.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. After all,” Shamron said, “if you’re dead, you can’t become the next chief.”

Gabriel smiled.

“Don’t get any ideas,” said Shamron. “As soon as this is over, you’re going home to Jerusalem, where you will experience a miraculous resurrection.”

“Just like—”

Shamron held up a hand. He had been raised in a village in eastern Poland where there had been regular pogroms. He had yet to make his peace with Christianity.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come to England with an extraction team,” said Gabriel.

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“But?”

“It’s important we send a message to the Russians that they will pay a heavy price if they assassinate our chief in waiting. The irony of it is that the message will be delivered by you.”

“Do you think Russians understand irony?”

“Tolstoy did. But the tsar only understands force.”

“What about the Iranians?”

Shamron considered the question before answering. “They have less to lose,” he said finally. “Therefore they will have to be handled more carefully.”

He dropped the end of his cigarette into the fire and coaxed another from his crumpled packet.

“The man you’re looking for is in Vienna. He’s staying at the InterContinental Hotel. Housekeeping has arranged accommodations for you and Keller. You’ll find two old friends there as well. Use them as you see fit.”

“What about Eli?”

“He’s still sitting in that dump in Lisbon.”

“Get him to Vienna.”

“Do you want to keep the Lisbon apartment under watch?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “Quinn will never set foot there again. Lisbon has served its purpose.”