At Green’s Restaurant and Oyster Bar, an elegant watering hole in St. James’s frequented by inhabitants of London’s art world, the mood was decidedly funereal. They had known Gabriel Allon not as an intelligence operative but as one of the finest art restorers of his generation—though some had been unwittingly drawn into his operations, and a few had been willing accomplices. Julian Isherwood, the noted dealer who had employed Allon for longer than he cared to remember, was inconsolable with grief. Even tubby Oliver Dimbleby, the lecherous dealer from Bury Street who was thought to be incapable of tears, was seen sobbing over a glass of Montrachet he’d poached from Roddy Hutchinson. Jeremy Crabbe, the director of Old Master paintings at the venerable Bonhams auction house, called Allon “one of the greats, truly.” Not to be outdone, Simon Mendenhall, the permanently suntanned chief auctioneer from Christie’s, said the art world would never be the same. Simon had never laid eyes on Gabriel Allon and probably couldn’t pick him out of a police lineup. And yet somehow he had spoken words of undeniable truth, something he rarely did.

There was sadness, too, across the pond in America. A former president for whom Allon had run many secret errands said the Israeli intelligence officer had played a crucial role in keeping the U.S. homeland safe from another 9/11-style terror spectacular. Adrian Carter, the longtime chief of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, called him “a partner, a friend, perhaps the bravest man I have ever known.” Zoe Reed, an anchor on CNBC, faltered while reading a scripted account of Allon’s death. Sarah Bancroft, a special curator at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, inexplicably canceled her appointments for the day. A few hours later she told her secretary she would be taking the remainder of the week off. Those who witnessed her abrupt departure from the museum described her as distraught.

It was no secret that Allon had been fond of Italy, and for the most part Italy had been fond of him, too. At the Vatican, His Holiness Pope Paul VII repaired to his private chapel upon hearing the news, while his powerful private secretary, Monsignor Luigi Donati, made several urgent phone calls, trying to determine whether it was true. One of the calls was to General Cesare Ferrari, chief of the Carabinieri’s famed Art Squad. The general had nothing to report. Nor did Francesco Tiepolo, the owner of a prominent Venetian restoration firm who had retained Allon to secretly restore several of the city’s most prominent altarpieces. Allon’s wife was from the ancient Jewish ghetto, and his father-in-law was the chief rabbi of the city. Donati placed several calls to the rabbi’s office and home. All went unanswered, leaving the papal private secretary no choice but to assume the worst.

In several other places around the world, however, the reaction to Allon’s death was far different—especially inside the complex of heavily guarded buildings located in the southwestern Moscow suburb of Yasenevo. The complex had once been the headquarters of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate. Now it belonged to the SVR. Even so, most of those who worked there still referred to it by its old KGB name, which was Moscow Center.

In most parts of the complex, life went on normally that day. But not in the third-floor office of Colonel Alexei Rozanov. He had arrived at Yasenevo at three a.m. in a blinding snowstorm and had spent the remainder of the morning in a tense exchange of cables with the SVR’s rezident in London, a close friend named Dmitry Ulyanin. The cables were protected by the SVR’s latest encryption and transmitted over the service’s most secure link. Nevertheless, Rozanov and Ulyanin discussed the matter as though it were a routine problem involving the visa request of a British businessman. By one that afternoon, Ulyanin and his well-staffed London rezidentura had seen enough to convince them that the Telegraph report was true. Rozanov, a cynic by nature, remained skeptical, however. Finally, at two o’clock, he snatched up the receiver of his secure phone and dialed Ulyanin directly. Ulyanin had encouraging news.

“We spotted the old man leaving the big building on the Thames about an hour ago.”

The big building on the Thames was the headquarters of MI6, and the old man was Ari Shamron. The London rezidentura had been following Shamron on and off since his arrival in the United Kingdom.

“Where did he go next?”

“He went to Heathrow and boarded an El Al flight to Ben-Gurion. By the way, Alexei, the flight was delayed by several minutes.”

“Why?”

“It seemed the ground crew had to load one final item into the cargo hold.”

“What was that?”

“A coffin.”

The secure line crackled and hissed during the ten long seconds during which Alexei Rozanov did not speak.

“Are you sure it was a coffin?” he asked finally.

“Alexei, please.”

“Maybe it was a recently deceased British Jew who wished to be buried in the Promised Land.”

“It wasn’t,” said Ulyanin. “The old man stood at attention on the tarmac while the coffin was being loaded.”

Rozanov killed the connection, hesitated, and then dialed the most important number in Russia. A male voice answered. Rozanov recognized it. Inside the Kremlin the man was known only as the Gatekeeper.

“I need to see the Boss,” Rozanov said.

“The Boss is tied up all afternoon.”

“It’s important.”

“So is our relationship with Germany.”

Rozanov swore softly. He’d forgotten that the German chancellor was in town.

“It will only take a few minutes,” he said.

“There’s a short break between the last meeting and the dinner. I might be able to squeeze you in.”

“Tell him I have good news.”

“You’d better,” the Gatekeeper said, “because the chancellor is giving him quite an earful about Ukraine.”

“What time should I be there?”

“Five o’clock,” said the Gatekeeper, and the line went dead. Alexei Rozanov replaced the receiver and watched the snow falling on the grounds of Yasenevo. Then he thought about a coffin being loaded onto an Israeli jetliner at Heathrow Airport while an old man stood at attention on the tarmac, and for the first time in almost a year he actually smiled.

In point of fact, it had been ten months to the day. Ten months since Alexei Rozanov had learned that his old friend and comrade Pavel Zhirov had been found in a birch forest in Tver Oblast, frozen solid, two bullets in his brain. Ten months since he had been summoned to the Kremlin for a meeting with the federal president himself. The Boss wanted Rozanov to undertake a mission of vengeance. A series of messy killings wouldn’t do. The Boss wanted to punish his enemies in a way that would sow discord among their ranks and make them think twice about ever interfering in Russia’s affairs again. More than anything, though, the Boss wanted to make certain that Gabriel Allon never became chief of Israel’s secret intelligence service. The Boss had big plans. He wanted to restore Russia’s faded glory, reclaim its lost empire. And Gabriel Allon, an intelligence operative from a minuscule country, was one of his most meddlesome opponents.

Rozanov had thought long and hard about his plan, had plotted it with care and assembled the necessary pieces. Then, with the blessing of the federal president, he had ordered the killing that had set the operational wheels turning. Graham Seymour, the chief of MI6, had reacted the way Rozanov had expected he would. So had Allon. Now his body lay in the belly of a jetliner bound for Ben-Gurion Airport. Rozanov supposed they would bury him on the Mount of Olives, next to the grave of his son. He didn’t really much care. He cared only that Allon was no longer among the living.