He opened the bottom drawer of his desk. It contained a bottle, a glass, and a packet of Dunhills, a taste for which he had acquired while working in London before the collapse of the Soviet Union—the great catastrophe, as Rozanov referred to it. He had touched neither alcohol nor tobacco in ten months. Now he poured himself a generous measure of vodka and tapped loose one of the Dunhills. Something made him hesitate before lighting it. He reached for the phone again, stopped, and inserted a DVD into his computer instead. The disk whirred; Brompton Road appeared on his screen. He watched it all from the beginning. Then he watched the man running headlong toward the white car. As the image turned to hash, Alexei Rozanov smiled a second time. “The fool,” he said softly, and he struck a match.

Rozanov ordered a car from the motor pool for four o’clock. Because he was going against Moscow’s nightmarish traffic, it took only forty minutes to reach the Kremlin’s Borovitskaya Tower. He entered the Grand Presidential Palace and, escorted by a waiting aide, made his way upstairs to the federal president’s office. The Gatekeeper was at his desk in the anteroom. His dour expression was identical to the one usually worn by the president himself.

“You’re early, Alexei.”

“Better than late.”

“Have a seat.”

Rozanov sat. Five o’clock came and went. So did six. Finally, at half past, the Gatekeeper came for him.

“He can give you two minutes.”

“Two minutes are all I need.”

The Gatekeeper led Rozanov along a marble hall to a pair of heavy golden doors. A guard opened one, Rozanov entered alone. The office was a cavernous space, darkened except for a sphere of light that illuminated the desk where the Boss sat. He was looking down at a stack of papers and continued to do so long after Rozanov arrived. The SVR man stood before the desk in silence, his hands clasped protectively over his genitals.

“Well?” asked the Boss finally. “Is it true or not?”

“The London rezident says it is.”

“I’m not asking the London rezident. I’m asking you.”

“It’s true, sir.”

The Boss looked up. “You’re sure?”

Rozanov nodded.

“Say it, Alexei.”

“He’s dead, sir.”

The Boss looked down at his documents again. “Remind me how much we owe the Irishman.”

“Under our agreement,” Rozanov said judiciously, “he was to receive ten million on completion of the first phase of the operation and another ten million for the second.”

“Where is he now?”

“In an SVR safe house.”

“Where, Alexei?”

“Budapest.”

“And the woman?”

“Here in Moscow,” answered Rozanov, “awaiting a departure order.”

A silence dropped between them, like the silence of a cemetery at night. Rozanov was relieved when the Boss finally spoke.

“I’d like to make a small change,” he said.

“What sort of change?”

“Tell the Irishman he’ll receive all twenty million on completion of both phases of the operation.”

“That could be a problem.”

“No, it won’t.”

The Boss pushed a file folder across his massive desk. Rozanov lifted the cover and looked inside. Death solves all problems, he thought. No man, no problem.

39

LONDON–VIENNA

BUT GABRIEL ALLON WAS NOT DEAD, of course. In fact, at the very moment Alexei Rozanov was entering the Kremlin, he was boarding a British Airways flight at London’s Heathrow Airport. His hair had been tinted silver; his eyes were no longer green. In his coat pocket was a worn British passport and several credit cards in the same name, a gift from Graham Seymour, given with the approval of the prime minister himself. His seat was in first class, third row, next to the window. As he dropped into it, a flight attendant offered him a drink and a selection of newspapers. He chose the Telegraph and read of his death as the redbrick western suburbs of London sank away beneath him.

The flight from Heathrow to Vienna was two hours in duration. He pretended to read, he pretended to sleep, he picked at his plastic in-flight meal, he rebuffed a kindly attempt at conversation by his seatmate. Dead men, it seemed, did not talk on airplanes. Nor did they carry cellular devices. When the plane touched down at Vienna’s Schwechat Airport, he was the only passenger in first class who did not automatically reach for a mobile phone. Yes, he thought as he removed his bag from the overhead bin, death had its advantages.

In the concourse he followed the signs to passport control, pausing now and again to take his bearings, despite the fact that he could find his way there blindfolded. The eyes of the young immigration officer lingered on his face a moment too long.

“Mr. Stewart?” he asked, looking at the passport now.

“Yes,” replied Gabriel in a neutral accent.

“Your first time in Austria?”

“No.”

The border policeman thumbed through the pages of the passport and found proof of previous visits.

“What brings you here this time?”

“Music.”

The Austrian stamped the passport and returned it without comment. Gabriel walked to the arrivals hall, where Christopher Keller was standing next to a currency-exchange kiosk. He followed Gabriel outside to the short-term parking lot. A car had been left there, an Audi A6, slate gray.

“Better than a Škoda,” said Keller.

Gabriel pried the key loose from the left rear wheel well and searched the undercarriage for a bomb. Then he unlocked the doors, tossed his bag into the backseat, and climbed behind the wheel.

“Maybe I should drive,” said Keller.

“No,” replied Gabriel as he started the engine. It was his turf.

He had no need of a map or navigation device; his memory served as his guide. He followed the Ost Autobahn to the Danaukanal and then headed west through the apartment blocks of Landstrasse to the Stadtpark. The InterContinental Hotel stood on the southern flank of the park, on the Johannesgasse. There were an unusual number of uniformed police in the surrounding streets and more in the hotel’s drive.

“The nuclear talks,” explained a valet as Gabriel stepped from the car and removed his bag from the backseat.

“Which delegation is staying here?” he asked, but the valet hoisted an insincere smile and said, “Enjoy your stay, Herr Stewart.”

There were more police in the lobby, uniformed and plainclothes, and a few tieless thugs who looked like Iranian security. Gabriel and Keller walked past them to Reception, checked into their rooms, and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Keller had been assigned 428. Gabriel was in 409. He swiped his cardkey and hesitated briefly before twisting the latch. Inside, Mozart issued softly from the bedside radio. He switched it off, searched the room thoroughly, and hung his clothing neatly in the closet for the benefit of the housekeeping staff. Then he picked up the telephone and dialed the hotel operator.

“Feliks Adler, please.”

“My pleasure.”

The phone rang twice. Then Eli Lavon came on the line.

“What room are you in, Herr Adler?”

“Seven twelve.”

Gabriel hung up the phone and headed upstairs.

40

INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL, VIENNA

ELI LAVON UNCHAINED THE DOOR to him and drew him hastily inside. Lavon was not the only one present. Yaakov Rossman was peering through a slit in the curtains, and stretched upon the double bed, his eyes fixed dully on a Premier League football match, was Mikhail Abramov. Neither man seemed particularly relieved to see Gabriel still among the living, especially Mikhail. Mikhail should have died a couple of times himself.