“Good news from home,” said Lavon. “Your body arrived safely. It’s on its way to Jerusalem now.”

“How far are we taking this?”

“Just far enough so that the Russians notice.”

“And my wife?”

“She’s grieving, of course, but she’s surrounded by friends.”

Gabriel plucked the remote from Mikhail’s fingers and surfed the news channels. Apparently, his fifteen minutes were over, for even the BBC had moved on. He paused on CNN, where a reporter was standing outside the headquarters of the International Atomic Energy Agency, site of the negotiations between the United States, its European allies, and the Islamic Republic of Iran. Unfortunately for Israel and the Sunni Arab states of the Middle East, the two sides were close to a deal that would leave Iran as a threshold nuclear power.

“It seems your death couldn’t have come at a worse time,” said Lavon.

“I did the best I could.” Gabriel glanced around at the other occupants of the room and added, “We all did.”

“Yes,” agreed Lavon. “But so did the Iranians.”

Gabriel was looking at the television screen again. “Is our friend in there?”

Lavon nodded. “He doesn’t sit at the table with the negotiators, but he’s part of the Iranian support staff.”

“Have we had any contact with him since he arrived in Vienna?”

“Why don’t you ask his case officer?”

Gabriel looked at Yaakov Rossman, who was still peering into the street below. He had short black hair and a pockmarked face. Yaakov had spent his career running agents in some of the most dangerous places in the world—the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, Lebanon, Syria, and now Iran. He lied to his agents as a matter of course and knew that on occasion they lied to him, too. Some lies were an acceptable part of the bargain, but not the lie he had been told by his prized Iranian source. It had been part of a plot to assassinate the future chief of Yaakov’s service, and for that the Iranian would have to be punished. Not immediately, though. First he would be given a chance to atone for his sins.

“I usually pop into town,” Yaakov explained, “whenever the two sides are negotiating. The Americans aren’t always so forthcoming in their readouts of what’s going on at the table. Reza fills in the pieces for us.”

“So he won’t be surprised to hear from you?”

“Not at all. In fact,” added Yaakov, “he’s probably wondering why I haven’t made contact already.”

“He probably thinks you’re sitting shiva for me in Jerusalem.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Where’s the family?”

“They crossed the border a couple of hours ago.”

“Any problems?”

Yaakov shook his head.

“And Reza doesn’t know anything?”

Yaakov smiled. “Not yet.”

He resumed his surveillance of the street. Gabriel looked at Lavon and asked, “What room is he staying in?”

Lavon nodded toward the wall.

“How did you manage that?”

“We hacked into the system and got his room number.”

“Been inside?”

“Whenever we feel like it.”

The wizards in the Office’s Technology department had developed a magic cardkey capable of opening any electronic hotel room door in the world. The first swipe stole the code. The second opened the deadbolt.

“And we left a little something behind,” said Lavon.

He reached down and raised the volume on a laptop computer. A Bach concerto was playing on the bedside radio in the next room.

“What’s the coverage?” asked Gabriel.

“Room only. We didn’t bother with the phone. He never uses it for outside calls.”

“Anything unusual?”

“He talks in his sleep, and he’s a secret drinker. Other than that, nothing.”

Lavon lowered the volume on the laptop; Gabriel looked at the television screen. This time, a reporter was standing on a balcony overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem.

“I hear he was about to be a father,” said Mikhail.

“Really?” asked Gabriel.

“Twins.”

“You don’t say.”

Mikhail, affecting boredom, switched back to the football game. Gabriel returned to his room and waited for the phone to ring.

The gleaming headquarters of the International Atomic Energy Agency was located on the opposite bank of the river Danube, in a district of Vienna known as the International City. The talks between the Americans and the Iranians continued there until eight p.m., when both sides, in a rare show of accord, agreed it was time to break for the night. The chief American negotiator appeared briefly before reporters to say that progress had been made. Her Iranian counterpart was less sanguine. He muttered something about American intransigence and climbed into the back of his official limousine.

It was half past eight by the time the Iranian motorcade arrived at the InterContinental Hotel. The delegation crossed the lobby under heavy security and boarded several elevators that had been held for their convenience, much to the annoyance of the hotel’s other guests. Only one member of the delegation, Reza Nazari, a veteran VEVAK officer who was posing as an Iranian diplomat, was staying on the seventh floor. He made his way along the empty corridor to Room 710, inserted his cardkey into the slot, and entered. The sound of the door closing was audible in the next room, where only one man, Yaakov Rossman, remained. Owing to the transmitter concealed beneath the Iranian’s bed, Yaakov heard other sounds as well. A coat tossed across a chair, shoes hitting the floor, a call to room service, a toilet flushing. Yaakov lowered the volume on the laptop computer, lifted the receiver of the room phone, and dialed. Two rings, then the voice of Reza Nazari. In English, Yaakov explained what he wanted.

“It’s not possible, my friend,” said Nazari. “Not tonight.”

“All things are possible, Reza. Especially tonight.”

The Iranian hesitated, then asked, “When?”

“Five minutes.”

“Where?”

Yaakov told the Iranian what to do, hung up the phone, and raised the volume on the laptop. A man canceling his room service order, a man pulling on his shoes and overcoat, a door closing, footsteps in the hall. Yaakov reached for the phone again and dialed Room 409. Two rings, then the voice of a dead man. The dead man sounded pleased by the news. All things were possible, thought Yaakov as he hung up the phone. Especially tonight.

Three floors below, Gabriel rose from his bed and walked calmly to the window. And in his thoughts he was calculating how long it would be before the man who had conspired to kill him appeared in the hotel’s floodlit forecourt. Forty-five seconds was all it took before he shot from the entrance. Viewed from above, he was an unthreatening figure, a speck in the night, a nothing man. He made his way to the street, waited for the sparse evening traffic to pass, and then crossed into the Stadtpark, a rhombus of darkness in an otherwise illuminated city. No one from the Iranian delegation followed him, only a small man in a neat fedora who was registered at the hotel under the name Feliks Adler.

Gabriel went to the phone and made two calls, one to the guest in Room 428, the other to the valet to request his car. Then he shoved a Beretta into the waistband of his jeans, pulled on a leather jacket, and tugged a flat cap low over the face that had appeared on far too many television screens that day. The corridor outside his room was empty, as was the elevator that bore him to the lobby. He passed unnoticed through the security men and police officers and headed into the cold night. The Audi waited in the drive; Keller was already behind the wheel. Gabriel directed him to the eastern edge of the Stadtpark, and they were idling curbside when Reza Nazari emerged into the lamplight. A Mercedes waited there, headlamps doused, two men inside. Nazari slid into the backseat and the car accelerated rapidly away. The Iranian did not know it then, but he had just made the second biggest mistake of his life.