Gabriel watched the taillights of the car disappear down the graceful Viennese street. Then he saw Herr Adler emerge from the park. He removed his hat, the signal the Iranian was clean, and started back to the hotel. Herr Adler had requested permission to skip that evening’s festivities. Herr Adler had never been one for the rough stuff.

41

LOWER AUSTRIA

WHERE ARE WE GOING?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

“I can’t be away from the hotel for long.”

“Don’t worry, Reza. No one’s going to be turning into a pumpkin tonight.”

Yaakov took a long look over his shoulder. Vienna was a smudge of yellow light on the horizon. Before them lay the rolling cropland and vineyards of Lower Austria. Mikhail was driving a few kilometers over the speed limit. He was holding the wheel with one hand and with the other was tapping a nervous rhythm on the shift. It seemed to annoy Reza Nazari.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked Yaakov.

“You may refer to him as Isaac.”

“Son of Abraham, poor kid. Good thing the archangel appeared. Otherwise . . .” His voice trailed off. He was staring out the window at the black fields. “Why aren’t we meeting in our usual place?”

“A change of scenery.”

“Why?”

“Did you happen to see the news today?”

“Allon?”

Yaakov nodded.

“My condolences,” said the Iranian.

“Spare me, Reza.”

“He was going to be the chief, was he not?”

“One heard rumors to that effect.”

“So now I suppose Uzi will keep his job. He’s a good man, Uzi, but he’s no Gabriel Allon. Uzi got all the credit for blowing up our enrichment facilities, but everyone knows it was Allon who inserted those sabotaged centrifuges into our supply chain.”

“What centrifuges?”

Reza Nazari smiled. It was a professional smile, careful, discreet. He was a small, slight man with deeply set brown eyes and a closely trimmed beard, a man of the desk rather than the field, a man of moderation—or so he had claimed when he made his initial approach to the Office two years earlier, during a working visit to Istanbul. He said he wanted to spare his country another disastrous war, that he wanted to serve as a bridge between the Office and forward-thinking men like himself inside VEVAK. The bridge had not come cheap. Nazari had been paid more than a million dollars, a staggering sum by Office standards. In exchange, he had supplied a steady stream of high-grade intelligence that had given Israel’s politicians and military leaders an unprecedented window on Iranian intentions. Nazari was so valuable that the Office had created a bolt-hole for his family in the event his treachery were ever discovered. Unbeknownst to Nazari, the escape procedures had been activated earlier that day.

“We were closer to a weapon than you realized,” Nazari was saying. “If Allon hadn’t blown up those four enrichment facilities, we could have had a weapon within a year. But we rebuilt those facilities and added a few more. And now . . .”

“You’re close again.”

Nazari nodded. “But that doesn’t seem to bother your friends in America. The president wants his deal. It’s legacy time, as they say.”

“The president’s legacy is of no concern to the Office.”

“But you share his conclusion that a nuclear Iran is inevitable. Uzi has no appetite for a military confrontation. Allon was another story, though. He would have flattened us if he had the chance.” The Iranian shook his head slowly. “One wonders why he was following that car in London.”

“Yes,” said Yaakov. “One wonders.”

A road sign floated past Nazari’s window: CZECH REPUBLIC 42 KM. He looked at his watch again.

“Why didn’t we meet in our usual place?”

“We have a little surprise for you, Reza.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“Something to show our appreciation for everything you’ve done.”

“How much farther?”

“Not far.”

“I have to be back at my hotel by midnight at the latest.”

“Don’t worry, Reza. No pumpkins.”

Yaakov Rossman had been entirely honest in two important respects. He did indeed have a surprise for his prized agent, and they were not far from their destination. It was a villa located about five kilometers west of the town of Eibesthal, a quaint, tidy dwelling bordered on one side by a vineyard and on the other by a dormant field. The exterior of the villa was a pleasing Italianate yellow; its windows were framed in white. It was unthreatening in every way except for its isolation. More than a kilometer separated the house from its nearest neighbor. A cry for help would go unanswered. The crack of an unsuppressed gunshot would die in the rolling terrain.

The villa was set about fifty meters from the road and reached by an unpaved drive lined with pine trees. Parked outside was an Audi A6, its engine block ticking softly, its hood warm to the touch. Mikhail pulled in next to it, killed the engine, killed the lights. Yaakov looked at Nazari and smiled hospitably.

“You didn’t bring anything stupid tonight, did you, Reza?”

“Like what?”

“Like a gun.”

“No gun,” answered the Iranian. “Only a suicide vest.”

Yaakov’s smile dimmed. “Open your coat,” he said.

“How long have we been working together?”

“Two years,” answered Yaakov, “but tonight is different.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see in a minute.”

“Who’s in there?”

“Open your coat, Reza.”

The Iranian did as he was told. Yaakov gave him a quick but thorough search. He found nothing but a billfold, a mobile phone, a packet of French cigarettes, a lighter, and a key to a room in the Vienna InterContinental. He stuffed all the items into the seat pocket and nodded into the rearview mirror. Mikhail climbed from behind the wheel and opened Nazari’s door. In the sudden light Yaakov saw the first trace of something more than just apprehension in the Iranian’s face.

“Something wrong, Reza?”

“You’re an Israeli, I’m an Iranian. Why should I be nervous?”

“You’re our most important asset, Reza. Someday they’re going to write a book about us.”

“May it be published long after we’re dead.”

Nazari stepped out of the car and with Mikhail at his side started toward the entrance of the villa. It was a walk of twenty paces, long enough for Yaakov to extract himself from the backseat and draw his weapon from his hip holster. He slipped the gun into his coat pocket and was a step behind his agent when they reached the door. It yielded to Mikhail’s touch. Nazari hesitated, then, nudged by Yaakov, followed Mikhail inside.

The entrance hall was in semidarkness, but light glowed from within and wood smoke hung on the air. Mikhail led the way into the sitting room, where a large fire burned in the open hearth. Gabriel and Keller stood before it, their backs to the room, seemingly lost in thought. Seeing the two men, Nazari froze and then recoiled. Yaakov seized one arm, Mikhail the other. Together they lifted Nazari slightly so that his shoes could gain no purchase on the bare wooden floor.

Gabriel and Keller exchanged a look, a smile, a private unspoken joke at their visitor’s expense. Then Gabriel turned slowly, as if until that moment he had been unaware of the commotion behind him. Nazari was wriggling, a fish on a line, his sunken eyes wide with terror. Gabriel considered him calmly, his head cocked slightly to one side, a hand resting against his chin.

“Something wrong, Reza?” he asked finally.

“You’re—”

“Dead?” Gabriel smiled. “Sorry, Reza, but it appears you missed.”

On the coffee table was a .45-caliber Glock, a man stopper, a weapon of mass destruction. Gabriel reached down, picked up the gun by the grip, pondered its weight and balance. He offered the gun to Keller, who held up a hand defensively, as though he were being offered an ember from the fire. Then Gabriel approached Nazari slowly and stopped three feet away from him. The gun was in Gabriel’s right hand. With his left hand he reached out with the speed of a striking snake and seized Nazari’s throat. Instantly, the Iranian’s face took on the color of a ripened plum.