“Is there anything you wish to say to me?” asked Gabriel.

“I’m sorry,” the Iranian gasped.

“So am I, Reza. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

Gabriel squeezed harder until he could feel cartilage beginning to crack. Then he placed the barrel of the gun against Nazari’s forehead and pulled the trigger. As the gun exploded, Keller turned away and looked into the fire. It was personal, he was thinking. And when it’s personal, it tends to get messy.

42

LOWER AUSTRIA

THE .45-CALIBER ROUND THAT GABRIEL fired at Reza Nazari contained no projectile, but its powder loading was sufficient to produce a report of ear-shattering volume and a muzzle flash that left a small round burn in the center of his forehead, like the prayer mark of a devout Muslim. It was also sufficient to drop Nazari to the floor like a stone. For several seconds he did not stir or appear to draw a breath. Then Yaakov knelt and gave him a backhanded slap across the face that brought him back to consciousness. “You bastard,” he gasped. “You fucking bastard.”

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Reza. Otherwise, the next round I fire will be real.”

There are some men who go catatonic with fear and others who respond with useless displays of false bravery. Reza Nazari chose the second, perhaps in reaction to his training, perhaps because he feared he had nothing to lose. He gave a wild flailing kick that Gabriel evaded easily, then latched onto Mikhail’s leg in an attempt to topple him. A brutal blow beneath the shoulder blades was enough to staunch the attack. Then Mikhail stepped aside to allow Yaakov to finish the job. For two years Yaakov had cared for his agent, flattered him, paid him an exorbitant sum of money. Now, for two awful minutes, he administered a beating befitting Nazari’s transgressions. He avoided striking the Iranian’s face, however. It was critical Nazari remained presentable.

Keller had not participated in the beating of Reza Nazari. Instead, he had quietly placed a chair, wooden and armless, before the fire. Nazari tumbled into it limply and offered no further resistance as Yaakov and Mikhail bound his torso to the back with duct tape. Next they secured his legs while Gabriel calmly reloaded the Glock. He showed each round to Nazari before thumbing it into the magazine. There were no more blanks. The weapon was loaded with live ammunition.

“You have a simple choice,” said Gabriel after snapping the magazine into the grip and chambering the first round. “You can live, or you can become a martyr.” He placed the tip of the barrel between Nazari’s eyes. “Which will it be, Reza?”

The Iranian stared at the gun in silence. Finally, he said, “I would like to live.”

“Wise choice.” Gabriel lowered the gun. “But I’m afraid you don’t get to live for free, Reza. You have to pay a toll.”

“How much?”

“First, you’re going to tell me how you and your Russian friends conspired to kill me.”

“And then?”

“You’re going to help me find them.”

“I wouldn’t advise that, Allon.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man who ordered your death is far too important to be killed.”

“Who was it?”

“You tell me.”

“The chief of the SVR?”

“Don’t be silly,” Nazari said incredulously. “No SVR chief would go after you without approval. The order came from the top.”

“The Russian president?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me, Allon, I know.”

“This might come as a surprise to you, Reza, but you’re the last person in the world that I trust right now.”

“I can assure you,” Nazari said, staring at the gun, “the feeling is mutual.”

He requested to be cut free and to be treated with a modicum of dignity. Gabriel refused both, though he did grant Nazari’s wish for water, if only to clear the annoying debris from his injured throat. Yaakov held the glass to his agent’s lips while he drank and afterward dabbed a few stray droplets from the front of his suit jacket. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the Iranian.

“May I have a cigarette?” he asked.

“No,” replied Gabriel.

Nazari smiled. “So it’s true after all. The great Gabriel Allon doesn’t like tobacco smoke.” Still smiling, he looked at Yaakov. “But not my friend here. I remember our first meeting in that hotel room in Istanbul. I thought we were going to set off the smoke alarm.”

It seemed as good a place as any to start, so Gabriel began his interrogation there—the autumn day, two years earlier, when Reza Nazari came to Istanbul for a round of meetings with Turkish intelligence. During a break in the proceedings, he walked to a small hotel on the Bosporus and in a room upstairs had his first meeting with a man he would know only as “Mr. Taylor.” He told Mr. Taylor that he wanted to betray his country, and as proof of his bona fides handed over a flash drive filled with high-grade intelligence, including documents related to Iran’s nuclear program.

“Were the documents genuine?”

“Of course.”

“Did you steal them?”

“I didn’t have to.”

“Who gave them to you?”

“My superiors at the Ministry of Intelligence.”

“You were bad from the beginning?”

Nazari nodded.

“Who was your control officer?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“And I’d rather not splatter your brains over the wall, but I will if I have to.”

“It was Esfahani.”

Mohsen Esfahani was deputy chief of VEVAK.

“What was the goal of the operation?” asked Gabriel.

“To influence the Office’s thinking regarding Iranian capabilities and intentions.”

“Taqiyya.”

“Call it what you will, Allon. We Persians have been at this a long time. Even longer than the Jews.”

“If I were you, Reza, I’d keep the boasting to a minimum. Otherwise, I’m going to let Mr. Taylor have his way with you.”

The Iranian fell silent. Gabriel asked about the million dollars that the Office had placed in a private bank in Luxembourg for Nazari’s use.

“We assumed you were watching the money,” the Iranian replied, “so Esfahani instructed me to spend some of it. I bought gifts for my children and a strand of pearls for my wife.”

“Nothing for Esfahani?”

“A gold watch, but he made me return it. Mohsen is a true believer. He’s like you, Allon. He’s totally incorruptible.”

“Wherever did you hear something like that?”

“Our file on you is very thick.” Nazari paused, then added, “Almost as thick as Moscow Center’s. But then, I suppose that’s understandable. You’ve never set foot on Iranian soil, at least not that we’re aware of. Russia, though . . .” He smiled. “Well, let’s just say you have a lot of enemies there, Allon.”

Among the many things the Office did not know about their prized agent was that he served as VEVAK’s primary liaison to the SVR. The reason was quite simple, he explained. Nazari had studied Russian history at university, spoke Russian fluently, and had operated in Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation. In Kabul he had met many KGB officers, including a young man who seemed destined for promotion. That turned out to be the case; the man was now one of Moscow Center’s most powerful players. Nazari met regularly with him on issues ranging from Iran’s nuclear program to the civil war in Syria, where VEVAK and the SVR had worked tirelessly to ensure the survival of their embattled client regime.

“His name?” asked Gabriel.

“Like you,” replied Nazari, “he uses many different names. But if I had to guess, I’d say his real name is Rozanov.”

“First name?”

“Alexei.”

“Describe him.”

The Iranian offered a somewhat vague description of a man who was approximately six feet tall and had thinning gray-blond hair that he combed in the manner of the Russian president.