“Age?”

“Could be fifty.”

“Languages?”

“He can speak any language he sets his mind to.”

“How often do you meet?”

“Once every two or three months, more often if necessary.”

“Where?”

“Sometimes I travel to Moscow. Usually, we meet on neutral ground in Europe.”

“What kind of neutral ground?”

“Safe houses, restaurants.” He shrugged. “The usual.”

“When was the last time?”

“A month ago.”

“Where?”

“Copenhagen.”

“Where in Copenhagen?”

“A little restaurant in the New Harbor.”

“Did you talk about nukes and Syria that night?”

“Actually,” said Nazari, “there was only one item on the agenda.”

“What was that?”

“You.”

43

LOWER AUSTRIA

BUT THEY WERE GETTING AHEAD of themselves, because Copenhagen was not the first time that Reza Nazari and Alexei Rozanov had dwelt long and hard on the subject of Gabriel Allon. The name had featured prominently in many of their previous meetings, but never with more urgency or anger than during a dinner ten months earlier in the old town of Zurich. The SVR was in crisis. The body of Pavel Zhirov had just been found frozen solid in Tver Oblast, Madeline Hart had defected to Britain, and a Russian energy company owned by the Kremlin had just been stripped of the rights to drill for oil in the North Sea.

“And the cause of it all,” said Nazari, “was you.”

“Says who?”

“Says the only person who matters in Russia. Says the Boss.”

“I assume the Boss wanted me dead.”

“Not just dead,” replied Nazari. “He wanted it done in such a way that Russia couldn’t be implicated. He also wanted to punish the British. Graham Seymour, in particular.”

“Which is why the Russians chose Eamon Quinn.”

Nazari said nothing.

“I take it you were familiar with Quinn’s name.”

“I considered him a friend.”

“Because you were the one who retained Quinn to build antitank weapons for Hezbollah.”

Nazari nodded.

“A weapon that could make a ball of fire travel a thousand feet per second.”

“They were very effective, as the IDF discovered.”

Yaakov reached for Nazari in anger, but Gabriel stopped him and continued with his questioning.

“What did Rozanov want from you?”

“At that point, only an introduction.”

“And you agreed?”

“When it came to you,” said Nazari, “our interests intersected with those of the Russians.”

At that time, Nazari resumed, Quinn was living in Venezuela under the protection of a dying Hugo Chavez. His future was uncertain. It was not at all clear that Chavez’s successor would allow him to remain in the country or have use of a Venezuelan passport. Cuba was a possibility, but Quinn wasn’t interested in living under the thumb of the Castro brothers. He needed a new home, a new sponsor.

“The timing,” said Nazari, “couldn’t have been better.”

“Where did you meet?”

“In a hotel in downtown Caracas.”

“Was there anyone else there?”

“Rozanov brought a woman.”

Gabriel held up a photograph of Katerina standing on Quinn’s balcony in Lisbon. Nazari nodded.

“What was her role in the operation?”

“I wasn’t privy to all the details. At that point, I was just the conduit to Quinn.”

“How much was he paid?”

“Ten million.”

“In advance?”

“On completion of the assignment.”

“My death?”

Nazari glanced at Keller and said, “His, too.”

Which brought them back to Copenhagen. Alexei Rozanov was on edge that night, but excited. The first target had been chosen. All Rozanov needed was someone to whisper Quinn’s name into the ear of Israeli and British intelligence. He asked Nazari to be his messenger, and Nazari promptly turned him down.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to do anything that might endanger my position with Mr. Taylor.”

“What changed your mind?”

Nazari was silent.

“How much did he pay you, Reza?”

“Two million.”

“Where’s the money?”

“He wanted to deposit it in a Moscow bank, but I insisted on Switzerland.”

Gabriel asked Nazari for the name of the bank, the account number, and any passwords. Nazari supplied the information. The bank was in Geneva. Recently, the Office had found it necessary to examine the institution’s balance sheet. Getting access to Nazari’s funds wouldn’t pose much of a challenge.

“I don’t suppose you mentioned any of this to Mohsen Esfahani.”

“No,” Nazari answered after a moment’s hesitation. “Mohsen knows nothing.”

“And your wife?” asked Gabriel. “Did you mention it to her?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because I’m curious by nature.”

“No,” said Nazari, again after a hesitation. “My wife knows nothing.”

“Maybe you should tell her.”

Gabriel accepted a mobile phone from Mikhail and offered it to Nazari. The Iranian stared at the device, uncomprehending.

“Go ahead, Reza. Call her.”

“What have you done?”

“We’ve pulled the fire alarm.”

“What does that mean?”

It was Yaakov who explained. “Do you remember the bolt-hole we created for you and your family, Reza? The bolt-hole that wasn’t necessary because you were never the real thing?”

Panic spread like wildfire across the Iranian’s face.

“But you never mentioned any of that to your wife,” Yaakov continued. “In fact, you left the bolt-hole in place, just in case things went sideways for you at VEVAK and you needed a port in the storm. All we had to do was pull the fire alarm and they—”

“Where are they?” Nazari interrupted.

“I can tell you where they aren’t, Reza, and that’s the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

A dangerous calm settled into Nazari’s sunken eyes. They moved slowly from Yaakov to Gabriel.

“You just made a mistake, my friend. A man such as yourself knows well the hazards in targeting innocent family members.”

“That’s one of the great things about being dead, Reza. I’m no longer bound by a guilty conscience.” Gabriel paused, then added, “It clarifies my thinking.” He withdrew the mobile phone. “The question is,” he asked, “have I clarified your thinking, too?”

Nazari’s gaze moved from Gabriel’s face to the fire. The dangerous calm was gone. It had been replaced by hopelessness, a realization he had no choice but to place himself at the mercy of a mortal enemy.

“What do you want from me?” he asked finally.

“I want you to save your family. And yourself.”

“And how might I do that?”

“By helping me find Eamon Quinn and Alexei Rozanov.”

“It’s not possible, Allon.”

“Says who?”

“Says the Boss.”

“I’m the boss now,” said Gabriel. “And you’re working for me.”

They spent the next hour going over everything again from the beginning. Particular attention was paid to the details of the bank account in Geneva and the circumstances of Nazari’s last meeting with Alexei Rozanov in Copenhagen. The precise date, the name of the restaurant, the time and manner of their arrival, the names of the hotels where they had stayed.

“And your next meeting?” asked Gabriel.

“We have nothing planned.”

“Who usually initiates contact?”

“That depends on the state of play. If Alexei has something to discuss, he makes contact and suggests a venue. And if I need to see him—”

“How do you make contact with him?”

“In a way that you and the NSA can’t monitor.”

“You drop a chatty e-mail to a harmless-looking account?”

“Sometimes,” said Nazari, “the simple ways are best.”

“What’s Rozanov’s address?”

“He uses several.”

Nazari then recited four addresses from memory. They were all random combinations of letters and numerals. It was an impressive feat of recall.