They were in the back of Rozanov’s SVR car, which was stuck in traffic along Kosygina Street. Apparently, there was an accident somewhere ahead. There usually was.

“Who was he?” Katerina asked.

“The young man you nearly killed?”

She nodded.

“He’s a recent graduate of the Red Banner Institute. Until today, I had high hopes for him.”

“What were you planning to use him for?”

“Muscle work,” said Rozanov without a trace of irony.

The car crept forward at a walking pace. Rozanov withdrew his packet of Dunhills from the breast pocket of his overcoat and extracted one thoughtfully.

“When you return to your apartment,” he said after a moment, “you’ll find a suitcase waiting in the entrance hall, along with a passport and your travel documents. You leave first thing in the morning.”

“For where?”

“You’ll spend one night in Warsaw to establish your identity. Then you’ll make your way across Europe to Rotterdam. We’ve booked a room for you at a hotel near the ferry terminal. A car will be waiting for you on the other side.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Renault. The key will be concealed in the usual place. The weapons will be hidden in the back. We got you a Skorpion.” Rozanov smiled. “You always liked the Skorpion, didn’t you, Katerina?”

“What about Quinn?” she asked.

“He’ll meet you at your hotel.” Rozanov paused, then added, “I wouldn’t expect him to be in a good mood.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The president has decided to withhold payment of Quinn’s money until he completes the second phase of the operation.”

“Why would the president do something like that?”

“To provide Quinn with an incentive,” answered Rozanov. “Our Irish friend has a long history of taking matters into his own hands. That text message he insisted on sending to Allon almost destroyed a perfectly planned operation.”

“You should never have given him Allon’s number.”

“I had no choice. Quinn was very specific in his demands. He wanted Allon to know there was a bomb in that car. And he wanted him to know who put it there.”

They had managed to inch their way back to the Sparrow Hills observation point. The newlyweds were gone; a new couple had taken their place. Posed with them was a child, a girl of six or seven in a white dress, with flowers in her hair.

“Pretty girl,” said Rozanov.

“Yes,” said Katerina distantly.

Rozanov scrutinized her for a moment. “Is it my imagination,” he asked at last, “or are you reluctant to return to the field?”

“It’s your imagination, Alexei.”

“Because if you’re not capable of performing your duties, I need to know.”

“Ask your new castrati whether I’m capable.”

“I know you were—”

“It’s not a problem,” she said, cutting him off.

“I was hoping that would be your answer.”

“You knew it would be.”

They had arrived at the source of the traffic jam. It was an old babushka lying dead in the street. Her drawstring avoska lay next to her; apples were scattered across the asphalt. A few car horns sounded in protest. New or old, it didn’t matter. Life was cheap in Russia.

“My God,” said Rozanov softly as the old woman’s smashed body slid past his window.

“It’s not like you to be upset by the sight of a little blood.”

“I’m not like you, Katerina. I kill with a pen and paper.”

“So do I, if there’s nothing else available.”

Rozanov smiled. “It’s good to know you still have your sense of humor.”

“One has to have a sense of humor in this line of work.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Rozanov drew a file folder from his attaché case.

“What’s that?”

“The president has one more job he’d like you to handle before you return to Russia.”

Katerina accepted the file and stared at the photograph on the first page. New or old, she thought, it didn’t matter. Life was cheap in Russia. Hers included.

45

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

I’M SORRY,” SAID LARS MORTENSEN, “but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Merchant,” replied Christopher Keller.

“Israeli, are you?”

“Afraid so.”

“And the accent?”

“Born in London.”

“I see.”

Mortensen was the chief of the PET, Denmark’s small but efficient internal security and intelligence service. Officially, it was a branch of the Danish national police and operated under the authority of the Ministry of Justice. Its headquarters was located in an anonymous office north of the Tivoli Gardens. Mortensen’s office was on the top floor. Its furnishings were solid, pale, and Danish. So was Mortensen.

“As you might expect,” Mortensen was saying, “Allon’s death came as a terrible shock to me. I considered him a friend. We worked together on a case a few years back. Things went bad in a house up north. I took care of it for him.”

“I remember.”

“You worked on that case, too?”

“No.”

Mortensen tapped the tip of a silver pen against the contents of an open file. “Allon struck me as the sort of man who would be difficult to kill. It’s hard to imagine he’s really gone.”

“We feel the same way.”

“And this request of yours—it has something to do with Allon’s death?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“And I’d rather not be having this meeting,” Mortensen said coolly. “But when a friend requests a favor, I try to be accommodating.”

“Our service has experienced a terrible loss,” said Keller after a moment. “As you can imagine, we’re focused on nothing else.”

It was thin gruel, but good enough for the Danish secret policeman. “What will we be looking for in the video?”

“Two men.”

“Where did they meet?”

“A restaurant called Ved Kajen.”

“In the New Harbor?”

Keller nodded. Mortensen asked for the date and the time. Keller supplied both.

“And the two men?” asked Mortensen.

Keller handed over a photograph.

“Who is he?”

“Reza Nazari.”

“Iranian?”

Keller nodded.

“VEVAK?”

“Absolutely.”

“And the other man?”

“He’s an SVR hood named Alexei Rozanov.”

“Do you have a photograph?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Mortensen laid the photograph of the Iranian thoughtfully on his desktop. “We are a small country,” he said after a moment. “A peaceful country, except for a few thousand hotheaded Muslim fanatics. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I believe I do.”

“I don’t want any trouble with the Persian Empire. Or the Russians, for that matter.”

“Not to worry, Lars.”

Mortensen glanced at his watch. “This might take a few hours. Where are you staying?”

“The d’Angleterre.”

“What’s the best way to reach you?”

“Hotel phone.”

“What’s the name?”

“LeBlanc.”

“I thought you said your name was Merchant.”

“I did.”

Keller left the PET’s headquarters on foot and walked as far as the Tivoli Gardens—far enough to confirm that Mortensen had assigned two teams of watchers to follow him. The skies above Copenhagen were the color of granite, and a few gritty flakes of snow were swirling in the light of the streetlamps. Keller crossed the Rådhuspladsen and loitered in the Strøget, Copenhagen’s main pedestrian shopping street, before returning to the stately Hotel d’Angleterre. Upstairs in his room, he killed an hour watching the news. Then he rang the hotel operator and in French-accented English told her he was heading down to the Balthazar champagne bar for a drink. He spent another hour at a corner table nursing a glass of brut alone. It was, he thought glumly, a glimpse of the life that awaited him at MI6. The great Gabriel Allon, may he rest in peace, had once described the life of a professional spy as one of constant travel and mind-numbing boredom broken by interludes of sheer terror.