Nazari crossed the street and entered the Stadtpark. As he walked along the banks of the Vienna River, he realized he was being followed. It was the small one, the one with a forgettable face who dressed like a pile of dirty laundry. The car was waiting in the same place, at the eastern edge of the park. The Israeli whom Nazari knew as Mr. Taylor was seated in back. As usual, he did not look pleased. He searched Nazari thoroughly and then nodded into the rearview mirror. The same one was behind the wheel, the one with bloodless skin and eyes like ice. He eased into the evening traffic and smoothly brought the car up to speed.

“Where are we going?” Nazari asked as Vienna slid gracefully past his window.

“The boss would like a word in private.”

“About what?”

“Your future.”

“I didn’t realize I had one.”

“A very bright one, if you do as you’re told.”

“I can’t be late.”

“Don’t worry, Reza. No pumpkins.”

47

VIENNA

THEY SAID HE WAS A seer, a visionary, a prophet. He was almost never wrong—and even if he was, it was only because enough time had not passed to prove him right. He had the power to move markets, to raise alert levels, to influence policy. He was undeniable, he was infallible. He was a burning bush.

His identity was not known, and even his nationality was a bit of a mystery. He was widely assumed to be an Australian—the Web site was hosted there—though many believed he was of Middle Eastern origin, for his insights into the region’s tangled politics were thought to be far too subtle to be the product of a non-Oriental mind. And still others were convinced he was in fact a woman. A gender analysis of his writing style said it was at least a possibility.

Though influential, his blog was not read by the masses. Most of his readers were business elites, executives from private security firms, policymakers, and journalists who focused on matters related to international terrorism and the crisis facing Islam and the Middle East. It was one such journalist, a respected investigative reporter from an American television network, who noticed the brief item that appeared early the next morning. The reporter rang one of his sources—a retired CIA agent who had a blog of his own—and the retired agent said the item passed the smell test. That was good enough for the respected investigative reporter, who immediately posted a few lines of copy on his social media feed. And thus an international crisis was born.

The Americans were skeptical at first, the British less so. Indeed, one proliferation expert from MI6 called it the nightmare scenario come true: one hundred pounds of highly radioactive nuclear material, enough to produce one large dirty bomb or several smaller devices that would be capable of rendering major city centers uninhabitable for years. The radioactive material—its precise nature was not specified—had been stolen from a secret Iranian laboratory near the sacred city of Qom and sold on the black market to a smuggler linked to Chechen Islamic terrorists. The whereabouts of the Chechen and the material were unknown, though the Iranians were said to be searching frantically for both. For reasons that were not clear, they had chosen not to inform their Russian friends about the situation.

The Iranians denounced the report as a Western provocation and a Zionist lie. The laboratory named in the report did not exist, they said, and all nuclear material in the country was safe and accounted for. Even so, by the end of that day, it was all anyone was talking about in Vienna. The chief American negotiator said the report, regardless of its veracity, demonstrated the importance of reaching an agreement. Her Iranian counterpart appeared less convinced. He left the talks without addressing reporters and slipped into the back of his official car. At his side was Reza Nazari.

They traveled to the Iranian Embassy and remained there until ten that evening, when finally they returned to the InterContinental Hotel. Reza Nazari went to his room long enough to shed his coat and attaché case and then knocked on the door of his neighbor. Mikhail Abramov drew him quickly inside. Yaakov Rossman poured him a scotch from the minibar.

“It is forbidden,” said Nazari.

“Take it, Reza. You deserve it.”

The Iranian accepted the drink and raised it slightly in salutation. “My congratulations,” he said. “You and your friends managed to create quite a stir today.”

“What’s the view from Tehran?”

“They’re skeptical of the timing, to say the least. They assume the report was part of an Office plot designed to sabotage the talks and prevent an agreement.”

“Did Allon’s name come up?”

“How could it? Allon is dead.”

Yaakov smiled. “And the Russians?” he asked.

“Deeply concerned,” replied Nazari. “And that’s putting it mildly.”

“Did you volunteer to reassure them?”

“I didn’t have to. Mohsen Esfahani instructed me to make contact and arrange a meeting.”

“Will Alexei agree to see you?”

“I can’t guarantee it.”

“Then perhaps we should promise him something a bit more interesting than a mutual hand-holding session.”

Nazari was silent.

“Did you bring your VEVAK BlackBerry?”

The Iranian held it up for Yaakov to see.

“Send a message to Alexei. Tell him you’d like to discuss recent developments here in Vienna. Tell him Russia has nothing at all to be concerned about.”

Nazari quickly composed the e-mail, showed the text to Yaakov, and then pressed SEND.

“Very good.” Yaakov pointed at his open laptop and said, “Now send him that one.”

Nazari walked over and looked at the screen:

My government is lying to you about the seriousness of the situation. It is urgent I see you at once.

Nazari typed in the address and clicked SEND.

“That should get his attention,” said Yaakov.

“Yes,” said Nazari. “One would think.”

48

VIENNA

THEY DID NOT HEAR FROM Alexei Rozanov that first night, nor was there any response the following morning. Reza Nazari left the hotel at eight thirty along with the rest of the Iranian delegation and twenty minutes after that disappeared down the black hole of the nuclear negotiations. At which point Gabriel, trapped in the Vienna safe flat with Christopher Keller, allowed himself to ponder at length all the reasons why his operation was doomed even before it had left port. It was possible, of course, that Reza Nazari had gone on the record with his service in the hours immediately following his brutal interrogation. It was possible, too, he had then told Alexei Rozanov that the man he had conspired to kill so spectacularly was very much alive and out for vengeance. Or perhaps there was no Alexei Rozanov. Perhaps he was nothing more than a figment of Nazari’s fevered imagination, a clever piece of taqiyya designed to make himself useful to Gabriel and thus save his own life.

“Clearly,” said Keller, “you’ve lost your mind.”

“It happens to dead people.” Gabriel picked up a photograph of Rozanov walking along a cobbled street in Copenhagen. “Maybe he won’t come. Maybe his superiors at the SVR have decided to put him on ice for a while. Maybe he’ll ask his old friend Reza to pop over to Moscow for a night of vodka and girls.”

“Then we’ll pop over to Moscow, too. And we’ll kill him there.”

No, said Gabriel, shaking his head slowly, they would not be going back to Moscow. Moscow was their forbidden city. They had been lucky to survive their last visit. They would not be going back for a return engagement.

At one that afternoon the negotiators broke for lunch. The morning session had been particularly unproductive because both sides were still in a panic over Gabriel’s missing radioactive material. Reza Nazari slipped away from his delegation long enough to telephone Yaakov Rossman at the InterContinental. Yaakov then rang Keller at the safe flat and repeated the message.