Rozanov had thought long and hard about his plan, had plotted it with care and assembled the necessary pieces. Then, with the blessing of the federal president, he had ordered the killing that had set the operational wheels turning. Graham Seymour, the chief of MI6, had reacted the way Rozanov had expected he would. So had Allon. Now his body lay in the belly of a jetliner bound for Ben-Gurion Airport. Rozanov supposed they would bury him on the Mount of Olives, next to the grave of his son. He didn’t really much care. He cared only that Allon was no longer among the living.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk. It contained a bottle, a glass, and a packet of Dunhills, a taste for which he had acquired while working in London before the collapse of the Soviet Union—the great catastrophe, as Rozanov referred to it. He had touched neither alcohol nor tobacco in ten months. Now he poured himself a generous measure of vodka and tapped loose one of the Dunhills. Something made him hesitate before lighting it. He reached for the phone again, stopped, and inserted a DVD into his computer instead. The disk whirred; Brompton Road appeared on his screen. He watched it all from the beginning. Then he watched the man running headlong toward the white car. As the image turned to hash, Alexei Rozanov smiled a second time. “The fool,” he said softly, and he struck a match.
Rozanov ordered a car from the motor pool for four o’clock. Because he was going against Moscow’s nightmarish traffic, it took only forty minutes to reach the Kremlin’s Borovitskaya Tower. He entered the Grand Presidential Palace and, escorted by a waiting aide, made his way upstairs to the federal president’s office. The Gatekeeper was at his desk in the anteroom. His dour expression was identical to the one usually worn by the president himself.
“You’re early, Alexei.”
“Better than late.”
“Have a seat.”
Rozanov sat. Five o’clock came and went. So did six. Finally, at half past, the Gatekeeper came for him.
“He can give you two minutes.”
“Two minutes are all I need.”
The Gatekeeper led Rozanov along a marble hall to a pair of heavy golden doors. A guard opened one, Rozanov entered alone. The office was a cavernous space, darkened except for a sphere of light that illuminated the desk where the Boss sat. He was looking down at a stack of papers and continued to do so long after Rozanov arrived. The SVR man stood before the desk in silence, his hands clasped protectively over his genitals.
“Well?” asked the Boss finally. “Is it true or not?”
“The London rezident says it is.”
“I’m not asking the London rezident. I’m asking you.”
“It’s true, sir.”
The Boss looked up. “You’re sure?”
Rozanov nodded.
“Say it, Alexei.”
“He’s dead, sir.”
The Boss looked down at his documents again. “Remind me how much we owe the Irishman.”
“Under our agreement,” Rozanov said judiciously, “he was to receive ten million on completion of the first phase of the operation and another ten million for the second.”
“Where is he now?”
“In an SVR safe house.”
“Where, Alexei?”
“Budapest.”
“And the woman?”
“Here in Moscow,” answered Rozanov, “awaiting a departure order.”
A silence dropped between them, like the silence of a cemetery at night. Rozanov was relieved when the Boss finally spoke.
“I’d like to make a small change,” he said.
“What sort of change?”
“Tell the Irishman he’ll receive all twenty million on completion of both phases of the operation.”
“That could be a problem.”
“No, it won’t.”
The Boss pushed a file folder across his massive desk. Rozanov lifted the cover and looked inside. Death solves all problems, he thought. No man, no problem.
39
LONDON–VIENNA
BUT GABRIEL ALLON WAS NOT DEAD, of course. In fact, at the very moment Alexei Rozanov was entering the Kremlin, he was boarding a British Airways flight at London’s Heathrow Airport. His hair had been tinted silver; his eyes were no longer green. In his coat pocket was a worn British passport and several credit cards in the same name, a gift from Graham Seymour, given with the approval of the prime minister himself. His seat was in first class, third row, next to the window. As he dropped into it, a flight attendant offered him a drink and a selection of newspapers. He chose the Telegraph and read of his death as the redbrick western suburbs of London sank away beneath him.
The flight from Heathrow to Vienna was two hours in duration. He pretended to read, he pretended to sleep, he picked at his plastic in-flight meal, he rebuffed a kindly attempt at conversation by his seatmate. Dead men, it seemed, did not talk on airplanes. Nor did they carry cellular devices. When the plane touched down at Vienna’s Schwechat Airport, he was the only passenger in first class who did not automatically reach for a mobile phone. Yes, he thought as he removed his bag from the overhead bin, death had its advantages.
In the concourse he followed the signs to passport control, pausing now and again to take his bearings, despite the fact that he could find his way there blindfolded. The eyes of the young immigration officer lingered on his face a moment too long.
“Mr. Stewart?” he asked, looking at the passport now.
“Yes,” replied Gabriel in a neutral accent.
“Your first time in Austria?”
“No.”
The border policeman thumbed through the pages of the passport and found proof of previous visits.
“What brings you here this time?”
“Music.”
The Austrian stamped the passport and returned it without comment. Gabriel walked to the arrivals hall, where Christopher Keller was standing next to a currency-exchange kiosk. He followed Gabriel outside to the short-term parking lot. A car had been left there, an Audi A6, slate gray.
“Better than a Škoda,” said Keller.
Gabriel pried the key loose from the left rear wheel well and searched the undercarriage for a bomb. Then he unlocked the doors, tossed his bag into the backseat, and climbed behind the wheel.
“Maybe I should drive,” said Keller.
“No,” replied Gabriel as he started the engine. It was his turf.
He had no need of a map or navigation device; his memory served as his guide. He followed the Ost Autobahn to the Danaukanal and then headed west through the apartment blocks of Landstrasse to the Stadtpark. The InterContinental Hotel stood on the southern flank of the park, on the Johannesgasse. There were an unusual number of uniformed police in the surrounding streets and more in the hotel’s drive.
“The nuclear talks,” explained a valet as Gabriel stepped from the car and removed his bag from the backseat.
“Which delegation is staying here?” he asked, but the valet hoisted an insincere smile and said, “Enjoy your stay, Herr Stewart.”
There were more police in the lobby, uniformed and plainclothes, and a few tieless thugs who looked like Iranian security. Gabriel and Keller walked past them to Reception, checked into their rooms, and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Keller had been assigned 428. Gabriel was in 409. He swiped his cardkey and hesitated briefly before twisting the latch. Inside, Mozart issued softly from the bedside radio. He switched it off, searched the room thoroughly, and hung his clothing neatly in the closet for the benefit of the housekeeping staff. Then he picked up the telephone and dialed the hotel operator.
“Feliks Adler, please.”
“My pleasure.”
The phone rang twice. Then Eli Lavon came on the line.
“What room are you in, Herr Adler?”
“Seven twelve.”
Gabriel hung up the phone and headed upstairs.
40
INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL, VIENNA
ELI LAVON UNCHAINED THE DOOR to him and drew him hastily inside. Lavon was no
t the only one present. Yaakov Rossman was peering through a slit in the curtains, and stretched upon the double bed, his eyes fixed dully on a Premier League football match, was Mikhail Abramov. Neither man seemed particularly relieved to see Gabriel still among the living, especially Mikhail. Mikhail should have died a couple of times himself.
“Good news from home,” said Lavon. “Your body arrived safely. It’s on its way to Jerusalem now.”
“How far are we taking this?”
“Just far enough so that the Russians notice.”
“And my wife?”
“She’s grieving, of course, but she’s surrounded by friends.”
Gabriel plucked the remote from Mikhail’s fingers and surfed the news channels. Apparently, his fifteen minutes were over, for even the BBC had moved on. He paused on CNN, where a reporter was standing outside the headquarters of the International Atomic Energy Agency, site of the negotiations between the United States, its European allies, and the Islamic Republic of Iran. Unfortunately for Israel and the Sunni Arab states of the Middle East, the two sides were close to a deal that would leave Iran as a threshold nuclear power.
“It seems your death couldn’t have come at a worse time,” said Lavon.
“I did the best I could.” Gabriel glanced around at the other occupants of the room and added, “We all did.”
“Yes,” agreed Lavon. “But so did the Iranians.”
Gabriel was looking at the television screen again. “Is our friend in there?”
Lavon nodded. “He doesn’t sit at the table with the negotiators, but he’s part of the Iranian support staff.”
“Have we had any contact with him since he arrived in Vienna?”
“Why don’t you ask his case officer?”
Gabriel looked at Yaakov Rossman, who was still peering into the street below. He had short black hair and a pockmarked face. Yaakov had spent his career running agents in some of the most dangerous places in the world—the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, Lebanon, Syria, and now Iran. He lied to his agents as a matter of course and knew that on occasion they lied to him, too. Some lies were an acceptable part of the bargain, but not the lie he had been told by his prized Iranian source. It had been part of a plot to assassinate the future chief of Yaakov’s service, and for that the Iranian would have to be punished. Not immediately, though. First he would be given a chance to atone for his sins.
“I usually pop into town,” Yaakov explained, “whenever the two sides are negotiating. The Americans aren’t always so forthcoming in their readouts of what’s going on at the table. Reza fills in the pieces for us.”
“So he won’t be surprised to hear from you?”
“Not at all. In fact,” added Yaakov, “he’s probably wondering why I haven’t made contact already.”
“He probably thinks you’re sitting shiva for me in Jerusalem.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Where’s the family?”
“They crossed the border a couple of hours ago.”
“Any problems?”
Yaakov shook his head.
“And Reza doesn’t know anything?”
Yaakov smiled. “Not yet.”
He resumed his surveillance of the street. Gabriel looked at Lavon and asked, “What room is he staying in?”
Lavon nodded toward the wall.
“How did you manage that?”
“We hacked into the system and got his room number.”
“Been inside?”
“Whenever we feel like it.”
The wizards in the Office’s Technology department had developed a magic cardkey capable of opening any electronic hotel room door in the world. The first swipe stole the code. The second opened the deadbolt.
“And we left a little something behind,” said Lavon.
He reached down and raised the volume on a laptop computer. A Bach concerto was playing on the bedside radio in the next room.
“What’s the coverage?” asked Gabriel.
“Room only. We didn’t bother with the phone. He never uses it for outside calls.”
“Anything unusual?”
“He talks in his sleep, and he’s a secret drinker. Other than that, nothing.”
Lavon lowered the volume on the laptop; Gabriel looked at the television screen. This time, a reporter was standing on a balcony overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem.
“I hear he was about to be a father,” said Mikhail.
“Really?” asked Gabriel.
“Twins.”
“You don’t say.”
Mikhail, affecting boredom, switched back to the football game. Gabriel returned to his room and waited for the phone to ring.
The gleaming headquarters of the International Atomic Energy Agency was located on the opposite bank of the river Danube, in a district of Vienna known as the International City. The talks between the Americans and the Iranians continued there until eight p.m., when both sides, in a rare show of accord, agreed it was time to break for the night. The chief American negotiator appeared briefly before reporters to say that progress had been made. Her Iranian counterpart was less sanguine. He muttered something about American intransigence and climbed into the back of his official limousine.
It was half past eight by the time the Iranian motorcade arrived at the InterContinental Hotel. The delegation crossed the lobby under heavy security and boarded several elevators that had been held for their convenience, much to the annoyance of the hotel’s other guests. Only one member of the delegation, Reza Nazari, a veteran VEVAK officer who was posing as an Iranian diplomat, was staying on the seventh floor. He made his way along the empty corridor to Room 710, inserted his cardkey into the slot, and entered. The sound of the door closing was audible in the next room, where only one man, Yaakov Rossman, remained. Owing to the transmitter concealed beneath the Iranian’s bed, Yaakov heard other sounds as well. A coat tossed across a chair, shoes hitting the floor, a call to room service, a toilet flushing. Yaakov lowered the volume on the laptop computer, lifted the receiver of the room phone, and dialed. Two rings, then the voice of Reza Nazari. In English, Yaakov explained what he wanted.
“It’s not possible, my friend,” said Nazari. “Not tonight.”
“All things are possible, Reza. Especially tonight.”
The Iranian hesitated, then asked, “When?”
“Five minutes.”
“Where?”
Yaakov told the Iranian what to do, hung up the phone, and raised the volume on the laptop. A man canceling his room service order, a man pulling on his shoes and overcoat, a door closing, footsteps in the hall. Yaakov reached for the phone again and dialed Room 409. Two rings, then the voice of a dead man. The dead man sounded pleased by the news. All things were possible, thought Yaakov as he hung up the phone. Especially tonight.
Three floors below, Gabriel rose from his bed and walked calmly to the window. And in his thoughts he was calculating how long it would be before the man who had conspired to kill him appeared in the hotel’s floodlit forecourt. Forty-five seconds was all it took before he shot from the entrance. Viewed from above, he was an unthreatening figure, a speck in the night, a nothing man. He made his way to the street, waited for the sparse evening traffic to pass, and then crossed into the Stadtpark, a rhombus of darkness in an otherwise illuminated city. No one from the Iranian delegation followed him, only a small man in a neat fedora who was registered at the hotel under the name Feliks Adler.
Gabriel went to the phone and made two calls, one to the guest in Room 428, the other to the valet to request his car. Then he shoved a Beretta into the waistband of his jeans, pulled on a leather jacket, and tugged a flat cap low over the face that had appeared on far too many television screens that day. The corridor outside his room was empty, as was the elevator that bore him to the lobby. He passed unnoticed through the security men and police officers and headed into the cold night. The Audi waited in the drive; Keller was already behind the wheel. Gabriel directed him to
the eastern edge of the Stadtpark, and they were idling curbside when Reza Nazari emerged into the lamplight. A Mercedes waited there, headlamps doused, two men inside. Nazari slid into the backseat and the car accelerated rapidly away. The Iranian did not know it then, but he had just made the second biggest mistake of his life.
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.”