Evita did, as always keeping to the most insipid truths. She talked about her job at the nail salon, a miserable dinner at her in-laws, and the university rejection letter her best friend’s brilliant son had just received. He listened at first, but the longer she talked the more he drank, and his interest inevitably faded. The first bottle of wine went quickly, and by the time the second clanked to the floor they were both on the bed, his shirt gone and she down to her new and very expensive undergarments.

Evita rubbed his hairy chest, slow circles that had the desired effect.

“Enough about me,” she said. “Have you had a busy week?”

“Oh, you can’t imagine.” He let loose a long breath. “There have been meetings every night. The director is a driven man, and he expects no less from those around him.”

“It sounds awful. So much pressure. I wish I could ease your load.”

He chuckled lecherously.

“No, I mean it. I wish I could put all of Hamas on a leaky boat and send them to sea.”

He looked at her drunkenly, a hazy leer that seemed not so different from old Yehud at the bar. “Yes, I believe you would. If I only had more warriors like you.”

Her hand went lower, onto his round, furry belly. “And Iran’s mad scientist—I would put a bullet in his head myself if the chance came.”

“I told you,” he said, “we’re trying. That cockup in the desert—it never had a chance of succeeding. And the motorcycle fiasco? Lunacy, I tell you.” His speech had acquired a familiar viscosity. “But we have one more chance. Hamedi is going abroad, and the director thinks he has found a way. He’s brought in a new man to do it, one who will not fail.”

“One man?”

“Yes.”

“An assassin? How frightful, the people you deal with. How will it be done?”

“I shouldn’t say anything, darling. Not this time.”

“Of course, I understand.” She nuzzled to his ear. “You lead such an exciting life, mon ami. So exciting…” Her hand found his mark. “Let’s talk about it later.”

Ezra Zacharias, director of operations for Mossad, inhaled sharply. “Oh … yes … much later.”

*   *   *

Blix escorted Sanderson into his house.

“I’m fine, Gunnar, really.”

“I still think you should have someone with you tonight. What about your sister?”

“She’s away on holiday.”

“Annika?” Blix said, referring to his daughter.

“I’m not an invalid, dammit! Not yet anyway. Annika is busy enough. And so should you be. Now get out of my house and find this bastard who’s making all of us look like fools.”

Blix grinned. “Yeah, you seem your old self.”

He turned to go, and Sanderson said, “Thank you, Gunnar.”

“No problem. Oh, I almost forgot.” Blix reached into his pocket and pulled out Sanderson’s phone. “Here.”