“No,” Behrouz argued, “I must have specifics.”

“I’ve told her to keep trying, to schedule another rendezvous.”

“She understands that time is running short?”

“Yes, of course. And there is one more thing. Mossad thinks they’ve found a man who will have more success than the others. A lone assassin.”

Behrouz went quiet and leveled a discomforting gaze. It was a look Rafi had not seen before. “Who is this man?” he finally asked.

“I know nothing more.”

“Well go back then! Take command of your Jew whore! Give her money, threaten her with exposure, do whatever it takes. Find out who this man is. And I must have the precise time and place of any attack!”

“I will do what I can,” Rafi said.

“No,” Behrouz replied, “you will do what I instruct. You have two days.” From his desk he produced a mobile phone and slid it across the desk. “This is secure. Use it when you have my answer.”

He then pushed the envelope across and Rafi took it.

Though he had originally contacted Iran though Hezbollah channels, Rafi himself took credit for the discovery and recruitment of the disconsolate Evita Levine. And as was often the case in this part of the world, aside from being a patriot, he was not above taking a reasonable commission for his work. He knew well the value of information.

Behrouz issued further, very specific instructions, and the next meeting was arranged. When Rafi left the office minutes later, he hoped his next trip here would be his last. There was something about the place that made his stomach turn, a discomfort not worth even the thick envelope of cash in his pocket. It was in the air, he decided, a stagnant and foul odor. The sort of embedded stench that might be imagined to rise from the bowels of a medieval castle. Whatever the source, he didn’t want to know.

As he was escorted down the long hallway back to the limo, turning left and right through confusing corridors and drawing the dead air into his lungs, Rafi suspected he knew exactly how those messengers had felt some eight hundred years ago.

*   *   *

Sanderson was awakened by an unfamiliar ringing noise. It took a few groggy seconds to realize that the bells were coming not from his head, but from his phone. He’d purchased and installed a new sim card last night, but had gone to bed before dealing with the settings. His phone had defaulted to its factory ringtone, not to mention its factory volume. It sounded like a fire alarm.

“Sanderson.”

Blix said, “Morning, Inspector. I got your message last night, but it was late and there was nothing new to report.”

“That’s fine. And this morning?”

“One thing. We’ve found one of the phones Deadmarsh used to call you.”

“Where?”

Blix told him.

“You’re kidding.”