“Surprises? You mean like assassins breaking into our home in the middle of the night to settle old scores? No, nothing like that. David Slaton, the kidon, has disappeared. He’s fallen off the face of the earth.” She then added, “Just like you promised.”

Bloch grinned, an awkward undertaking where his face came creased, little-used muscles finding recall. He moved his thick hands to the table in front of him, a space occupied by flatware and a napkin that had been folded in the shape of a boat. Bloch pushed it all aside and the tiny boat capsized.

She said, “I tried to bring David with me, actually. He made excuses.”

“The passport would have held up.”

“I don’t think it was that. Tell me—did he ever spend time here?”

“He spent much of his childhood in Stockholm. David speaks fluent Swedish, you know.”

“That’s not what I mean. Did he work here for you? For Mossad?”

After a pause, Bloch said, “Yes.”

And there it was, the simplest of answers. Part of her wanted to know more. She understood what David had been to Mossad, but the details of her husband’s past were largely left unsaid between them. Here was a chance to learn more, yet she hesitated mightily. Did she really want to know?

As if sensing her uncertainty, Bloch said, “I had to find you, Christine. Something important has come up.”

Her eyes fell to her coffee. Something important. For most people, a newly diagnosed heart murmur, a bent fender on the Toyota. She straightened in her chair and clasped her hands deliberately in her lap. More than ever, she wished David were here.

Bloch’s tone was strictly business. “The current director of Mossad, a man named Raymond Nurin, recently asked to meet with me. A few weeks ago a team of our operatives was lost in Iran. Did you hear about it?”

“I remember David showing me an article in the Post. He wondered if anyone he knew had been involved.”

“I’m sure he knew at least one of the men—they worked together some years ago, when I was in charge of things. His name was Yaniv Stein.” Bloch explained a few details of the attack, things that hadn’t been in the Post. Then he mentioned another mission that had failed some months prior. He explained that Mossad was desperate to stop Iran’s headlong charge toward nuclear-tipped madness.

“The key to stopping them,” he continued, “involves the head of the program, Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi. He was the target of both failed missions.”

“Anton, I really don’t need to know any of this because—”

“Next week,” he cut in, “Hamedi will leave Iran. The director believes he will be vulnerable and is determined to try again. The problem is—”