Sjoberg composed the most conciliatory reply he could muster and hit the Send button. He then wondered what the hell to do.

*   *   *

It took nearly two hours for Slaton to be proved correct. He was scanning a review for a thriller he would never read when a man sat down at his table. Slaton didn’t look up right away, but instead tipped the last of the tea into his cup, the dregs of the pot thick and flavorful. It was a good ten seconds before he lowered the Times.

“It took you long enough,” he said in Hebrew.

He was looking at a man roughly his equal in height, but considerably heavier. He had dark eyes, curly black hair shot with threads of gray, and was casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. One hand gripped the arm of his chair while the other, in an awkward set, was positioned near the open zipper of his dark windbreaker. Outside, there was not a breath of wind. The man responded to Slaton’s taunt by simply sliding a black iPhone across the table, angling between a spent glass of orange juice and a bowl of sweetener packets.

Slaton put the Times on the table. He ignored the phone and gave the man a level, dispassionate stare. The same look a headmaster might give a recidivist truant.

“How long have you been in country?” Slaton asked.

The man obviously didn’t want to chat, but Slaton waited, making it clear who was in charge.

“A week,” the man replied, keeping with Hebrew.

Slaton’s eyes drifted obviously to the street. “Where is your partner?”

To his credit, the man didn’t flinch. “Just take the damned phone.”

The waiter was bearing down. Slaton waved him away, and while his right hand swiped the air dismissively, his left foot inched forward under the table.

“Who will I be talking to?” Slaton asked.

“It’s a secure line.” The courier offered nothing more.

Slaton picked up the phone and saw that it was ready to connect to a number labeled HOME. He tapped the screen, and the call was answered before even a single ring had rattled the handset. “This is the director.” The voice was flat and featureless, like an ocean in the doldrums.

“How do I know that?” Slaton said. “We’ve never met.”

“No, but you were well acquainted with my predecessor.”

“Your predecessor is in a hospital fighting for his life. Why?”

“Anton put himself in a bad position.”

“I think you put him in a bad position,” said Slaton.

“That was never my intent. We are doing what we can for him.”

Slaton did not doubt that he was talking to Raymond Nurin. If he didn’t know the man, he recognized the thought process. A pragmatic viper.

“Who approached Christine?” he asked.

“We did.”

“Why? If Mossad saw a threat to her safety, I should have been told. Is she in danger?”