“This isn’t about your safety or mine,” Nurin continued, “and certainly not your wife’s. This is about Israel.” He explained that Iran was close to achieving its ultimate nuclear ambition, the development of a fission device that could be coupled to a long-range ballistic missile. Israel’s air force and cyberwarriors, for all their offensive capability, could not end that threat. Hamedi was the key. “The architect of Qom is vulnerable. We must act because this is our last chance. Israel is desperate, David, so I am desperate.”

“You don’t represent the Israel I knew. Not with a scheme like this.”

“And if I had come to Virginia and asked for your help? Would you have acted?”

No reply.

“You know we’ll find Christine. Do as I ask, and in a week Israel will be rescued. You and your wife can then be safe for the long term. You have my word.”

“Your word?” Slaton spat, his anger rising. “You and your organization can go to hell!”

His thumb ended the call. He took a deep breath and tried to right his thoughts. There was something he wasn’t seeing. Something in Nurin’s reasoning that didn’t make sense. Slaton had no chance to decipher what it was because the man across the table moved.

It wasn’t his hand, but his gaze, flicking toward the street for an instant. Slaton was sure he was a Mossad field operative, a katsa, presumably armed with a company-issued .22 Beretta in a company-issued shoulder holster. The man had been here roughly five minutes, and until a moment ago his eyes had been locked squarely across the table. There was caution in every facet of the man, his stiff posture and overcasual stare, and so the katsa knew who Slaton was. Knew what Slaton was. According to Nurin, the man hadn’t been told why he was here, and this was likely true. Give him the phone. He is dangerous, but not a threat to you. Those would have been his instructions. But the phone call to the director had obviously not gone well, and so the katsa was double-checking that his backup was nearby. A partner, or even a team.

Where? Slaton wondered. Close in, on the sidewalk? Across the street in a car? How many? He imagined it was the same setup they’d used two days ago with Christine. Unfortunately, that thought took Slaton to an unexpected place, to a vision of Christine running for her life across the waterfront. The control he’d been fighting for was suddenly lost.

Pocketing the phone, Slaton looked across the table and said in a clear voice, “Tell me one thing. Were you the one who went after my wife?”

He got a dark stare in return, an attempt at bravado. But no answer.

“Did you shoot Anton Bloch?”

Ten full seconds of silence.

Slaton kept perfectly still. Perfectly.

Fifteen seconds.

Nothing.