Hamedi stiffened, then turned back to face the desert. Neither man spoke for a time. But then, what could be said to such a thing? Behrouz had at his disposal the most experienced, well-trained soldiers in Iran. They had known exactly where and when to wait. And still a casualty ratio of ten to one.

“How will it be presented?” Hamedi asked.

“Must you ask? The news tomorrow will shout of a great victory over Israeli assassins. The mechanics of how it came to be? No one will care about that.”

A wave of laughter rolled from the house, disrupting the still desert night.

“Come,” Behrouz said. “We should return. Your expertise is in great demand.”

“Yes,” Hamedi agreed. “Isn’t it, though?”

With that the two men went inside, each riding his own thoughts.

What neither could know at that moment was that the attack just beaten down was not the end. Quite to the contrary, Israel’s latest failure would soon prompt decisions at the highest levels in Tel Aviv to approach things from an altogether different angle. The strike of September 25, having come within five miles of its target, would not be the last.

Nor would it be the most successful.

Chapter 1

ONE

Three days later

Anton Bloch walked briskly along King George Street, leaning into a stiff wind that had swept in over the course of the morning. In most of the world, autumn winds brought change. Cold fronts to separate leaves from branches, gunmetal gray skies, and the breaking out of mothballed winter gear. In Tel Aviv, the last Friday of September did little more than stir the dust of yet another heat-stricken summer.

Had Bloch gone for a walk a year ago, it would have been a very different project. He would have been shadowed by two armored limousines and a dozen bodyguards, every street on his route mapped in advance and monitored. Even now, long removed from office, he generally warranted two men. But not today. The unusual request had come this morning, a handwritten note delivered by his successor’s aide de camp: 9:15, Meir Garden. Come alone. So, for the first time in recent memory, Anton Bloch was walking by himself on a public street. He found it oddly liberating. Were he more of a pessimist, he might imagine Arab assassins around every corner. But then, no man who has served as director of Mossad can exist as a pessimist.

Bloch rounded a corner and turned left into the main entrance of Meir Garden. He spotted a familiar face—or rather, a familiar silhouette. A massive man with a flattop haircut materialized to greet him. He was wearing a suit and tie, cheap material but nicely pressed, the jacket either two sizes too small or fitted in a way to accentuate his muscular arms and shoulders. Bloch suspected the latter.

“Good morning, sir.”

On hearing his voice, Bloch remembered a first name. “Hello, Amos.”