Bloch had clearly gotten it right—Amos produced a smile that was at odds with his intimidating appearance. He spoke again through a tightly clenched jaw, “The director is expecting you, sir. Straight ahead, then the first path on your right.”

Bloch did as instructed.

He found the incumbent director of Mossad feeding peanuts to an obese squirrel. If the human form could have a generic equivalent, it would be Raymond Nurin. He was average in height and build, hair thinning but not bald, a trace of gray at the edges commensurate with his fifty-something years. His facial features were completely unremarkable, no hooked nose or brilliant eyes or distinguishing marks. The clothing was in line with the man, neither expensive nor cheap, neither bright nor drab. Raymond Nurin was the man you would meet at a cocktail party whose name escaped you ten minutes later. For an insurance salesman or an actor, a certain detriment. For a spy chief? He was the model of somatic perfection.

Nurin had taken over Mossad when Bloch was forced out. They’d had a few meetings in the weeks after the transfer of command, sessions intended to cover ongoing operations and facilitate a smooth transition. Bloch had barely known the man going in, and he’d expected little. Nurin had surprised him with an intellect that belied his unexceptional appearance. Since those initial meetings they’d had no contact whatsoever. Consequently, Bloch had no idea what sort of empire his successor might have built. Even less an idea of what he wanted today.

“Good morning, Anton.”

“Raymond.”

The two exchanged a polite handshake.

“Thank you for coming,” Nurin said. “I know it was short notice, but I can assure you my reasons are sound.”

Bloch said nothing. He looked idly around the park and saw no one else. No widows with grocery sacks or spandex-clad mothers pushing strollers on a trot. Bloch hadn’t spent much of his career in the field, but enough to recognize a sterile perimeter that reached at least two hundred yards. Even the bodyguards—there had to be an army—were keeping out of sight. Not for the first time, his opinion of Nurin shifted slightly, and in the same direction it always seemed to.

Nurin tossed his bag of peanuts into a trash can and began strolling the pressed gravel path. Bloch kept pace.

“How do you like the job?” Bloch asked.

“I would expect that question from anyone else.”

Bloch allowed a rare grin.

Nurin said, “Tell me, did you ever call on your predecessor for advice?”

“Is that why I’m here? Advice?”

“Of course not. That would imply certain inadequacies on my part.” It was Nurin’s chance to grin, but he passed and said, “Tell me what you’ve heard about our recent failure in Iran.”

“Qom? Only what was in the newspapers.”

“Come, Anton.”

Bloch paused on the path. Nurin turned to face him.