“Trapped in a safe house with me. A British safe house,” Shamron added with disdain. He looked around at the walls and ceiling. “Are they listening?”

“They say they’re not.”

“Do you trust them?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t. In fact,” Shamron said, “you should never have got mixed up in this quest for Quinn in the first place. For the record, I was against it. Uzi overruled me.”

“Since when do you listen to Uzi?”

Shamron shrugged, conceding the point. “I’ve had an empty box next to Eamon Quinn’s name for quite some time,” he said. “I wanted you and your friend to put a check in it before another plane fell out of the sky.”

“The box is still empty.”

“Not for long.” Shamron’s lighter flared. The acrid smell of Turkish tobacco mixed with the scent of English wood and coal.

“And what about you?” asked Gabriel. “Did you think it would end this way?”

“With your death?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Too many times to count.”

“There was that night in the Empty Quarter,” said Gabriel.

“What about Harwich?”

“And Moscow.”

“Yes,” said Shamron. “We’ll always have Moscow. Moscow is why we’re here.”

He smoked in silence for a moment. Normally, Gabriel would have pleaded with him to stop, but not now. Shamron was grieving. He was about to lose a son.

“Your friend from the Telegraph just got off the phone with Uzi.”

“How did it go?”

“Apparently, he spoke quite well of you. A towering talent, a great loss to the country. It seems Israel is less safe tonight.” Shamron paused, then added, “I think he actually enjoyed it.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. After all,” Shamron said, “if you’re dead, you can’t become the next chief.”

Gabriel smiled.

“Don’t get any ideas,” said Shamron. “As soon as this is over, you’re going home to Jerusalem, where you will experience a miraculous resurrection.”

“Just like—”

Shamron held up a hand. He had been raised in a village in eastern Poland where there had been regular pogroms. He had yet to make his peace with Christianity.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come to England with an extraction team,” said Gabriel.

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“But?”

“It’s important we send a message to the Russians that they will pay a heavy price if they assassinate our chief in waiting. The irony of it is that the message will be delivered by you.”

“Do you think Russians understand irony?”

“Tolstoy did. But the tsar only understands force.”

“What about the Iranians?”

Shamron considered the question before answering. “They have less to lose,” he said finally. “Therefore they will have to be handled more carefully.”

He dropped the end of his cigarette into the fire and coaxed another from his crumpled packet.