“The man you’re looking for is in Vienna. He’s staying at the InterContinental Hotel. Housekeeping has arranged accommodations for you and Keller. You’ll find two old friends there as well. Use them as you see fit.”

“What about Eli?”

“He’s still sitting in that dump in Lisbon.”

“Get him to Vienna.”

“Do you want to keep the Lisbon apartment under watch?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “Quinn will never set foot there again. Lisbon has served its purpose.”

Shamron nodded his head slowly in agreement. “As far as your communications,” he said, “we’ll have to do it old school, the way we did during Wrath of God.”

“It’s hard to go old school in the modern world.”

“You have the ability to make a four-hundred-year-old painting look new again. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Shamron consulted his wristwatch. “I wish you could make one last phone call to your wife, but I’m afraid it’s not possible under the circumstances.”

“How’s she taking word of my death?”

“As well as can be expected.” Shamron glanced at Gabriel. “You’re a lucky man. There aren’t many women who would let their husbands go to war against the Kremlin in the final weeks of a pregnancy.”

“It’s part of the deal.”

“That’s what I thought, too. I devoted my life to my people and my country. And in the process I drove away everyone I ever held dear.” Shamron paused, then added, “Everyone but you.”

Outside, it was beginning to rain again, a sudden onslaught that sent fat drops hissing onto the grate. Shamron seemed not to notice; he was staring at his wristwatch. Time had always been his enemy, never more so than now.

“How much longer?” he asked.

“Not long,” replied Gabriel.

Shamron smoked in silence as the raindrops sacrificed themselves upon the red-hot grate.

“Is this how you imagined it would be?” he asked.

“It’s exactly how I pictured it.”

“A terrible thing, isn’t it?”

“What’s that, Ari?”

“For the child to die before the parent. It upends the natural order of things.” He dropped his cigarette into the fire. “One can’t grieve properly. One can only think of vengeance.”

Ari Shamron, like Gabriel, had reached only limited accommodation with the modern world. He carried a mobile cellular device grudgingly, for he knew better than most the degree to which such contraptions could be turned against their users. Presently, it was resting in the wooden box on Parish’s desk reserved for the prohibited possessions of “company.” Parish was not ashamed to admit that he did not care for the old man. The smoking! My word, the smoking. Worse than the young Englishman who was always walking the moors. The old man smelled like an ashtray. Looked like death warmed over. And the teeth! Had a smile like a steel trap and just about as pleasant.