In several other places around the world, however, the reaction to Allon’s death was far different—especially inside the complex of heavily guarded buildings located in the southwestern Moscow suburb of Yasenevo. The complex had once been the headquarters of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate. Now it belonged to the SVR. Even so, most of those who worked there still referred to it by its old KGB name, which was Moscow Center.

In most parts of the complex, life went on normally that day. But not in the third-floor office of Colonel Alexei Rozanov. He had arrived at Yasenevo at three a.m. in a blinding snowstorm and had spent the remainder of the morning in a tense exchange of cables with the SVR’s rezident in London, a close friend named Dmitry Ulyanin. The cables were protected by the SVR’s latest encryption and transmitted over the service’s most secure link. Nevertheless, Rozanov and Ulyanin discussed the matter as though it were a routine problem involving the visa request of a British businessman. By one that afternoon, Ulyanin and his well-staffed London rezidentura had seen enough to convince them that the Telegraph report was true. Rozanov, a cynic by nature, remained skeptical, however. Finally, at two o’clock, he snatched up the receiver of his secure phone and dialed Ulyanin directly. Ulyanin had encouraging news.

“We spotted the old man leaving the big building on the Thames about an hour ago.”

The big building on the Thames was the headquarters of MI6, and the old man was Ari Shamron. The London rezidentura had been following Shamron on and off since his arrival in the United Kingdom.

“Where did he go next?”

“He went to Heathrow and boarded an El Al flight to Ben-Gurion. By the way, Alexei, the flight was delayed by several minutes.”

“Why?”

“It seemed the ground crew had to load one final item into the cargo hold.”

“What was that?”

“A coffin.”

The secure line crackled and hissed during the ten long seconds during which Alexei Rozanov did not speak.

“Are you sure it was a coffin?” he asked finally.

“Alexei, please.”

“Maybe it was a recently deceased British Jew who wished to be buried in the Promised Land.”

“It wasn’t,” said Ulyanin. “The old man stood at attention on the tarmac while the coffin was being loaded.”

Rozanov killed the connection, hesitated, and then dialed the most important number in Russia. A male voice answered. Rozanov recognized it. Inside the Kremlin the man was known only as the Gatekeeper.

“I need to see the Boss,” Rozanov said.

“The Boss is tied up all afternoon.”

“It’s important.”

“So is our relationship with Germany.”

Rozanov swore softly. He’d forgotten that the German chancellor was in town.

“It will only take a few minutes,” he said.

“There’s a short break between the last meeting and the dinner. I might be able to squeeze you in.”

“Tell him I have good news.”