BUT GABRIEL ALLON WAS NOT DEAD, of course. In fact, at the very moment Alexei Rozanov was entering the Kremlin, he was boarding a British Airways flight at London’s Heathrow Airport. His hair had been tinted silver; his eyes were no longer green. In his coat pocket was a worn British passport and several credit cards in the same name, a gift from Graham Seymour, given with the approval of the prime minister himself. His seat was in first class, third row, next to the window. As he dropped into it, a flight attendant offered him a drink and a selection of newspapers. He chose the Telegraph and read of his death as the redbrick western suburbs of London sank away beneath him.

The flight from Heathrow to Vienna was two hours in duration. He pretended to read, he pretended to sleep, he picked at his plastic in-flight meal, he rebuffed a kindly attempt at conversation by his seatmate. Dead men, it seemed, did not talk on airplanes. Nor did they carry cellular devices. When the plane touched down at Vienna’s Schwechat Airport, he was the only passenger in first class who did not automatically reach for a mobile phone. Yes, he thought as he removed his bag from the overhead bin, death had its advantages.

In the concourse he followed the signs to passport control, pausing now and again to take his bearings, despite the fact that he could find his way there blindfolded. The eyes of the young immigration officer lingered on his face a moment too long.

“Mr. Stewart?” he asked, looking at the passport now.

“Yes,” replied Gabriel in a neutral accent.

“Your first time in Austria?”

“No.”

The border policeman thumbed through the pages of the passport and found proof of previous visits.

“What brings you here this time?”

“Music.”

The Austrian stamped the passport and returned it without comment. Gabriel walked to the arrivals hall, where Christopher Keller was standing next to a currency-exchange kiosk. He followed Gabriel outside to the short-term parking lot. A car had been left there, an Audi A6, slate gray.

“Better than a Škoda,” said Keller.

Gabriel pried the key loose from the left rear wheel well and searched the undercarriage for a bomb. Then he unlocked the doors, tossed his bag into the backseat, and climbed behind the wheel.

“Maybe I should drive,” said Keller.

“No,” replied Gabriel as he started the engine. It was his turf.

He had no need of a map or navigation device; his memory served as his guide. He followed the Ost Autobahn to the Danaukanal and then headed west through the apartment blocks of Landstrasse to the Stadtpark. The InterContinental Hotel stood on the southern flank of the park, on the Johannesgasse. There were an unusual number of uniformed police in the surrounding streets and more in the hotel’s drive.

“The nuclear talks,” explained a valet as Gabriel stepped from the car and removed his bag from the backseat.