“Which delegation is staying here?” he asked, but the valet hoisted an insincere smile and said, “Enjoy your stay, Herr Stewart.”

There were more police in the lobby, uniformed and plainclothes, and a few tieless thugs who looked like Iranian security. Gabriel and Keller walked past them to Reception, checked into their rooms, and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Keller had been assigned 428. Gabriel was in 409. He swiped his cardkey and hesitated briefly before twisting the latch. Inside, Mozart issued softly from the bedside radio. He switched it off, searched the room thoroughly, and hung his clothing neatly in the closet for the benefit of the housekeeping staff. Then he picked up the telephone and dialed the hotel operator.

“Feliks Adler, please.”

“My pleasure.”

The phone rang twice. Then Eli Lavon came on the line.

“What room are you in, Herr Adler?”

“Seven twelve.”

Gabriel hung up the phone and headed upstairs.

40

INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL, VIENNA

ELI LAVON UNCHAINED THE DOOR to him and drew him hastily inside. Lavon was not the only one present. Yaakov Rossman was peering through a slit in the curtains, and stretched upon the double bed, his eyes fixed dully on a Premier League football match, was Mikhail Abramov. Neither man seemed particularly relieved to see Gabriel still among the living, especially Mikhail. Mikhail should have died a couple of times himself.

“Good news from home,” said Lavon. “Your body arrived safely. It’s on its way to Jerusalem now.”

“How far are we taking this?”

“Just far enough so that the Russians notice.”

“And my wife?”

“She’s grieving, of course, but she’s surrounded by friends.”

Gabriel plucked the remote from Mikhail’s fingers and surfed the news channels. Apparently, his fifteen minutes were over, for even the BBC had moved on. He paused on CNN, where a reporter was standing outside the headquarters of the International Atomic Energy Agency, site of the negotiations between the United States, its European allies, and the Islamic Republic of Iran. Unfortunately for Israel and the Sunni Arab states of the Middle East, the two sides were close to a deal that would leave Iran as a threshold nuclear power.

“It seems your death couldn’t have come at a worse time,” said Lavon.

“I did the best I could.” Gabriel glanced around at the other occupants of the room and added, “We all did.”

“Yes,” agreed Lavon. “But so did the Iranians.”

Gabriel was looking at the television screen again. “Is our friend in there?”

Lavon nodded. “He doesn’t sit at the table with the negotiators, but he’s part of the Iranian support staff.”

“Have we had any contact with him since he arrived in Vienna?”

“Why don’t you ask his case officer?”