Three floors below, Gabriel rose from his bed and walked calmly to the window. And in his thoughts he was calculating how long it would be before the man who had conspired to kill him appeared in the hotel’s floodlit forecourt. Forty-five seconds was all it took before he shot from the entrance. Viewed from above, he was an unthreatening figure, a speck in the night, a nothing man. He made his way to the street, waited for the sparse evening traffic to pass, and then crossed into the Stadtpark, a rhombus of darkness in an otherwise illuminated city. No one from the Iranian delegation followed him, only a small man in a neat fedora who was registered at the hotel under the name Feliks Adler.

Gabriel went to the phone and made two calls, one to the guest in Room 428, the other to the valet to request his car. Then he shoved a Beretta into the waistband of his jeans, pulled on a leather jacket, and tugged a flat cap low over the face that had appeared on far too many television screens that day. The corridor outside his room was empty, as was the elevator that bore him to the lobby. He passed unnoticed through the security men and police officers and headed into the cold night. The Audi waited in the drive; Keller was already behind the wheel. Gabriel directed him to the eastern edge of the Stadtpark, and they were idling curbside when Reza Nazari emerged into the lamplight. A Mercedes waited there, headlamps doused, two men inside. Nazari slid into the backseat and the car accelerated rapidly away. The Iranian did not know it then, but he had just made the second biggest mistake of his life.

Gabriel watched the taillights of the car disappear down the graceful Viennese street. Then he saw Herr Adler emerge from the park. He removed his hat, the signal the Iranian was clean, and started back to the hotel. Herr Adler had requested permission to skip that evening’s festivities. Herr Adler had never been one for the rough stuff.

41

LOWER AUSTRIA

WHERE ARE WE GOING?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

“I can’t be away from the hotel for long.”

“Don’t worry, Reza. No one’s going to be turning into a pumpkin tonight.”

Yaakov took a long look over his shoulder. Vienna was a smudge of yellow light on the horizon. Before them lay the rolling cropland and vineyards of Lower Austria. Mikhail was driving a few kilometers over the speed limit. He was holding the wheel with one hand and with the other was tapping a nervous rhythm on the shift. It seemed to annoy Reza Nazari.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked Yaakov.

“You may refer to him as Isaac.”

“Son of Abraham, poor kid. Good thing the archangel appeared. Otherwise . . .” His voice trailed off. He was staring out the window at the black fields. “Why aren’t we meeting in our usual place?”