Yaakov Rossman had been entirely honest in two important respects. He did indeed have a surprise for his prized agent, and they were not far from their destination. It was a villa located about five kilometers west of the town of Eibesthal, a quaint, tidy dwelling bordered on one side by a vineyard and on the other by a dormant field. The exterior of the villa was a pleasing Italianate yellow; its windows were framed in white. It was unthreatening in every way except for its isolation. More than a kilometer separated the house from its nearest neighbor. A cry for help would go unanswered. The crack of an unsuppressed gunshot would die in the rolling terrain.

The villa was set about fifty meters from the road and reached by an unpaved drive lined with pine trees. Parked outside was an Audi A6, its engine block ticking softly, its hood warm to the touch. Mikhail pulled in next to it, killed the engine, killed the lights. Yaakov looked at Nazari and smiled hospitably.

“You didn’t bring anything stupid tonight, did you, Reza?”

“Like what?”

“Like a gun.”

“No gun,” answered the Iranian. “Only a suicide vest.”

Yaakov’s smile dimmed. “Open your coat,” he said.

“How long have we been working together?”

“Two years,” answered Yaakov, “but tonight is different.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see in a minute.”

“Who’s in there?”

“Open your coat, Reza.”

The Iranian did as he was told. Yaakov gave him a quick but thorough search. He found nothing but a billfold, a mobile phone, a packet of French cigarettes, a lighter, and a key to a room in the Vienna InterContinental. He stuffed all the items into the seat pocket and nodded into the rearview mirror. Mikhail climbed from behind the wheel and opened Nazari’s door. In the sudden light Yaakov saw the first trace of something more than just apprehension in the Iranian’s face.

“Something wrong, Reza?”

“You’re an Israeli, I’m an Iranian. Why should I be nervous?”

“You’re our most important asset, Reza. Someday they’re going to write a book about us.”

“May it be published long after we’re dead.”

Nazari stepped out of the car and with Mikhail at his side started toward the entrance of the villa. It was a walk of twenty paces, long enough for Yaakov to extract himself from the backseat and draw his weapon from his hip holster. He slipped the gun into his coat pocket and was a step behind his agent when they reached the door. It yielded to Mikhail’s touch. Nazari hesitated, then, nudged by Yaakov, followed Mikhail inside.