The entrance hall was in semidarkness, but light glowed from within and wood smoke hung on the air. Mikhail led the way into the sitting room, where a large fire burned in the open hearth. Gabriel and Keller stood before it, their backs to the room, seemingly lost in thought. Seeing the two men, Nazari froze and then recoiled. Yaakov seized one arm, Mikhail the other. Together they lifted Nazari slightly so that his shoes could gain no purchase on the bare wooden floor.

Gabriel and Keller exchanged a look, a smile, a private unspoken joke at their visitor’s expense. Then Gabriel turned slowly, as if until that moment he had been unaware of the commotion behind him. Nazari was wriggling, a fish on a line, his sunken eyes wide with terror. Gabriel considered him calmly, his head cocked slightly to one side, a hand resting against his chin.

“Something wrong, Reza?” he asked finally.

“You’re—”

“Dead?” Gabriel smiled. “Sorry, Reza, but it appears you missed.”

On the coffee table was a .45-caliber Glock, a man stopper, a weapon of mass destruction. Gabriel reached down, picked up the gun by the grip, pondered its weight and balance. He offered the gun to Keller, who held up a hand defensively, as though he were being offered an ember from the fire. Then Gabriel approached Nazari slowly and stopped three feet away from him. The gun was in Gabriel’s right hand. With his left hand he reached out with the speed of a striking snake and seized Nazari’s throat. Instantly, the Iranian’s face took on the color of a ripened plum.

“Is there anything you wish to say to me?” asked Gabriel.

“I’m sorry,” the Iranian gasped.

“So am I, Reza. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

Gabriel squeezed harder until he could feel cartilage beginning to crack. Then he placed the barrel of the gun against Nazari’s forehead and pulled the trigger. As the gun exploded, Keller turned away and looked into the fire. It was personal, he was thinking. And when it’s personal, it tends to get messy.

42

LOWER AUSTRIA

THE .45-CALIBER ROUND THAT GABRIEL fired at Reza Nazari contained no projectile, but its powder loading was sufficient to produce a report of ear-shattering volume and a muzzle flash that left a small round burn in the center of his forehead, like the prayer mark of a devout Muslim. It was also sufficient to drop Nazari to the floor like a stone. For several seconds he did not stir or appear to draw a breath. Then Yaakov knelt and gave him a backhanded slap across the face that brought him back to consciousness. “You bastard,” he gasped. “You fucking bastard.”

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Reza. Otherwise, the next round I fire will be real.”