“Our file on you is very thick.” Nazari paused, then added, “Almost as thick as Moscow Center’s. But then, I suppose that’s understandable. You’ve never set foot on Iranian soil, at least not that we’re aware of. Russia, though . . .” He smiled. “Well, let’s just say you have a lot of enemies there, Allon.”

Among the many things the Office did not know about their prized agent was that he served as VEVAK’s primary liaison to the SVR. The reason was quite simple, he explained. Nazari had studied Russian history at university, spoke Russian fluently, and had operated in Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation. In Kabul he had met many KGB officers, including a young man who seemed destined for promotion. That turned out to be the case; the man was now one of Moscow Center’s most powerful players. Nazari met regularly with him on issues ranging from Iran’s nuclear program to the civil war in Syria, where VEVAK and the SVR had worked tirelessly to ensure the survival of their embattled client regime.

“His name?” asked Gabriel.

“Like you,” replied Nazari, “he uses many different names. But if I had to guess, I’d say his real name is Rozanov.”

“First name?”

“Alexei.”

“Describe him.”

The Iranian offered a somewhat vague description of a man who was approximately six feet tall and had thinning gray-blond hair that he combed in the manner of the Russian president.

“Age?”

“Could be fifty.”

“Languages?”

“He can speak any language he sets his mind to.”

“How often do you meet?”

“Once every two or three months, more often if necessary.”

“Where?”

“Sometimes I travel to Moscow. Usually, we meet on neutral ground in Europe.”

“What kind of neutral ground?”

“Safe houses, restaurants.” He shrugged. “The usual.”

“When was the last time?”

“A month ago.”

“Where?”

“Copenhagen.”

“Where in Copenhagen?”

“A little restaurant in the New Harbor.”

“Did you talk about nukes and Syria that night?”

“Actually,” said Nazari, “there was only one item on the agenda.”

“What was that?”

“You.”

43

LOWER AUSTRIA

BUT THEY WERE GETTING AHEAD of themselves, because Copenhagen was not the first time that Reza Nazari and Alexei Rozanov had dwelt long and hard on the subject of Gabriel Allon. The name had featured prominently in many of their previous meetings, but never with more urgency or anger than during a dinner ten months earlier in the old town of Zurich. The SVR was in crisis. The body of Pavel Zhirov had just been found frozen solid in Tver Oblast, Madeline Hart had defected to Britain, and a Russian energy company owned by the Kremlin had just been stripped of the rights to drill for oil in the North Sea.

“And the cause of it all,” said Nazari, “was you.”

“Says who?”

“Says the only person who matters in Russia. Says the Boss.”

“I assume the Boss wanted me dead.”