“To provide Quinn with an incentive,” answered Rozanov. “Our Irish friend has a long history of taking matters into his own hands. That text message he insisted on sending to Allon almost destroyed a perfectly planned operation.”

“You should never have given him Allon’s number.”

“I had no choice. Quinn was very specific in his demands. He wanted Allon to know there was a bomb in that car. And he wanted him to know who put it there.”

They had managed to inch their way back to the Sparrow Hills observation point. The newlyweds were gone; a new couple had taken their place. Posed with them was a child, a girl of six or seven in a white dress, with flowers in her hair.

“Pretty girl,” said Rozanov.

“Yes,” said Katerina distantly.

Rozanov scrutinized her for a moment. “Is it my imagination,” he asked at last, “or are you reluctant to return to the field?”

“It’s your imagination, Alexei.”

“Because if you’re not capable of performing your duties, I need to know.”

“Ask your new castrati whether I’m capable.”

“I know you were—”

“It’s not a problem,” she said, cutting him off.

“I was hoping that would be your answer.”

“You knew it would be.”

They had arrived at the source of the traffic jam. It was an old babushka lying dead in the street. Her drawstring avoska lay next to her; apples were scattered across the asphalt. A few car horns sounded in protest. New or old, it didn’t matter. Life was cheap in Russia.

“My God,” said Rozanov softly as the old woman’s smashed body slid past his window.

“It’s not like you to be upset by the sight of a little blood.”

“I’m not like you, Katerina. I kill with a pen and paper.”

“So do I, if there’s nothing else available.”

Rozanov smiled. “It’s good to know you still have your sense of humor.”

“One has to have a sense of humor in this line of work.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Rozanov drew a file folder from his attaché case.

“What’s that?”

“The president has one more job he’d like you to handle before you return to Russia.”

Katerina accepted the file and stared at the photograph on the first page. New or old, she thought, it didn’t matter. Life was cheap in Russia. Hers included.

45

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

I’M SORRY,” SAID LARS MORTENSEN, “but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Merchant,” replied Christopher Keller.

“Israeli, are you?”

“Afraid so.”

“And the accent?”

“Born in London.”

“I see.”