Keller left the PET’s headquarters on foot and walked as far as the Tivoli Gardens—far enough to confirm that Mortensen had assigned two teams of watchers to follow him. The skies above Copenhagen were the color of granite, and a few gritty flakes of snow were swirling in the light of the streetlamps. Keller crossed the Rådhuspladsen and loitered in the Strøget, Copenhagen’s main pedestrian shopping street, before returning to the stately Hotel d’Angleterre. Upstairs in his room, he killed an hour watching the news. Then he rang the hotel operator and in French-accented English told her he was heading down to the Balthazar champagne bar for a drink. He spent another hour at a corner table nursing a glass of brut alone. It was, he thought glumly, a glimpse of the life that awaited him at MI6. The great Gabriel Allon, may he rest in peace, had once described the life of a professional spy as one of constant travel and mind-numbing boredom broken by interludes of sheer terror.

Finally, a few minutes after seven, a waitress wandered over and informed Keller that he had a call. He took it on a house phone in the lobby. It was Lars Mortensen.

“I think we might have found the picture you’re looking for,” he said. “There’s a car waiting outside.”

It wasn’t hard to spot the PET sedan. It was occupied by two of the same men who had followed him earlier. They ferried him across the city and deposited him in a room at PET headquarters equipped with a large video screen. On it was a still image of a Persian-looking man crossing a narrow cobbled street. The date and time code matched the information the Iranian had supplied during his interrogation outside Vienna.

“Nazari?” asked Lars Mortensen.

When Keller nodded, Mortensen tapped a few keys on an open laptop and a new image appeared on the screen. A tall man, wide cheekbones, fair hair thinning on top. A Moscow Center hood, if ever there was one.

“Is that the man you’re looking for?”

“I’d say he’s the one.”

“I’ve got a few more pictures and a bit of video, but that’s definitely the best.” Mortensen ejected a disk from the computer, placed it in a case, and held it up for Keller to see. “Compliments of the Danish people,” he said. “No charge.”

“Were you able to find anything on their travel?”

“The Iranian left Copenhagen the next morning on a flight to Frankfurt. He was scheduled to fly on to Tehran.”

“And the Russian?”

“We’re still working on that.” Mortensen handed Keller the disk. “By the way, the bill for dinner was more than four hundred euros. The Russian paid in cash.”

“It was a special occasion.”

“What were they celebrating?”

Keller slipped the disk into his coat pocket.

“I see,” said Mortensen.