Yaakov smiled. “And the Russians?” he asked.

“Deeply concerned,” replied Nazari. “And that’s putting it mildly.”

“Did you volunteer to reassure them?”

“I didn’t have to. Mohsen Esfahani instructed me to make contact and arrange a meeting.”

“Will Alexei agree to see you?”

“I can’t guarantee it.”

“Then perhaps we should promise him something a bit more interesting than a mutual hand-holding session.”

Nazari was silent.

“Did you bring your VEVAK BlackBerry?”

The Iranian held it up for Yaakov to see.

“Send a message to Alexei. Tell him you’d like to discuss recent developments here in Vienna. Tell him Russia has nothing at all to be concerned about.”

Nazari quickly composed the e-mail, showed the text to Yaakov, and then pressed SEND.

“Very good.” Yaakov pointed at his open laptop and said, “Now send him that one.”

Nazari walked over and looked at the screen:

My government is lying to you about the seriousness of the situation. It is urgent I see you at once.

Nazari typed in the address and clicked SEND.

“That should get his attention,” said Yaakov.

“Yes,” said Nazari. “One would think.”

48

VIENNA

THEY DID NOT HEAR FROM Alexei Rozanov that first night, nor was there any response the following morning. Reza Nazari left the hotel at eight thirty along with the rest of the Iranian delegation and twenty minutes after that disappeared down the black hole of the nuclear negotiations. At which point Gabriel, trapped in the Vienna safe flat with Christopher Keller, allowed himself to ponder at length all the reasons why his operation was doomed even before it had left port. It was possible, of course, that Reza Nazari had gone on the record with his service in the hours immediately following his brutal interrogation. It was possible, too, he had then told Alexei Rozanov that the man he had conspired to kill so spectacularly was very much alive and out for vengeance. Or perhaps there was no Alexei Rozanov. Perhaps he was nothing more than a figment of Nazari’s fevered imagination, a clever piece of taqiyya designed to make himself useful to Gabriel and thus save his own life.

“Clearly,” said Keller, “you’ve lost your mind.”

“It happens to dead people.” Gabriel picked up a photograph of Rozanov walking along a cobbled street in Copenhagen. “Maybe he won’t come. Maybe his superiors at the SVR have decided to put him on ice for a while. Maybe he’ll ask his old friend Reza to pop over to Moscow for a night of vodka and girls.”

“Then we’ll pop over to Moscow, too. And we’ll kill him there.”

No, said Gabriel, shaking his head slowly, they would not be going back to Moscow. Moscow was their forbidden city. They had been lucky to survive their last visit. They would not be going back for a return engagement.