“Leave Alexei to us,” answered Lavon. “It’s time for you to go home now.”

Gabriel moved slowly forward and stopped on the very spot where the car had burned down to a blackened skeletal ruin. Despite the bomb’s compact size, it had produced an unusually intense explosion and fire.

“Have you had a chance to look at Quinn’s file?” he asked.

“Interesting reading,” replied Lavon.

“Quinn was at Ras al Helal in the mid-eighties. You remember Ras al Helal, don’t you, Eli? It was that camp in eastern Libya, the one near the sea. The Palestinians trained there, too.” Gabriel peered over his shoulder. “Tariq was there.”

Lavon said nothing. Gabriel stared at the snow-covered cobbles. “He arrived in eighty-five. Or was it eighty-six? He’d been having trouble with his bombs. Detonation failures, problems with his fuses and his timers. But when he emerged from Libya again . . .”

Gabriel’s voice trailed off.

“It was a bloodbath,” said Lavon.

Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Do you suppose they knew each other?” he asked finally.

“Quinn and Tariq?”

“Yes, Eli.”

“I can’t imagine they didn’t.”

“Maybe it was Quinn who helped Tariq solve the problems he was having.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Maybe it was Quinn who designed the bomb that destroyed my family.”

“You settled that account a long time ago.”

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Lavon, but Lavon was no longer listening. He was staring at the screen of his BlackBerry.

“What does it say?” asked Gabriel.

“It seems Alexei Rozanov would like to have a word with Nazari after all.”

“When?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Where?”

Lavon held up the BlackBerry. Gabriel peered at the screen and then tilted his face to the falling snow. Isn’t it beautiful? he thought. The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. The snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain down on Tel Aviv.

49

ROTTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS

IT WAS A FEW MINUTES after eleven in the morning when Katerina Akulova stepped from Rotterdam’s central train station. She entered a waiting taxi and in rather good Dutch instructed the driver to take her to the Hotel Nordzee. The street upon which it stood was more residential than commercial, and the hotel had the air of a run-down sea cottage that had been put to more prosperous use. Katerina went to the reception desk. The clerk, a young Dutch woman, seemed surprised to see her.

“Gertrude Berger,” said Katerina. “My friend checked in yesterday. Mr. McGinnis.”

The woman frowned at her computer terminal. “Actually,” she said, “your room is unoccupied.”

“Are you sure?”

The woman gave the serene smile she reserved for the most inane questions. “But a gentleman did leave something for you earlier this morning.” She handed over a letter-size envelope with the Hotel Nordzee insignia in the upper left corner.

“Do you know what time he left it?”

“About nine, if I remember correctly.”

“Do you recall what he looked like?”