THE MESSAGE FROM ALEXEI ROZANOV could not have been more concise. A restaurant, a city, a time. The restaurant was Die Bank, a seafood brasserie in the Neustadt section of Hamburg. The time was nine p.m. on Thursday. It meant that Gabriel would have just forty-eight hours to plan the operation and move the necessary assets into place. He commenced work immediately after returning to the Vienna safe flat with Eli Lavon—and by midnight they had obtained the lodging, cars, weaponry, and secure communications equipment required for such an undertaking. They had also acquired additional personnel from Barak, Gabriel’s fabled team of field operatives. The only item that eluded them was a second reservation at the restaurant. It seemed the Russian had secured the last available table for Thursday evening. Keller suggested hacking into the restaurant’s computer and killing off a few tables—metaphorically, of course—but Gabriel overruled him. He knew Die Bank well. There was a large noisy bar where a pair of operatives could spend an hour or two without attracting notice.

The Office was not alone in its preparations. VEVAK, defenders of the Islamic revolution, archenemy of Israel and the West, was preparing, too. The service’s secret travel department booked Reza Nazari a seat on Austrian Airlines Flight 171, which departed Vienna at five thirty p.m. and arrived in Hamburg at seven. Gabriel would have preferred a slightly earlier flight, but Nazari’s late arrival meant there would be less time for Iranian or Russian mischief. VEVAK’s choice of a hotel—a discount dump near the airport—was a problem, however. Gabriel asked Nazari to switch to the Marriott in the Neustadt instead. It was a short distance from the restaurant, and several members of the Israeli team were already booked there. Nazari requested an upgrade, and Tehran readily complied—thus making it, said Gabriel, the first joint Office-VEVAK operation in history. Reza Nazari did not find the observation humorous. That evening, when he came to Yaakov’s room at the InterContinental for a final briefing, he was sweating with nerves. Gabriel began the session by presenting the Iranian with a gold pen.

“A token of your esteem?” asked Nazari.

“I thought about getting you a tie clip, but you Iranians don’t wear ties.”

“You Israelis aren’t terribly fond of them, either.” Nazari examined the pen carefully. “What’s the range?”

“None of your business.”

“Battery life?”

“Twenty-four hours, but don’t get greedy. Turn the cap to the right when it’s time to engage the power. If we lose transmission at any point during dinner, I’m going to assume that you switched it off intentionally. And that would be bad for your health.”

Nazari made no reply.

“Keep it in the breast pocket of your suit jacket,” Gabriel continued. “The microphone is sensitive, so sit naturally. If you suddenly try to sit in Alexei’s lap, he might get the wrong impression.”