Until that moment, Reza Nazari had been a model prisoner. Even so, Gabriel had been anticipating one final act of defiance. Only in movies, Shamron always said, did the condemned man accept the noose without a struggle—and only in operational planning rooms did coerced assets face their moment of ultimate betrayal without a last ultimatum. Nazari could have made any number of demands. That he insisted only on speaking to his wife elevated him, however slightly, in the eyes of those who held his fate in their hands. Indeed, it might very well have saved his life.

The arrangements for an emergency contact between Nazari and his wife had been made shortly after his initial interrogation in Austria. Yaakov had only to dial a number in Tel Aviv, and the call would be routed securely to the villa in eastern Turkey where an Office team was babysitting Nazari’s wife and children. The conversation would be recorded at King Saul Boulevard, and a Persian speaker would be listening for any irregularities. The only danger was that the Russians and the Iranians might be listening, too.

With Gabriel’s approval, Yaakov dialed the number at 8:05. By 8:10 Nazari’s wife was on the line, and the translator was in place at King Saul Boulevard. Yaakov held out the phone toward Nazari.

“No tears, no good-byes. Just ask her about her day, and do your best to sound normal.”

Nazari took the phone and lifted it to his ear. “Tala, my darling,” he said, closing his eyes with relief. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

The conversation was slightly more than five minutes in duration, longer than Gabriel would have preferred. He had not wanted to risk a direct live feed to Hamburg, so he had to wait several additional minutes to learn the call had gone off without a problem. Outside his window, the clock of St. Michael’s Church read 8:20. With a few clicks on his computer keyboard, he moved his team into place. The evening’s first crisis had been averted. All he needed now was Alexei Rozanov.

56

NEUSTADT, HAMBURG