In the streets surrounding Die Bank, the rest of Gabriel’s team was moving quietly into place. On the Poststrasse, Dina Sarid was easing a Volkswagen sedan into an empty space outside a Vodafone outlet. Mordecai sat next to her in the front passenger seat, and in the back Oded was doing a few deep-breathing exercises to slow his racing heart rate. Fifty meters farther along the street, Mikhail Abramov sat astride a parked motorbike, watching the pedestrians with an expression of profound boredom on his face. Keller sat next to him atop a motorbike of his own. He was peering at the screen of his mobile. The message told him the man of the hour had not yet surfaced. It was 8:48 p.m.

At 8:50 Alexei Rozanov had still not made contact with Reza Nazari. Gabriel stood in the window of the safe flat watching the clock atop St. Michael’s Church as two more minutes passed without a call. Eli Lavon stood next to him, a consoling presence, a fellow mourner at the grave of an old friend.

“You have to send him, Gabriel. Otherwise, he’s going to be late.”

“What if he’s not supposed to go to the restaurant until he hears from Alexei?”

“We’ll have him make up an excuse.”

“Maybe Alexei won’t buy it.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Or maybe he isn’t coming.”

“You’re jumping at shadows.”

“A five-hundred-pound bomb exploded in my face two weeks ago. I’m entitled.”

Another minute passed with no call. Gabriel walked over to the laptop, keyed in a message, and clicked SEND. Then he returned to the window and stood at the side of his oldest friend in the world.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do?” asked Lavon.

“About what?”

“Alexei.”

“I’m going to give him a chance to sign my death certificate.”

“And if he does?”

Gabriel turned away from the clock and looked at Lavon. “I want my face to be the last one he ever sees.”

“Chiefs don’t kill KGB officers.”

“It’s called the SVR now, Eli. And I’m not the chief yet.”

“Give me your phone,” said Yaakov.

“Why?”

“Just give me the damn thing. We don’t have much time.”

Reza Nazari surrendered his mobile. Yaakov removed the SIM card and inserted it into an identical device. Nazari hesitated before accepting it.

“A bomb?” he asked.

“Your phone for the evening.”

“Should I assume it’s compromised?”

“In every way imaginable.”

Nazari slipped the phone into his coat pocket, next to the pen. “What happens at the end of dinner?”

“Whatever you do,” Yaakov said, “don’t walk out the door with him at the same time. I’ll pick you up in front of the restaurant once Alexei is gone.”

“Gone?”

Yaakov said nothing more. Reza Nazari pulled on his overcoat and headed down to the lobby.

It was 8:57 p.m.