Because the Marriott was an American hotel, its forecourt contained stainless-steel posts and ugly concrete flowerpots to protect the building against terrorist attack. Reza Nazari, servant of the world’s largest state sponsor of international terrorism, navigated the defenses under the watchful gaze of Yaakov and turned into the street. It was empty of traffic, and the pavements were deserted. Nothing in the shop windows slowed Nazari’s progress, though he did seem to take note of the two men on motorcycles in the little esplanade across the street from Die Bank. He entered the restaurant at nine precisely and presented himself to the maître d’. “Romanov,” said the Iranian, and the maître d’ ran a manicured finger along his reservations list. “Ah, yes, here it is. Romanov.”

Nazari shed his overcoat and was shown into the high-ceilinged dining room. Passing the bar, he noticed a woman with sandstone-colored hair watching him. The man seated next to her was typing something into his mobile—confirmation of the asset’s safe arrival, thought Nazari. The table was in the corner of the room, beneath an unnerving black-and-white photograph of a maniacal-looking bald man. Nazari took the seat facing the room. It would upset Alexei, but at that point Alexei’s feelings were the least of his concerns. He was thinking only of his wife and children and the list of questions that Allon wanted answered. A waiter filled his glass with water; a sommelier offered him a wine list. Then, at 9:07, he felt the new mobile phone vibrate against his heart with an unfamiliar pattern. He didn’t recognize the number. Even so, he accepted the call.

“Where are you?” asked a voice in Russian.

“In the restaurant,” replied Nazari in the same language. Then he asked, “Where are you?”

“Running a few minutes behind schedule. But I’m close.”

“Should I order you a drink?”

“Actually, we need to make a small change.”

“How small?”

Rozanov explained what he wanted Nazari to do. Then he said, “Two minutes. Do you understand me?”

Before Nazari could answer, the connection was lost. Nazari quickly dialed the man he knew as Mr. Taylor.

“Did you hear that?”

“Every word.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“If I were you, Reza, I’d be standing outside the restaurant in two minutes.”

“But—”

“Two minutes, Reza. Or the deal’s off.”