“Ask Ivan Kharkov whether I should be worried about Gabriel Allon’s penchant for revenge.” Rozanov glanced over his shoulder. “The only reason I came here tonight is because the Kremlin is nervous about the prospect of radioactive material in the hands of Chechen terrorists.”

“The Kremlin has good reason to be worried.”

“So it’s true, then?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m relieved, Reza.”

“Why would you be relieved about the Chechens being able to make a dirty bomb?”

“Because the timing of this whole thing was rather interesting, don’t you think?” Rozanov stared out his window. “First, Allon fakes his own death. Then a hundred pounds of highly radioactive waste material goes missing from an Iranian lab.” He paused, then added, “And now here we are in Hamburg together.”

“What are you suggesting, Alexei?”

“Neither the SVR nor the FSB has uncovered any intelligence to suggest the Chechens have acquired Iranian nuclear waste material. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your e-mail.”

“I sent you that e-mail because the reports are true.”

“Or maybe you sent it because Allon told you to.”

This time, it was Nazari who stared out his window. “You’re starting to make me nervous, Alexei.”

“That was my intention.” The Russian was silent for a moment. “You’re the only one who could have given Allon my name, Reza.”

“You’re forgetting Quinn.”

Rozanov lit a Dunhill thoughtfully, as though he were moving pieces around a mental chessboard.

“Where is he?” asked Nazari.

“Quinn?”

Nazari nodded.

“Why would you ask such a question?”

“He was our asset.”

“That’s true, Reza. But now he belongs to us. And his whereabouts are none of your concern.”

Nazari reached inside his overcoat for his cigarettes, but Rozanov seized his wrist with surprising strength.

“What are you doing?” the Russian asked.

“I was hoping to have a cigarette.”

“You didn’t bring a gun tonight, did you, Reza?”

“Of course not.”

“You should have.” Rozanov smiled coldly. “That was another mistake on your part.”

The Mercedes was headed west on the Feldstrasse, a busy street linking the Neustadt to the quarter of St. Pauli. Two men on motorbikes followed, along with two cars, each containing three seasoned operatives of the Israeli secret intelligence service. None was aware of what had transpired between Alexei Rozanov and Reza Nazari. Only Gabriel and Eli Lavon, hunched over a laptop computer in the safe flat, were privy to the tense confrontation. The pen in the Iranian’s pocket was no longer relevant—it was well out of range of the receiver—but Nazari’s mobile phone was providing clear audio coverage.