For the moment the audio feed had gone quiet, never a good sign. No one in the car was speaking. No one, it seemed, was breathing. Gabriel tried to picture the scene inside. Two men in front, two in back, one a hostage. Perhaps Alexei had drawn a gun. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, a display of weaponry was unnecessary. Perhaps Nazari, worn down by days of fear, had already signaled his guilt.

Gabriel looked at the winking light on his computer screen and asked, “What’s Alexei doing?”

“I can think of several possibilities,” replied Lavon. “None of them good.”

“Why no evasive action? Why no countersurveillance moves?”

“Maybe Alexei doesn’t quite believe it himself.”

“Believe what?”

“That you were able to find him so quickly.”

“He underestimates me? Is that what you’re saying, Eli?”

“Hard to believe, but—”

Lavon fell silent as the sound of Rozanov’s voice came over the feed. He was speaking in Russian.

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s giving the driver directions.”

“Where are they headed?”

“Unclear. But I suspect it’s someplace where they can give him a good going-over.”

“I wouldn’t mind listening to the questions.”

“Could get ugly.” Lavon paused, then added, “Terminally ugly.”

Gabriel watched the winking light moving across the computer screen. The car was turning onto the Stresemannstrasse, a wider road, faster traffic.

“It’s not a bad spot,” said Gabriel.

“Doesn’t get much better, actually.”

Gabriel raised the radio to his lips and gave the order. Within seconds, two additional blinking lights appeared on the screen. One was Mikhail. The other was Keller.

“Killings are always cleaner than snatches,” said Lavon quietly.

“Yes, Eli, I realize that.”

“So why not end it here and now?”

“I’ve added another question to my list.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to know the name of the man who told the Russians I was alive.”

The lights of Mikhail and Keller were moving closer. The Mercedes was still traveling at the same rate of speed.

“Let’s hope there’s no collateral damage,” said Lavon.

Yes, thought Gabriel, as he heard gunshots. Let us hope.

There are quarters of Hamburg where the Germans hide behind a dowdy English facade. The spot where the black Mercedes eventually ran aground was just such a place—a triangular common, small and grassy, bordered on one side by the street and on the other two by terraces of redbrick houses where one might have assumed the occupants were drinking tea and watching the News at Ten on the BBC. To reach it, the car had to first careen rudderless across two lanes of oncoming traffic. Along the way it toppled a lamppost and smashed a small sidewalk billboard before finally coming to rest against a slender young elm. Later, the neighborhood would go to great lengths to save the tree, but to no avail.