Keller and Mikhail each seized one of Rozanov’s arms and lifted him upright. As predicted, the Russian didn’t remain vertical for long. They raised him again but this time kept their grip on his arms. His head had fallen forward, his chin was on his chest. He was taller than he had appeared in the surveillance photographs, and heavier—more than two hundred pounds of formerly toned muscle that was going to fat. He had run a good operation, but Gabriel had run a better one. He removed the Glock from the waistband of his trousers and used the barrel to raise Rozanov’s chin. It took a few seconds for the Russian’s swollen eyes to focus. When they did, there was no trace of fear or recognition. He was good, thought Gabriel. He tore the tape from the Russian’s mouth.

“You don’t seem terribly surprised to see me, Alexei.”

“Have we met?” murmured the Russian.

Gabriel gave a humorless smile. “No,” he said after a moment, “I haven’t had the displeasure until now. But I know your work well. Very well, in fact. Chapter and verse. There are just a few small details I need to clear up.”

“What are you offering, Allon?”

“Nothing.”

“Then you’ll get nothing in return.”

Gabriel pointed the gun toward Rozanov’s right foot and pulled the trigger. The crack of the gunshot echoed among the trees. So did the Russian’s screams.

“Are you beginning to get a sense of the gravity of your situation, Alexei?”

Rozanov was at that moment incapable of speech, so Gabriel spoke for him.

“You and your service left a bomb on Brompton Road in London. It was meant for my friend and me, but it killed fifty-two innocent people. You killed Charlotte Harris of Shepherd’s Bush. You killed her son, who was called Peter after his grandfather. It’s because of them that you’re here tonight.” Gabriel pointed the Glock at Rozanov’s face. “How do you plead, Alexei?”

“Eamon Quinn planted that bomb,” gasped Rozanov. “Not us.”

“You paid him to do it, Alexei. And you gave him a helper named Katerina.”

Rozanov looked up sharply and stared at Gabriel through a haze of pain.

“Where’s Quinn?” asked Gabriel.

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Where?” asked Gabriel again.

“I’m telling you, Allon. I don’t know where he is.”

Gabriel aimed the gun at Rozanov’s left foot and pulled the trigger.

“Jesus! Please stop!”

The Russian was no longer screaming in pain. He was weeping like a child—weeping, thought Gabriel, like the limbless survivors of one of Quinn’s bombs. Quinn who could make a ball of fire travel a thousand feet per second. Quinn who was at a camp in Libya with a Palestinian named Tariq al-Hourani.

Do you suppose they knew each other?

I can’t imagine they didn’t.