It was the memories of disasters past that seemed to haunt Gabriel during those long days in Highgate. Time and time again, he warned his team to guard against any complacency arising from the success of the operation in Paris. They would be playing on Martin’s turf now. Therefore, all the advantages would be his. Like his father before him, Martin had shown himself willing to resort to violence when faced with the threat of exposure. He had killed one reporter over his secret dealings with Iran and would surely kill another, even a reporter who happened to be sharing his bed.

But occasionally even Gabriel would pause and shake his head in wonder at the unlikely road he had traveled to reach this point—a road that had begun in Amsterdam in the luminous white sitting room of Lena Herzfeld. Lena was rarely far from Gabriel’s thoughts, just as the list of names and account numbers was never far from his side. Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld…Shamron referred to them as the invisible members of Gabriel’s team.

Shamron displayed an admirable restraint within the walls of the safe house, but for an hour each day, on the wooden bench atop Parliament Hill, he would privately share with Gabriel his fears about the operation that lay ahead. He began their final meeting by expressing his concerns about Gabriel’s leading man.

“Your entire operation hinges on Mikhail making one key decision. Can he get into Martin’s office cleanly and stay there for an hour and fifteen minutes without anyone noticing his absence? If he makes the wrong decision, it’s going to be a party to remember.”

“You’re concerned he might be too aggressive?”

“Not necessarily. Mikhail was a mess when he came home from Russia. Almost as bad as you and Chiara. After what he went through in that birch forest, he might not take the risks necessary to pull off his assignment.”

“He’s been trained by the Sayeret and the Office, Ari. When he walks through the door of Villa Elma tomorrow night, he won’t be Mikhail Abramov. He’ll be Mikhail Danilov, Russian millionaire and consort of Zoe Reed.”

“Was it really necessary to give a hundred thousand euros of my money to Martin’s foundation?”

“Mr. Danilov insisted.”

“Did he?”

“Mr. Danilov wanted to make a good first impression. He’s also not the sort of man who likes to come across as a freeloader. Mr. Danilov is quite well off. And he always pays his own way.”

“Let’s just hope Mr. Danilov makes the right choice about whether to go after the computer. Not only for his sake but for Zoe’s, not to mention your friend Uzi Navot.” Shamron ignited a cigarette. “I hear he’s already won many friends and admirers at Thames House and Vauxhall Cross.”

“And you?”