Shamron turned his gaze toward Uzi Navot. He was seated in a cubicle reserved for the FBI, a secure telephone pressed to his ear. At the other end of the call was the prime minister. It was never pleasant to wake a prime minister—especially when the news involved a looming diplomatic and political disaster—and Shamron could only imagine the tirade Navot was now enduring. He could not help but feel an ache of guilt. Navot had wanted no part of Landesmann and would now be forced to pay the price for Shamron’s folly. Shamron would do his best to shield Navot from harm, but he knew how these things went. A head would have to roll. And it was likely to be Navot’s.

He looked at the clock again: 05:56:38…Three and a half minutes until Graham Seymour telephoned the Swiss police. Three and a half minutes for the team of computer technicians and specialists to find the bargaining chip Shamron needed to achieve peace with honor. With Chiara peering anxiously over their shoulders, their labors were growing more frantic. Shamron wished he could help in some way. But he barely knew how to turn on a computer, let alone find a document buried in a pile of cybermush. Only the young knew how to do such things, Shamron thought gloomily. Yet more proof he had finally outlived his usefulness.

Another glance at the clock: 05:58:41…Graham Seymour was now watching the time with an intensity matching Shamron’s. At his right elbow was a telephone. An hour earlier, Seymour had taken the liberty of storing the DAP’s emergency number in the phone’s memory. One press of a button was all it would take.

The clock advanced: 05:59:57…05:59:58…05:59:59…06:00:00…

Seymour lifted the receiver and looked at Shamron. “Sorry, Ari, but I’m afraid we’ve run out of time. I know it’s not my call, but you might want to tell Gabriel to start heading for the border.”

Seymour jabbed at the speed dial button and lifted the receiver to his ear. Shamron closed his eyes and waited for the words he would no doubt hear for the rest of his life. Instead, he heard the heavy glass door of the fishbowl open with a bang, followed by the triumphant voice of Chiara.

“We’ve got him, Graham! He’s ours now! Hang up the phone! We’ve got him!”

SEYMOUR KILLED the connection. The receiver, however, was still in his hand.

“What exactly do you have?”

“The next shipment of centrifuges is due to leave Shenzhen in six weeks, arriving in Dubai sometime in mid-March, final payment due upon delivery to Meissner Privatbank of Liechtenstein.”

“What’s the source?”

“An encrypted temporary file that had once been attached to an e-mail.”

“Who were the parties to the e-mail?”

“Ulrich Müller and Martin Landesmann.”

“Let me see it.”

Chiara handed Seymour a printout of the documents. Seymour examined them, then replaced the receiver.