If the mullahs thought a display of naked brutality would end the protests, they were mistaken, for in the days to come, the streets of Tehran would become a virtual war zone of Green Movement rage and dissent. In the West, commentators speculated that the days of the regime might be numbered while security experts predicted a coming wave of Iranian-backed terrorism. Two questions, however, remained unanswered. Who had actually carried off the act of sabotage? And how had they managed to do it?

There were many theories, all wildly inaccurate. Not one referred to a long-lost Rembrandt now hanging in the National Gallery in Washington, or a former British newspaper reporter who was now a star on American cable news, or a Swiss financier known to all the world as Saint Martin who was anything but. Nor did they mention a man of medium build with gray temples who was often seen hiking alone along the sea cliffs of Cornwall—sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by a broad-shouldered youth with matinee-idol good looks.

On a warmish afternoon in early June, while nearing the southern end of Kynance Cove, he spotted an elderly, bespectacled figure standing on the terrace of the Polpeor Café at Lizard Point. For an instant, he considered turning in the opposite direction. Instead, he lowered his head and kept walking. The old man had traveled a long way to see him. The least he could do was say a proper good-bye.

CHAPTER 81

81

LIZARD POINT, CORNWALL

The terrace was in bright sunlight. They sat alone in the corner beneath the shade of a parasol, Shamron with his back to the sea, Gabriel directly opposite. He was dressed in hiking shorts and waterproof boots with thick socks pulled down to the ankle. Shamron stirred two packets of sugar into his coffee and in Hebrew asked whether Gabriel was armed. Gabriel glanced at the nylon rucksack resting on the empty chair next to him. Shamron pulled a frown.

“It’s a violation of Office doctrine to carry weapons in separate containers. That gun is supposed to be at the small of your back where you can get to it quickly.”

“It bothers my back on long walks.”

Shamron, sufferer of chronic pain, gave a sympathetic nod. “I’m just relieved the British have finally given you formal permission to carry a gun at all times.” He gave a faint smile. “I suppose we have the Iranians to thank for that.”

“Are you hearing anything?”

Shamron nodded gravely. “They’re convinced we were behind it and they’re anxious to return the favor. We know that Hezbollah’s top terror planner made a trip to Tehran last week. We also know that a number of operatives have been unusually chatty the last few days. It’s only a matter of time before they hit us.”

“Has my name come up?”

“Not yet.”

Gabriel sipped his mineral water and asked Shamron what he was doing in the country.