Shortly after two in the afternoon, Gabriel glimpsed a Volkswagen sedan speeding along the coast road. It passed by the villa and disappeared around a bend, then, five minutes later, approached from the opposite direction. This time it slowed and turned into the drive. Gabriel looked at Chiara. “You’d better wait upstairs in the bedroom,” he said. “From what I’ve read about Wazir, your presence will only be a distraction.”

Chiara gathered up her papers and bridal magazines and vanished. Gabriel went into the kitchen and opened one of the cabinets. Inside was the control panel for the built-in recording system. He put in a fresh set of tapes and pressed the RECORD button, then went into the entrance hall and opened the front door as al-Zayyat was coming up the steps. The Egyptian froze and regarded Gabriel suspiciously for a moment through the lenses of his mirrored sunglasses. Then a trace of a smile appeared beneath his dense mustache and he extended a clublike hand in Gabriel’s direction.

“To what do I owe the honor, Mr. Allon?”

“Something came up in Rome,” Gabriel said. “Shimon asked me to fill in.”

The Egyptian pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead and studied Gabriel again, this time with obvious skepticism. His eyes were dark and bottomless. They were not a pair of eyes Gabriel would ever want to see on the other side of an interrogation table.

“Or maybe you volunteered to come here to see me,” the Egyptian said.

“Now, why would I do that, Wazir?”

“Because if what I read in the newspapers is true, you now have something of a personal stake in the outcome of this case.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.”

“At least not the Egyptian papers.”

Al-Zayyat followed Gabriel into the villa, then walked over to the drinks cabinet with a proprietary air and loosened the cap on a new bottle of single-malt Scotch. “You’ll join me?” he asked, waving the bottle at Gabriel.

“I’m driving,” Gabriel replied.

“What is it with you Jews and alcohol?”

“It makes us do silly things with lampshades.”

“What kind of agent-runner doesn’t have a drink with a source?” Al-Zayyat poured himself a very large glass and put the cap back on the bottle without tightening it. “But then you’re not an agent-runner, are you, Allon?” He drank half the whisky in a single swallow. “How’s the old man? Back on his feet?”

“Shamron is fine,” Gabriel said. “He sends his regards.”

“I hope he sent more than regards.”

Gabriel looked at the leather briefcase laying in a rectangle of sunlight on the sailcloth couch. Al-Zayyat sat next to it and popped the latches. Satisfied by the contents, he closed the briefcase and looked at Gabriel.

“I know who kidnapped the ambassador’s daughter,” he said. “And I know why they did it. Where would you like me to start?”