“I have to admit,” said Navot, “it does bear more than a passing resemblance to you.” He was scrutinizing Gabriel’s photograph on the front page of Haaretz. “And that little fellow next to you reminds me of someone else I know.”
“There must have been an SVR team in the building on the other side of the street. Judging from the camera angle, I’d say they were on the third floor.”
“The analysts say it was probably the fourth.”
“Do they?”
“In all likelihood,” Navot continued, “the Russians had another static post at the front of the building, a car, maybe another flat.”
“Which means they knew where Kirov was going.”
Navot nodded slowly. “I suppose you should consider yourself lucky they didn’t take the opportunity to kill you, too.”
“A pity they didn’t. I might have received better press coverage.”
They were approaching the end of the airport exit ramp. To the right was Jerusalem and Gabriel’s wife and children. To the left was Tel Aviv and King Saul Boulevard. Gabriel instructed the driver to take him to King Saul Boulevard.
“Are you sure?” asked Navot. “You look like you could use a few hours of sleep.”
“And what would they write about me then?”
Navot thumbed the combination locks of a stainless-steel attaché case. From it he removed a photograph, which he handed to Gabriel. It was the photograph Mikhail had snapped of Konstantin Kirov’s assassin. The eyes were not quite dead; somewhere was a faint trace of light. The rest of the face was a mess, but not from the accident. It had been stretched and pulled and stitched to such a degree it scarcely looked human.
“He looks like a rich woman I once met at an art auction,” said Gabriel. “Have you run him through the database?”
“Several times.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
Gabriel returned the photograph to Navot. “One wonders why an operative of his obvious skill and training didn’t eliminate the one and only threat to his life.”
“Mikhail?”
Gabriel nodded slowly.
“He fired four shots at him.”
“And all four missed. Even you could have hit him from that distance, Uzi.”
“You think he was ordered to miss?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Maybe they thought a dead Israeli would make their cover story less believable. Or maybe they had another reason,” said Gabriel. “They’re Russians. They usually do.”
“Why kill Kirov in Vienna in the first place? Why didn’t they bleed him dry in Moscow and then put a bullet in his neck?”
Gabriel tapped the stack of newspapers. “Maybe they wanted to use the opportunity to fatally wound me.”
“There’s a simple solution,” said Navot. “Tell the world that Konstantin Kirov was working for us.”
“At this point, it would smell like a cover story. And it would send a message to every potential asset that we are incapable of protecting those who work for us. It’s too high a price to pay.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“I’m going to start by finding out who gave the Russians the address of our safe flat in Vienna.”
“In case you were wondering,” said Navot, “it wasn’t me.”
“Don’t worry, Uzi. I believe you.”
It had been Uzi Navot’s wish, during the final year of his term as chief, to move the headquarters of the Office from King Saul Boulevard to a flashy new complex just north of Tel Aviv, in Ramat HaSharon. Bella was said to be the driving force behind the relocation. She had never cared for the old building, even when she worked there as a Syria analyst, and found it unbecoming of an intelligence service with a global reach. She wanted an Israeli version of Langley or Vauxhall Cross, a modern monument to Israel’s intelligence prowess. She personally approved the architectural designs, lobbied the prime minister and the Knesset for the necessary funding, and even chose the location—an empty plot of land along a high-tech corridor near the Glilot Interchange, adjacent to a shopping center and multiplex called Cinema City. But Gabriel, in one of his first official acts, had with an elegant stroke of his pen swiftly shelved the plans. In matters of both intelligence and art, he was a traditionalist who believed the old ways were better than the new. And under no circumstances would he countenance moving the Office to a place known colloquially in Israel as Glilot Junction. “What on earth will we call ourselves?” he had asked Eli Lavon. “We’ll be a laughingstock.”
The old building was not without its charms and, perhaps more important, its sense of history. Yes, it was drab and featureless, but like Eli Lavon it had the advantage of anonymity. No emblem hung over its entrance, no brass lettering proclaimed the identity of its occupant. In fact, there was nothing at all to suggest it was the headquarters of one of the world’s most feared and respected intelligence services.
Gabriel’s office was on the uppermost floor, overlooking the sea. Its walls were hung with paintings—a few by his own hand, unsigned, and several others by his mother—and in one corner stood an old Italian easel upon which the analysts propped their photographs and diagrams when they came to brief him. Navot had taken his large glass desk to his new office on the other side of the antechamber, but he had left behind his modern video wall, with its collage of global news channels. As Gabriel entered the room, several of the screens flickered with images of Vienna, and in the panel reserved for the BBC World Service he saw his own face. He increased the volume and learned that British prime minister Jonathan Lancaster, a man who owed his career to Gabriel, was said to be “deeply concerned” over the allegations of Israeli involvement in the death of Konstantin Kirov.
Gabriel lowered the volume and went into his private bathroom to shower and shave and change into clean clothing. Returning to his office, he found Yaakov Rossman, the chief of Special Ops, waiting. Yaakov had hair like steel wool and a hard, pitted face. He held a letter-size envelope in his hand and was glaring at the BBC.
“Can you believe Lancaster?”
“He has his reasons.”
“Like what?”
“Protecting his intelligence service.”
“Duplicitous bastards,” murmured Yaakov. “We should never have
