to suggest a leak by any Office personnel. Nor could they find fault with the execution of the operation itself. All had participated in undertakings far more complex than a garden-variety defection and exfiltration. It was, as Yossi wrote in his memorandum, “child’s play, by our standards.” Still, he acknowledged there were “knowns and unknowns.” Chief among them was the possibility the leak had come from none other than Konstantin Kirov himself.
“How?” asked Gabriel.
“You sent a total of four text messages to him that night—is that correct?”
“You have them all, Yossi. You know it’s correct.”
“The first message instructed Kirov to leave the InterContinental and walk to the train station. The second instructed him to board the last train to Vienna. Upon arrival, you told him to take a taxi to the Best Western. But a minute before he arrived there, you sent him the address of the safe flat.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“He was still in the taxi, which meant Mikhail and Keller couldn’t see him clearly.”
“Your point?”
“He could have forwarded the message.”
“To whom?”
“Moscow Center.”
“He had himself killed?”
“Maybe he was under the impression the evening would turn out differently.”
“In what way?”
“A different target, for example.”
“Who?”
Yossi shrugged. “You.”
Which heralded the second phase of the inquiry: a full review of Konstantin Kirov’s recruitment, handling, and enormous output of intelligence. With the benefit of hindsight, the three analysts weighed each of Kirov’s reports. They found no evidence of deception. Kirov, they concluded, was that rarest of birds. Despite the circumstances of his coerced recruitment, he remained as good as gold.
But the Office had not kept Kirov’s precious intelligence to itself; it had shared the bounty with the Americans and the British. Each instance of sharing was logged in Kirov’s voluminous case file: the type of material, the date, the all-important distribution list. No one in Washington or London, however, knew the true identity of the agent code-named Heathcliff, and only a handful of senior officers were aware of his intention to defect. One MI6 officer had been given the address of the Vienna safe flat in advance. He had insisted on it, claiming it was necessary to ensure the defector’s safe transfer to Vienna International Airport, where a Falcon executive jet had been waiting to fly him to London.
“We would have demanded the same thing,” said Uzi Navot. “Besides, having access to a piece of information isn’t the same as having proof he gave it to the Russians.”
“That’s true,” agreed Gabriel. “But it’s a good place to start.”
Navot raised a dainty china teacup to his lips. It contained hot water with a slice of lemon. Next to the saucer was a plate of celery sticks. They were carefully arranged so as to enhance their appeal. Clearly, Bella was unhappy with Navot’s current weight, which fluctuated like a Latin American stock exchange. Poor Uzi had spent the better part of the last decade on a diet. Food was his only weakness, especially the heavy, calorie-laden cuisine of Central and Eastern Europe.
“It’s your call,” he went on, “but if I were in your position, I’d want more than a pile of supposition before making an accusation against an officer from a friendly intelligence service. I’ve actually met him. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to betray his country.”
“I’m sure Angleton said the same thing about Kim Philby.”
Navot, with a sage nod of his head, conceded the point. “So how do you intend to play it?”
“I’m going to fly to London and have a word with our partners.”
“Care for a prediction?”
“Why not?”
“Your partners are going to reject your findings categorically. And then they’ll blame us for what happened in Vienna. That’s the way it works when there’s a disaster in our business. Everyone runs for the nearest foxhole.”
“So I should let it drop? Is that what you’re saying?”
“What I’m saying,” answered Navot, “is that pursuing the issue based on a flimsy estimate is liable to do serious damage to a valuable relationship.”
“There is no relationship between us and the British. It is suspended until further notice.”
“And I was afraid you were going to do something rash.” Lowering his voice, Navot added, “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, Gabriel.”
“My mother always told me that. I still don’t know what it means.”
“It means you should drop that report into your shredder.”
“Not a chance.”
“In that case,” said Navot with a sigh, “you should send someone back to Vienna to see if he can add a few more details. Someone who speaks the language like a native. Someone with a contact or two inside the local security service. Who knows? If he plays his cards right, he might be able to disabuse the Austrians of the notion we killed our own defector.”
“Know anyone who fits the bill?”
“I might.”
Gabriel smiled. “You can have a nice Wiener schnitzel while you’re in town, Uzi. I know how much you love the way they make it in Vienna.”
“And the Rindsgulasch.” Navot ran a hand absently over his ample midsection. “Just what I need. Bella’s liable to put me on punishment rations.”
“You sure you don’t mind going?”
“Someone has to do it.” Navot stared morosely at the plate of celery sticks. “It might as well be me.”
Uzi Navot passed an uneventful evening with Bella at their comfortable home in the Tel Aviv suburb of Petah Tikva, and in the morning, having risen at the hateful hour of three, he boarded the five-ten El Al flight to Warsaw, known affectionately inside the Office as the Polish Express. His overnight bag contained two changes of clothing and three changes of identity. His seatmate, a woman of thirty-three from a town in the Upper Galilee, did not recognize him. Navot was both relieved and, when he analyzed his feelings honestly, deeply resentful. For six years he had led the Office without blemish, and yet already he was forgotten. He had long ago resigned himself to the fact he would be remembered merely as a placeholder
