Navot was a true spy, a recruiter and runner of agents, a collector of other men’s secrets. Before his bureaucratic ascent at King Saul Boulevard, Western Europe had been his primary field of battle. Armed with an array of languages, a fatalistic charm, and a small fortune in financing, he had recruited a far-flung network of agents inside terrorist organizations, embassies, foreign ministries, and security services. One was Werner Schwarz. Navot rang him that evening from a hotel room in Prague. Werner sounded as though he’d had one or two more than was good for him. Werner was rather too fond of his drink. He was unhappily married. The alcohol was anesthesia.
“I’ve been expecting your call.”
“I really hate to be predictable.”
“A drawback in your line of work,” said Werner Schwarz. “I suppose Vienna is in your travel plans.”
“Tomorrow, actually.”
“The day after would be better.”
“I have time considerations, Werner.”
“We can’t meet in Vienna. My service is on edge.”
“Mine, too.”
“I can only imagine. How about that little wine garden in the Woods? You remember it, don’t you?”
“With considerable fondness.”
“And who will I be dining with?”
“A Monsieur Laffont.” Vincent Laffont was one of Navot’s old cover identities. He was a freelance travel writer of Breton descent who lived out of a suitcase.
“I look forward to seeing him again. Vincent was always one of my favorites,” said Werner Schwarz, and rang off.
Navot, as was his habit, arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes early, bearing a decorative box from Demel, the famous Viennese chocolatier. He had eaten most of the treats during the drive and in their place tucked five thousand euros in cash. The owner of the restaurant, a small man shaped like a Russian nesting doll, remembered him. And Navot, playing the role of Monsieur Laffont, regaled him with stories of his latest travels before settling in a quiet corner of the timbered dining room. He ordered a bottle of Grüner Veltliner, confident it would not be the last. Only three other tables were occupied, and all three parties were in the last throes of their luncheon. Soon the place would be deserted. Navot always liked a bit of ambient noise when he was doing his spying, but Werner preferred to betray his country unobserved.
He arrived at the stroke of three, dressed for the office in a dark suit and overcoat. His appearance had changed since Navot had seen him last, and not necessarily for the better. A bit thicker and grayer, a few more broken blood vessels across his cheeks. His eyes brightened as Navot filled two glasses with wine. Then the usual disappointment returned. Werner Schwarz wore it like a loud necktie. Navot had spotted it during one of his fishing trips to Vienna, and with a bit of money and pillow talk he had reeled Werner into his net. From his post inside the BVT, Austria’s capable internal security service, he had kept Navot well informed about matters of interest to the State of Israel. Navot had been forced to relinquish control of Werner during his tenure as chief. For several years they had had no contact other than the odd clandestine Christmas card and the regular cash deposits in Werner’s Zurich bank account.
“A little something for Lotte,” said Navot as he handed Werner the box.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“It was the least I could do. I know you’re a busy man.”
“Me? I have access but no real responsibility. I sit in meetings and bide my time.”
“How much longer?”
“Maybe two years.”
“We won’t forget you, Werner. You’ve been good to us.”
The Austrian waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not some girl you picked up in a bar. Once I retire, you’ll struggle to remember my name.”
Navot didn’t bother with a denial.
“And what about you, Monsieur Laffont? Still in the game, I see.”
“For a few more rounds, at least.”
“Your service treated you shabbily. You deserved better.”
“I had a good run.”
“Only to be cast aside for Allon.” In a confessional murmur, Werner Schwarz asked, “Did he really think he could get away with killing an SVR officer in the middle of Vienna?”
“We had nothing to do with it.”
“Uzi, please.”
“You have to believe me, Werner. It wasn’t us.”
“We have evidence.”
“Like what?”
“One of the members of your hit team. The tall one,” Werner Schwarz persisted. “The one who looks like a cadaver. He helped Allon with that little problem at the Stadttempel a few years ago, and Allon was foolish enough to send him back to Vienna to take care of the Russian. You would have never made a mistake like that, Uzi. You were always very cautious.”
Navot ignored Werner’s flattery. “Our officers were present that night,” he admitted, “but not for the reason you think. The Russian was working for us. He was in the process of defecting when he was killed.”
Werner Schwarz smiled. “How long did it take you and Allon to come up with that one?”
“You didn’t actually see the assassination, did you, Werner?”
“There were no cameras at that end of the street, which is why you chose it. The ballistics evidence proves conclusively the operative on the motorcycle was the one who pulled the trigger.” Werner Schwarz paused, then added, “My condolences, by the way.”
“None necessary. He wasn’t ours.”
“He’s sitting on a slab in the central morgue. Do you really intend to leave him there?”
“He’s of no concern to us. Do with him what you please.”
“Oh, we are.”
The proprietor appeared and took their order as the last of the three luncheon parties made their way noisily toward the door. Beyond the windows of the dining room the Vienna Woods were beginning to darken. It was the quiet time, the time Werner Schwarz liked best. Navot filled his wineglass. Then, with no warning or explanation, he spoke a name.
Werner Schwarz raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”
“Know him?”
“Only by reputation.”
“And what’s that?”
“A fine officer who serves his country’s interests here in Vienna professionally and in accordance with our wishes.”
“Which means he makes no attempt
