The English Spy Page 21

  “So now I suppose Uzi will keep his job. He’s a good man, Uzi, but he’s no Gabriel Allon. Uzi got all the credit for blowing up our enrichment facilities, but everyone knows it was Allon who inserted those sabotaged centrifuges into our supply chain.”

  “What centrifuges?”

  Reza Nazari smiled. It was a professional smile, careful, discreet. He was a small, slight man with deeply set brown eyes and a closely trimmed beard, a man of the desk rather than the field, a man of moderation—or so he had claimed when he made his initial approach to the Office two years earlier, during a working visit to Istanbul. He said he wanted to spare his country another disastrous war, that he wanted to serve as a bridge between the Office and forward-thinking men like himself inside VEVAK. The bridge had not come cheap. Nazari had been paid more than a million dollars, a staggering sum by Office standards. In exchange, he had supplied a steady stream of high-grade intelligence that had given Israel’s politicians and military leaders an unprecedented window on Iranian intentions. Nazari was so valuable that the Office had created a bolt-hole for his family in the event his treachery were ever discovered. Unbeknownst to Nazari, the escape procedures had been activated earlier that day.

  “We were closer to a weapon than you realized,” Nazari was saying. “If Allon hadn’t blown up those four enrichment facilities, we could have had a weapon within a year. But we rebuilt those facilities and added a few more. And now . . .”

  “You’re close again.”

  Nazari nodded. “But that doesn’t seem to bother your friends in America. The president wants his deal. It’s legacy time, as they say.”

  “The president’s legacy is of no concern to the Office.”

  “But you share his conclusion that a nuclear Iran is inevitable. Uzi has no appetite for a military confrontation. Allon was another story, though. He would have flattened us if he had the chance.” The Iranian shook his head slowly. “One wonders why he was following that car in London.”

  “Yes,” said Yaakov. “One wonders.”

  A road sign floated past Nazari’s window: CZECH REPUBLIC 42 KM. He looked at his watch again.

  “Why didn’t we meet in our usual place?”

  “We have a little surprise for you, Reza.”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  “Something to show our appreciation for everything you’ve done.”

  “How much farther?”

  “Not far.”

  “I have to be back at my hotel by midnight at the latest.”

  “Don’t worry, Reza. No pumpkins.”

  Yaakov Rossman had been entirely honest in two important respects. He did indeed have a surprise for his prized agent, and they were not far from their destination. It was a villa located about five kilometers west of the town of Eibesthal, a quaint, tidy dwelling bordered on one side by a vineyard and on the other by a dormant field. The exterior of the villa was a pleasing Italianate yellow; its windows were framed in white. It was unthreatening in every way except for its isolation. More than a kilometer separated the house from its nearest neighbor. A cry for help would go unanswered. The crack of an unsuppressed gunshot would die in the rolling terrain.

  The villa was set about fifty meters from the road and reached by an unpaved drive lined with pine trees. Parked outside was an Audi A6, its engine block ticking softly, its hood warm to the touch. Mikhail pulled in next to it, killed the engine, killed the lights. Yaakov looked at Nazari and smiled hospitably.

  “You didn’t bring anything stupid tonight, did you, Reza?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a gun.”

  “No gun,” answered the Iranian. “Only a suicide vest.”

  Yaakov’s smile dimmed. “Open your coat,” he said.

  “How long have we been working together?”

  “Two years,” answered Yaakov, “but tonight is different.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see in a minute.”

  “Who’s in there?”

  “Open your coat, Reza.”

  The Iranian did as he was told. Yaakov gave him a quick but thorough search. He found nothing but a billfold, a mobile phone, a packet of French cigarettes, a lighter, and a key to a room in the Vienna InterContinental. He stuffed all the items into the seat pocket and nodded into the rearview mirror. Mikhail climbed from behind the wheel and opened Nazari’s door. In the sudden light Yaakov saw the first trace of something more than just apprehension in the Iranian’s face.

  “Something wrong, Reza?”

  “You’re an Israeli, I’m an Iranian. Why should I be nervous?”

  “You’re our most important asset, Reza. Someday they’re going to write a book about us.”

  “May it be published long after we’re dead.”

  Nazari stepped out of the car and with Mikhail at his side started toward the entrance of the villa. It was a walk of twenty paces, long enough for Yaakov to extract himself from the backseat and draw his weapon from his hip holster. He slipped the gun into his coat pocket and was a step behind his agent when they reached the door. It yielded to Mikhail’s touch. Nazari hesitated, then, nudged by Yaakov, followed Mikhail inside.

  The entrance hall was in semidarkness, but light glowed from within and wood smoke hung on the air. Mikhail led the way into the sitting room, where a large fire burned in the open hearth. Gabriel and Keller stood before it, their backs to the room, seemingly lost in thought. Seeing the two men, Nazari froze and then recoiled. Yaakov seized one arm, Mikhail the other. Together they lifted Nazari slightly so that his shoes could gain no purchase on the bare wooden floor.

  Gabriel and Keller exchanged a look, a smile, a private unspoken joke at their visitor’s expense. Then Gabriel turned slowly, as if until that moment he had been unaware of the commotion behind him. Nazari was wriggling, a fish on a line, his sunken eyes wide with terror. Gabriel considered him calmly, his head cocked slightly to one side, a hand resting against his chin.

  “Something wrong, Reza?” he asked finally.

  “You’re—”

  “Dead?” Gabriel smiled. “Sorry, Reza, but it appears you missed.”

  On the coffee table was a .45-caliber Glock, a man stopper, a weapon of mass destruction. Gabriel reached down, picked up the gun by the grip, pondered its weight and balance. He offered the gun to Keller, who held up a hand defensively, as though he were being offered an ember from the fire. Then Gabriel approached Nazari slowly and stopped three feet away from him. The gun was in Gabriel’s right hand. With his left hand he reached out with the speed of a striking snake and seized Nazari’s throat. Instantly, the Iranian’s face took on the color of a ripened plum.

  “Is there anything you wish to say to me?” asked Gabriel.

  “I’m sorry,” the Iranian gasped.

  “So am I, Reza. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

  Gabriel squeezed harder until he could feel cartilage beginning to crack. Then he placed the barrel of the gun against Nazari’s forehead and pulled the trigger. As the gun exploded, Keller turned away and looked into the fire. It was personal, he was thinking. And when it’s personal, it tends to get messy.

  42

  LOWER AUSTRIA

  THE .45-CALIBER ROUND THAT GABRIEL fired at Reza Nazari contained no projectile, but its powder loading was sufficient to produce a report of ear-shattering volume and a muzzle flash that left a small round burn in the center of his forehead, like the prayer mark of a devout Muslim. It was also sufficient to drop Nazari to the floor like a stone. For several seconds he did not stir or appear to draw a breath. Then Yaakov knelt and gave him a backhanded slap across the face that brought him back to consciousness. “You bastard,” he gasped. “You fucking bastard.”

  “I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Reza. Otherwise, the next round I fire will be real.”

  There are some men who go catatonic with fear and others who respond with useless displays of false bravery. Reza Nazari chose the second, perhaps in reaction
to his training, perhaps because he feared he had nothing to lose. He gave a wild flailing kick that Gabriel evaded easily, then latched onto Mikhail’s leg in an attempt to topple him. A brutal blow beneath the shoulder blades was enough to staunch the attack. Then Mikhail stepped aside to allow Yaakov to finish the job. For two years Yaakov had cared for his agent, flattered him, paid him an exorbitant sum of money. Now, for two awful minutes, he administered a beating befitting Nazari’s transgressions. He avoided striking the Iranian’s face, however. It was critical Nazari remained presentable.

  Keller had not participated in the beating of Reza Nazari. Instead, he had quietly placed a chair, wooden and armless, before the fire. Nazari tumbled into it limply and offered no further resistance as Yaakov and Mikhail bound his torso to the back with duct tape. Next they secured his legs while Gabriel calmly reloaded the Glock. He showed each round to Nazari before thumbing it into the magazine. There were no more blanks. The weapon was loaded with live ammunition.

  “You have a simple choice,” said Gabriel after snapping the magazine into the grip and chambering the first round. “You can live, or you can become a martyr.” He placed the tip of the barrel between Nazari’s eyes. “Which will it be, Reza?”

  The Iranian stared at the gun in silence. Finally, he said, “I would like to live.”

  “Wise choice.” Gabriel lowered the gun. “But I’m afraid you don’t get to live for free, Reza. You have to pay a toll.”

  “How much?”

  “First, you’re going to tell me how you and your Russian friends conspired to kill me.”

  “And then?”

  “You’re going to help me find them.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that, Allon.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the man who ordered your death is far too important to be killed.”

  “Who was it?”

  “You tell me.”

  “The chief of the SVR?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Nazari said incredulously. “No SVR chief would go after you without approval. The order came from the top.”

  “The Russian president?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me, Allon, I know.”

  “This might come as a surprise to you, Reza, but you’re the last person in the world that I trust right now.”

  “I can assure you,” Nazari said, staring at the gun, “the feeling is mutual.”

  He requested to be cut free and to be treated with a modicum of dignity. Gabriel refused both, though he did grant Nazari’s wish for water, if only to clear the annoying debris from his injured throat. Yaakov held the glass to his agent’s lips while he drank and afterward dabbed a few stray droplets from the front of his suit jacket. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the Iranian.

  “May I have a cigarette?” he asked.

  “No,” replied Gabriel.

  Nazari smiled. “So it’s true after all. The great Gabriel Allon doesn’t like tobacco smoke.” Still smiling, he looked at Yaakov. “But not my friend here. I remember our first meeting in that hotel room in Istanbul. I thought we were going to set off the smoke alarm.”

  It seemed as good a place as any to start, so Gabriel began his interrogation there—the autumn day, two years earlier, when Reza Nazari came to Istanbul for a round of meetings with Turkish intelligence. During a break in the proceedings, he walked to a small hotel on the Bosporus and in a room upstairs had his first meeting with a man he would know only as “Mr. Taylor.” He told Mr. Taylor that he wanted to betray his country, and as proof of his bona fides handed over a flash drive filled with high-grade intelligence, including documents related to Iran’s nuclear program.

  “Were the documents genuine?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you steal them?”

  “I didn’t have to.”

  “Who gave them to you?”

  “My superiors at the Ministry of Intelligence.”

  “You were bad from the beginning?”

  Nazari nodded.

  “Who was your control officer?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “And I’d rather not splatter your brains over the wall, but I will if I have to.”

  “It was Esfahani.”

  Mohsen Esfahani was deputy chief of VEVAK.

  “What was the goal of the operation?” asked Gabriel.

  “To influence the Office’s thinking regarding Iranian capabilities and intentions.”

  “Taqiyya.”

  “Call it what you will, Allon. We Persians have been at this a long time. Even longer than the Jews.”

  “If I were you, Reza, I’d keep the boasting to a minimum. Otherwise, I’m going to let Mr. Taylor have his way with you.”

  The Iranian fell silent. Gabriel asked about the million dollars that the Office had placed in a private bank in Luxembourg for Nazari’s use.

  “We assumed you were watching the money,” the Iranian replied, “so Esfahani instructed me to spend some of it. I bought gifts for my children and a strand of pearls for my wife.”

  “Nothing for Esfahani?”

  “A gold watch, but he made me return it. Mohsen is a true believer. He’s like you, Allon. He’s totally incorruptible.”

  “Wherever did you hear something like that?”

  “Our file on you is very thick.” Nazari paused, then added, “Almost as thick as Moscow Center’s. But then, I suppose that’s understandable. You’ve never set foot on Iranian soil, at least not that we’re aware of. Russia, though . . .” He smiled. “Well, let’s just say you have a lot of enemies there, Allon.”

  Among the many things the Office did not know about their prized agent was that he served as VEVAK’s primary liaison to the SVR. The reason was quite simple, he explained. Nazari had studied Russian history at university, spoke Russian fluently, and had operated in Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation. In Kabul he had met many KGB officers, including a young man who seemed destined for promotion. That turned out to be the case; the man was now one of Moscow Center’s most powerful players. Nazari met regularly with him on issues ranging from Iran’s nuclear program to the civil war in Syria, where VEVAK and the SVR had worked tirelessly to ensure the survival of their embattled client regime.

  “His name?” asked Gabriel.

  “Like you,” replied Nazari, “he uses many different names. But if I had to guess, I’d say his real name is Rozanov.”

  “First name?”

  “Alexei.”

  “Describe him.”

  The Iranian offered a somewhat vague description of a man who was approximately six feet tall and had thinning gray-blond hair that he combed in the manner of the Russian president.

  “Age?”

  “Could be fifty.”

  “Languages?”

  “He can speak any language he sets his mind to.”

  “How often do you meet?”

  “Once every two or three months, more often if necessary.”

  “Where?”

  “Sometimes I travel to Moscow. Usually, we meet on neutral ground in Europe.”

  “What kind of neutral ground?”

  “Safe houses, restaurants.” He shrugged. “The usual.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “A month ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Copenhagen.”

  “Where in Copenhagen?”

  “A little restaurant in the New Harbor.”

  “Did you talk about nukes and Syria that night?”

  “Actually,” said Nazari, “there was only one item on the agenda.”

  “What was that?”

  “You.”

  43

  LOWER AUSTRIA

  BUT THEY WERE GETTING AHEAD of themselves, because Copenhagen was not the first time that Reza Nazari and Alexei Rozanov had dwelt long and hard on the subject of Gabriel Allon. The name had featured prominently in many of their previous meetings, but never
with more urgency or anger than during a dinner ten months earlier in the old town of Zurich. The SVR was in crisis. The body of Pavel Zhirov had just been found frozen solid in Tver Oblast, Madeline Hart had defected to Britain, and a Russian energy company owned by the Kremlin had just been stripped of the rights to drill for oil in the North Sea.

  “And the cause of it all,” said Nazari, “was you.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the only person who matters in Russia. Says the Boss.”

  “I assume the Boss wanted me dead.”

  “Not just dead,” replied Nazari. “He wanted it done in such a way that Russia couldn’t be implicated. He also wanted to punish the British. Graham Seymour, in particular.”

  “Which is why the Russians chose Eamon Quinn.”

  Nazari said nothing.

  “I take it you were familiar with Quinn’s name.”

  “I considered him a friend.”

  “Because you were the one who retained Quinn to build antitank weapons for Hezbollah.”

  Nazari nodded.

  “A weapon that could make a ball of fire travel a thousand feet per second.”

  “They were very effective, as the IDF discovered.”

  Yaakov reached for Nazari in anger, but Gabriel stopped him and continued with his questioning.

  “What did Rozanov want from you?”

  “At that point, only an introduction.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “When it came to you,” said Nazari, “our interests intersected with those of the Russians.”

  At that time, Nazari resumed, Quinn was living in Venezuela under the protection of a dying Hugo Chavez. His future was uncertain. It was not at all clear that Chavez’s successor would allow him to remain in the country or have use of a Venezuelan passport. Cuba was a possibility, but Quinn wasn’t interested in living under the thumb of the Castro brothers. He needed a new home, a new sponsor.

  “The timing,” said Nazari, “couldn’t have been better.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “In a hotel in downtown Caracas.”

  “Was there anyone else there?”

  “Rozanov brought a woman.”