The English Spy Read online

  “You’re jumping at shadows.”

  “A five-hundred-pound bomb exploded in my face two weeks ago. I’m entitled.”

  Another minute passed with no call. Gabriel walked over to the laptop, keyed in a message, and clicked SEND. Then he returned to the window and stood at the side of his oldest friend in the world.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do?” asked Lavon.

  “About what?”

  “Alexei.”

  “I’m going to give him a chance to sign my death certificate.”

  “And if he does?”

  Gabriel turned away from the clock and looked at Lavon. “I want my face to be the last one he ever sees.”

  “Chiefs don’t kill KGB officers.”

  “It’s called the SVR now, Eli. And I’m not the chief yet.”

  “Give me your phone,” said Yaakov.

  “Why?”

  “Just give me the damn thing. We don’t have much time.”

  Reza Nazari surrendered his mobile. Yaakov removed the SIM card and inserted it into an identical device. Nazari hesitated before accepting it.

  “A bomb?” he asked.

  “Your phone for the evening.”

  “Should I assume it’s compromised?”

  “In every way imaginable.”

  Nazari slipped the phone into his coat pocket, next to the pen. “What happens at the end of dinner?”

  “Whatever you do,” Yaakov said, “don’t walk out the door with him at the same time. I’ll pick you up in front of the restaurant once Alexei is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  Yaakov said nothing more. Reza Nazari pulled on his overcoat and headed down to the lobby.

  It was 8:57 p.m.

  Because the Marriott was an American hotel, its forecourt contained stainless-steel posts and ugly concrete flowerpots to protect the building against terrorist attack. Reza Nazari, servant of the world’s largest state sponsor of international terrorism, navigated the defenses under the watchful gaze of Yaakov and turned into the street. It was empty of traffic, and the pavements were deserted. Nothing in the shop windows slowed Nazari’s progress, though he did seem to take note of the two men on motorcycles in the little esplanade across the street from Die Bank. He entered the restaurant at nine precisely and presented himself to the maître d’. “Romanov,” said the Iranian, and the maître d’ ran a manicured finger along his reservations list. “Ah, yes, here it is. Romanov.”

  Nazari shed his overcoat and was shown into the high-ceilinged dining room. Passing the bar, he noticed a woman with sandstone-colored hair watching him. The man seated next to her was typing something into his mobile—confirmation of the asset’s safe arrival, thought Nazari. The table was in the corner of the room, beneath an unnerving black-and-white photograph of a maniacal-looking bald man. Nazari took the seat facing the room. It would upset Alexei, but at that point Alexei’s feelings were the least of his concerns. He was thinking only of his wife and children and the list of questions that Allon wanted answered. A waiter filled his glass with water; a sommelier offered him a wine list. Then, at 9:07, he felt the new mobile phone vibrate against his heart with an unfamiliar pattern. He didn’t recognize the number. Even so, he accepted the call.

  “Where are you?” asked a voice in Russian.

  “In the restaurant,” replied Nazari in the same language. Then he asked, “Where are you?”

  “Running a few minutes behind schedule. But I’m close.”

  “Should I order you a drink?”

  “Actually, we need to make a small change.”

  “How small?”

  Rozanov explained what he wanted Nazari to do. Then he said, “Two minutes. Do you understand me?”

  Before Nazari could answer, the connection was lost. Nazari quickly dialed the man he knew as Mr. Taylor.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Every word.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “If I were you, Reza, I’d be standing outside the restaurant in two minutes.”

  “But—”

  “Two minutes, Reza. Or the deal’s off.”

  The car was an S-Class Mercedes, Hamburg registration, black as a hearse. It appeared at the top of the street as Reza Nazari was rising to his feet and slid sedately past the darkened shops before stopping outside Die Bank. A valet approached, but the man in the front passenger seat waved him away. The driver was clinging to the wheel with both hands as though he had a gun to his head, and in the backseat a man held a mobile phone tensely to his ear. From the esplanade across the street, Keller could see him clearly. Wide cheekbones, fair hair thinning on top. A Moscow Center hood, if ever there was one.

  “It’s him,” said Keller into the microphone of his secure radio. “Tell Reza to stay inside the restaurant. Let us put him down now and be done with it.”

  “No,” snapped Gabriel.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want to know why he changed the plan. And I want Quinn.”

  The radio crackled as Gabriel keyed out. Then the door of the restaurant swung open and Reza Nazari stepped into the street. Keller frowned. The best-laid plans, he thought.

  Alexei Rozanov was still on the phone when Nazari lowered himself into the backseat. As the car shot forward, he glanced toward the esplanade where the two men sat astride their motorbikes. They made no attempt to follow, at least not one that Nazari could detect. He seized the armrest as the car rounded a corner at speed. Then he looked at Alexei Rozanov as the Russian terminated his phone call.

  “What the hell is going on?” asked Nazari.

  “I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to be sitting in a restaurant in Hamburg.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we have a problem, Reza. A very serious problem.”

  57

  HAMBURG

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN, he’s still alive?”

  “I mean,” replied Alexei Rozanov pointedly, “that Gabriel Allon is still walking the face of the earth.”

  “His death was in the newspapers. The Office confirmed it.”

  “The newspapers know nothing. And the Office,” added Rozanov, “was obviously lying.”

  “Has your service seen him?”

  “No.”

  “Heard his voice?”

  Rozanov shook his head.

  “Then how do you know?”

  “Our information comes from a human source. We’ve been told that Allon survived the explosion with only superficial injuries and was taken to an MI6 safe house.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Our source doesn’t know.”

  “When did you learn about this?”

  “A few minutes after my plane landed in Hamburg. Moscow Center advised me to cancel our meeting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s only one reason why Gabriel Allon would fake his own death.”

  “He intends to kill us?”

  The Russian was silent.

  “You’re not really worried, are you, Alexei?”

  “Ask Ivan Kharkov whether I should be worried about Gabriel Allon’s penchant for revenge.” Rozanov glanced over his shoulder. “The only reason I came here tonight is because the Kremlin is nervous about the prospect of radioactive material in the hands of Chechen terrorists.”

  “The Kremlin has good reason to be worried.”

  “So it’s true, then?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m relieved, Reza.”

  “Why would you be relieved about the Chechens being able to make a dirty bomb?”

  “Because the timing of this whole thing was rather interesting, don’t you think?” Rozanov stared out his window. “First, Allon fakes his own death. Then a hundred pounds of highly radioactive waste material goes missing from an Iranian lab.” He paused, then added, “And now here we are in Hamburg together.”

  “What are you suggesting, Alexei?”

  “Neither the SVR nor
the FSB has uncovered any intelligence to suggest the Chechens have acquired Iranian nuclear waste material. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your e-mail.”

  “I sent you that e-mail because the reports are true.”

  “Or maybe you sent it because Allon told you to.”

  This time, it was Nazari who stared out his window. “You’re starting to make me nervous, Alexei.”

  “That was my intention.” The Russian was silent for a moment. “You’re the only one who could have given Allon my name, Reza.”

  “You’re forgetting Quinn.”

  Rozanov lit a Dunhill thoughtfully, as though he were moving pieces around a mental chessboard.

  “Where is he?” asked Nazari.

  “Quinn?”

  Nazari nodded.

  “Why would you ask such a question?”

  “He was our asset.”

  “That’s true, Reza. But now he belongs to us. And his whereabouts are none of your concern.”

  Nazari reached inside his overcoat for his cigarettes, but Rozanov seized his wrist with surprising strength.

  “What are you doing?” the Russian asked.

  “I was hoping to have a cigarette.”

  “You didn’t bring a gun tonight, did you, Reza?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You should have.” Rozanov smiled coldly. “That was another mistake on your part.”

  The Mercedes was headed west on the Feldstrasse, a busy street linking the Neustadt to the quarter of St. Pauli. Two men on motorbikes followed, along with two cars, each containing three seasoned operatives of the Israeli secret intelligence service. None was aware of what had transpired between Alexei Rozanov and Reza Nazari. Only Gabriel and Eli Lavon, hunched over a laptop computer in the safe flat, were privy to the tense confrontation. The pen in the Iranian’s pocket was no longer relevant—it was well out of range of the receiver—but Nazari’s mobile phone was providing clear audio coverage.

  For the moment the audio feed had gone quiet, never a good sign. No one in the car was speaking. No one, it seemed, was breathing. Gabriel tried to picture the scene inside. Two men in front, two in back, one a hostage. Perhaps Alexei had drawn a gun. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, a display of weaponry was unnecessary. Perhaps Nazari, worn down by days of fear, had already signaled his guilt.

  Gabriel looked at the winking light on his computer screen and asked, “What’s Alexei doing?”

  “I can think of several possibilities,” replied Lavon. “None of them good.”

  “Why no evasive action? Why no countersurveillance moves?”

  “Maybe Alexei doesn’t quite believe it himself.”

  “Believe what?”

  “That you were able to find him so quickly.”

  “He underestimates me? Is that what you’re saying, Eli?”

  “Hard to believe, but—”

  Lavon fell silent as the sound of Rozanov’s voice came over the feed. He was speaking in Russian.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He’s giving the driver directions.”

  “Where are they headed?”

  “Unclear. But I suspect it’s someplace where they can give him a good going-over.”

  “I wouldn’t mind listening to the questions.”

  “Could get ugly.” Lavon paused, then added, “Terminally ugly.”

  Gabriel watched the winking light moving across the computer screen. The car was turning onto the Stresemannstrasse, a wider road, faster traffic.

  “It’s not a bad spot,” said Gabriel.

  “Doesn’t get much better, actually.”

  Gabriel raised the radio to his lips and gave the order. Within seconds, two additional blinking lights appeared on the screen. One was Mikhail. The other was Keller.

  “Killings are always cleaner than snatches,” said Lavon quietly.

  “Yes, Eli, I realize that.”

  “So why not end it here and now?”

  “I’ve added another question to my list.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to know the name of the man who told the Russians I was alive.”

  The lights of Mikhail and Keller were moving closer. The Mercedes was still traveling at the same rate of speed.

  “Let’s hope there’s no collateral damage,” said Lavon.

  Yes, thought Gabriel, as he heard gunshots. Let us hope.

  There are quarters of Hamburg where the Germans hide behind a dowdy English facade. The spot where the black Mercedes eventually ran aground was just such a place—a triangular common, small and grassy, bordered on one side by the street and on the other two by terraces of redbrick houses where one might have assumed the occupants were drinking tea and watching the News at Ten on the BBC. To reach it, the car had to first careen rudderless across two lanes of oncoming traffic. Along the way it toppled a lamppost and smashed a small sidewalk billboard before finally coming to rest against a slender young elm. Later, the neighborhood would go to great lengths to save the tree, but to no avail.

  The two men in the front seat of the car were dead long before it shuddered to a halt. It was not the crash that killed them but the bullets that were fired expertly into their heads at close range while the car was still moving. Witnesses would tell of two men on motorcycles, one tall and lanky, the other more powerfully built. Each fired two shots only, and the shots were so perfectly synchronized that the reports were scarcely distinguishable. Surveillance video would later confirm the accounts. One Hamburg detective called it the most beautiful assassination he had ever seen, a rather tasteless remark that would earn him a stern rebuke from his superior. Dead bodies on German soil were never beautiful, the senior man would say. Especially dead Russians. It didn’t matter that they were a couple of Moscow Center gorillas. It was still an outrage.

  The two motorcyclists quickly fled and were never seen again. Nor did the authorities ever locate the Volkswagen sedan that appeared within seconds of the crash. A stout troll-like man emerged from the back and flung open the rear passenger-side door of the Mercedes as though it were made of papier-mâché. One witness would speak of a brief but severe beating, though others would take issue with that account. Regardless of what transpired, the tall Slavic-looking passenger who emerged from the Mercedes was dazed and bleeding. How he found his way into the Volkswagen was again a matter of some controversy. Some said he climbed into the Volkswagen willingly. Others said he was compelled to enter the car because the troll-like man was at that instant breaking his arm. The entire maneuver took just ten seconds. Then the Volkswagen and the unfortunate man of Slavic appearance were gone. The same Hamburg policeman saw no artistry in the troll’s handiwork, but was no less impressed. Any fool can pull a trigger, he told colleagues, but only a real pro can snatch a Moscow Center hood like he was plucking an apple from a tree.

  Which left only the passenger who had been seated behind the ill-fated driver. All the witnesses stated that he climbed out of the car under his own power, and all suggested he was undoubtedly something other than a Russian—an Arab maybe, perhaps a Turk, but not a Russian. Not in a million years. For a few seconds he appeared confused as to his whereabouts and current predicament. Then he noticed a man with pockmarked cheeks waving to him from the open window of yet another car. As he stumbled gratefully toward it, he was calling out the same word over and over again. The word was “Tala.” On that the witnesses were in complete agreement.

  58

  HAMBURG

  THERE IS A STRICT ROUTINE to vacating an Office safe property, rules to follow, rituals to observe. They are prescribed by God and chiseled into stone. They are inviolable, even when a pair of Russians sit dead in a grassy common. And even when the operation’s brass ring lies bound and gagged in the back of an escape car. Gabriel and Eli Lavon engaged in the ceremonial purification of the safe flat now, silently and automatically, but with the devotion of zealots. Like their enemies, they were true believers.

  At half past nine the
y locked the door and went down to the street. Another ritual ensued, the close inspection of the car for a bomb. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, they climbed inside. Gabriel allowed Lavon to drive. He was a pavement artist by instinct, not a wheelman, but his natural caution when operating a motor vehicle was at that moment an operational asset.

  From Hamburg they drove south to a town called Döhle. Beyond it was a stand of dense trees accessed by only a rutted track with a sign that read privat. Mikhail had found it a day earlier, along with three suitable backup sites. The backups weren’t necessary; the woods were deserted. Lavon doused the headlights as he entered and navigated with only the yellow glow of the parking lamps. The trees were a mixture of evergreen and deciduous. Gabriel would have preferred birch trees, but birch forests weren’t common in the west of Germany. Only in the east.

  Finally, the parking lamps illuminated a Volkswagen sedan waiting in a small clearing. Mikhail was leaning against the front fender, arms crossed, Keller next to him smoking a cigarette. At their feet lay Alexei Rozanov. His mouth was bound by duct tape, as were his hands. Not that restraint was necessary. The SVR officer was hovering somewhere between consciousness and coma.

  “Has he said anything?”

  “He didn’t have much of a chance,” replied Keller.

  “Did he see your face?”

  “I suppose so, but I doubt he remembers it.”

  “Bring him back. I need to have a word with him.”

  Keller fetched a liter bottle of mineral water from the back of the car and poured it over Rozanov’s face until the Russian stirred.

  “Put him on his feet,” said Gabriel.

  “I doubt he’ll stay there.”

  “Do it.”

  Keller and Mikhail each seized one of Rozanov’s arms and lifted him upright. As predicted, the Russian didn’t remain vertical for long. They raised him again but this time kept their grip on his arms. His head had fallen forward, his chin was on his chest. He was taller than he had appeared in the surveillance photographs, and heavier—more than two hundred pounds of formerly toned muscle that was going to fat. He had run a good operation, but Gabriel had run a better one. He removed the Glock from the waistband of his trousers and used the barrel to raise Rozanov’s chin. It took a few seconds for the Russian’s swollen eyes to focus. When they did, there was no trace of fear or recognition. He was good, thought Gabriel. He tore the tape from the Russian’s mouth.