The English Spy (29 page)

A
T THAT SAME MOMENT
Austrian Airlines Flight 171 from Vienna touched down in Hamburg and started toward its gate. Unbeknownst to the carrier, the passengers included an Iranian intelligence officer and his Israeli handler. The two men were seated several rows apart and did not communicate during the flight. Nor did they speak as they hiked through the terminal toward passport control. There they joined the same line and both were admitted into Germany after only a cursory inspection of their travel documents. In the Hamburg safe flat, Gabriel celebrated his first small victory. Crossing borders was always tricky for Iranians, even Iranians with diplomatic passports in their pockets.

VEVAK’s travel department had arranged a car for Reza Nazari through the Iranian consulate. It collected him at the arrivals level
of the terminal and took him directly to the Marriott Hotel in the Neustadt. He arrived at 7:45 p.m., checked in, and went upstairs to his room, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign on the latch before entering. Two minutes later there was a knock at the door. He opened it and Yaakov Rossman came inside.

“Any last questions?” he asked.

“No questions,” replied Nazari. “Just a demand.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands, Reza.”

Nazari managed a weak smile. “Alexei always calls me before we meet. If I don’t pick up, he won’t come. It’s as simple as that.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“It must have slipped my mind.”

“You’re lying.”

“Whatever you say.”

The Iranian was still smiling. Yaakov was staring at the ceiling in anger.

“How much is it going to cost me to make you answer the phone?” he asked.

“I want to hear the sound of my wife’s voice.”

“It’s not possible. Not now.”

“All things are possible, Mr. Taylor. Especially tonight.”

Until that moment, Reza Nazari had been a model prisoner. Even so, Gabriel had been anticipating one final act of defiance. Only in movies, Shamron always said, did the condemned man accept the noose without a struggle—and only in operational planning rooms did coerced assets face their moment of ultimate betrayal without a last ultimatum. Nazari could have made any number of demands. That he insisted only on speaking to his wife elevated him, however
slightly, in the eyes of those who held his fate in their hands. Indeed, it might very well have saved his life.

The arrangements for an emergency contact between Nazari and his wife had been made shortly after his initial interrogation in Austria. Yaakov had only to dial a number in Tel Aviv, and the call would be routed securely to the villa in eastern Turkey where an Office team was babysitting Nazari’s wife and children. The conversation would be recorded at King Saul Boulevard, and a Persian speaker would be listening for any irregularities. The only danger was that the Russians and the Iranians might be listening, too.

With Gabriel’s approval, Yaakov dialed the number at 8:05. By 8:10 Nazari’s wife was on the line, and the translator was in place at King Saul Boulevard. Yaakov held out the phone toward Nazari.

“No tears, no good-byes. Just ask her about her day, and do your best to sound normal.”

Nazari took the phone and lifted it to his ear. “Tala, my darling,” he said, closing his eyes with relief. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

The conversation was slightly more than five minutes in duration, longer than Gabriel would have preferred. He had not wanted to risk a direct live feed to Hamburg, so he had to wait several additional minutes to learn the call had gone off without a problem. Outside his window, the clock of St. Michael’s Church read 8:20. With a few clicks on his computer keyboard, he moved his team into place. The evening’s first crisis had been averted. All he needed now was Alexei Rozanov.

F
OUR HUNDRED TRANQUIL FEET
separated the Marriott Hotel from Die Bank restaurant—a walk of perhaps three minutes, two if one were running late for a reservation. The guests who departed the hotel at 8:37 p.m. were in no particular hurry because like many in Hamburg that evening they had been unable to secure a coveted table. Their names were Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern, though both were registered at the hotel under operational aliases. Yossi was a senior analyst in the Office’s Research division who happened to have a flair for the dramatic and was good on his feet in the field. Rimona was the chief of the Office unit that spied on Iran’s nuclear program. As such, she had been the primary recipient of Reza Nazari’s false intelligence. She had never met the Iranian spy personally and was not looking forward to being in the same room with him tonight. In fact, earlier that evening, she had
stated her preference for sending Nazari back to Tehran in a pine box. Her anger had come as no surprise to Gabriel. Rimona was the niece of Ari Shamron, and like her famous uncle she did not take betrayal lightly, especially where Iranians were involved.

She was an analyst by training and experience, but she shared Yossi’s natural instincts in the field. As she moved along the elegant street, a bag in the window of Prada seemed to catch her eye. She paused there for a moment while a car overtook them and while Yossi, playing the role of annoyed spouse, glared at his wristwatch. It was 8:41 when they passed through the imposing entrance of Die Bank. The maître d’ informed them there were no tables available, so they moped off to the bar to await a cancellation. Rimona sat facing the entrance, Yossi the dining room. From the breast pocket of his jacket he removed a gold pen identical to the one Gabriel had given to Reza Nazari. Yossi twisted the cap to the right and then returned the pen to his pocket. Two minutes later a text message appeared on his secure mobile. The transmitter was working, the signal was strong and clear. Yossi snared a passing waitress and ordered drinks. It was 8:44 p.m.

In the streets surrounding Die Bank, the rest of Gabriel’s team was moving quietly into place. On the Poststrasse, Dina Sarid was easing a Volkswagen sedan into an empty space outside a Vodafone outlet. Mordecai sat next to her in the front passenger seat, and in the back Oded was doing a few deep-breathing exercises to slow his racing heart rate. Fifty meters farther along the street, Mikhail Abramov sat astride a parked motorbike, watching the pedestrians with an expression of profound boredom on his face. Keller sat next to him atop a motorbike of his own. He was peering at the screen of his mobile. The message told him the man of the hour had not yet surfaced. It was 8:48 p.m.

At 8:50 Alexei Rozanov had still not made contact with Reza
Nazari. Gabriel stood in the window of the safe flat watching the clock atop St. Michael’s Church as two more minutes passed without a call. Eli Lavon stood next to him, a consoling presence, a fellow mourner at the grave of an old friend.

“You have to send him, Gabriel. Otherwise, he’s going to be late.”

“What if he’s not supposed to go to the restaurant until he hears from Alexei?”

“We’ll have him make up an excuse.”

“Maybe Alexei won’t buy it.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Or maybe he isn’t coming.”

“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.”