“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Maybe they thought a dead Israeli would make their cover story less believable. Or maybe they had another reason,” said Gabriel. “They’re Russians. They usually do.”
“Why kill Kirov in Vienna in the first place? Why didn’t they bleed him dry in Moscow and then put a bullet in his neck?”
Gabriel tapped the stack of newspapers. “Maybe they wanted to use the opportunity to fatally wound me.”
“There’s a simple solution,” said Navot. “Tell the world that Konstantin Kirov was working for us.”
“At this point, it would smell like a cover story. And it would send a message to every potential asset that we are incapable of protecting those who work for us. It’s too high a price to pay.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“I’m going to start by finding out who gave the Russians the address of our safe flat in Vienna.”
“In case you were wondering,” said Navot, “it wasn’t me.”
“Don’t worry, Uzi. I believe you.”
7
King Saul Boulevard, Tel Aviv
It had been Uzi Navot’s wish, during the final year of his term as chief, to move the headquarters of the Office from King Saul Boulevard to a flashy new complex just north of Tel Aviv, in Ramat HaSharon. Bella was said to be the driving force behind the relocation. She had never cared for the old building, even when she worked there as a Syria analyst, and found it unbecoming of an intelligence service with a global reach. She wanted an Israeli version of Langley or Vauxhall Cross, a modern monument to Israel’s intelligence prowess. She personally approved the architectural designs, lobbied the prime minister and the Knesset for the necessary funding, and even chose the location—an empty plot of land along a high-tech corridor near the Glilot Interchange, adjacent to a shopping center and multiplex called Cinema City. But Gabriel, in one of his first official acts, had with an elegant stroke of his pen swiftly shelved the plans. In matters of both intelligence and art, he was a traditionalist who believed the old ways were better than the new. And under no circumstances would he countenance moving the Office to a place known colloquially in Israel as Glilot Junction. “What on earth will we call ourselves?” he had asked Eli Lavon. “We’ll be a laughingstock.”
The old building was not without its charms and, perhaps more important, its sense of history. Yes, it was drab and featureless, but like Eli Lavon it had the advantage of anonymity. No emblem hung over its entrance, no brass lettering proclaimed the identity of its occupant. In fact, there was nothing at all to suggest it was the headquarters of one of the world’s most feared and respected intelligence services.
Gabriel’s office was on the uppermost floor, overlooking the sea. Its walls were hung with paintings—a few by his own hand, unsigned, and several others by his mother—and in one corner stood an old Italian easel upon which the analysts propped their photographs and diagrams when they came to brief him. Navot had taken his large glass desk to his new office on the other side of the antechamber, but he had left behind his modern video wall, with its collage of global news channels. As Gabriel entered the room, several of the screens flickered with images of Vienna, and in the panel reserved for the BBC World Service he saw his own face. He increased the volume and learned that British prime minister Jonathan Lancaster, a man who owed his career to Gabriel, was said to be “deeply concerned” over the allegations of Israeli involvement in the death of Konstantin Kirov.
Gabriel lowered the volume and went into his private bathroom to shower and shave and change into clean clothing. Returning to his office, he found Yaakov Rossman, the chief of Special Ops, waiting. Yaakov had hair like steel wool and a hard, pitted face. He held a letter-size envelope in his hand and was glaring at the BBC.
“Can you believe Lancaster?”
“He has his reasons.”
“Like what?”
“Protecting his intelligence service.”
“Duplicitous bastards,” murmured Yaakov. “We should never have granted them access to Kirov’s material.” He dropped the envelope on Gabriel’s desk.
“What’s that?”
“My letter of resignation.”
“Why would you write such a thing?”
“Because we lost Kirov.”
“Are you to blame?”
“I don’t think so.”
Gabriel picked up the envelope and fed it into his shredder. “Is anyone else thinking about tendering their resignation?”
“Rimona.”
