The van had moved from the end of the lane to the small car park at the lifeboat station. Seymour didn’t notice; he was staring across the sea toward the Isle of Wight.
“I could give you a list of names,” he said after a moment, “but it would be long and of no use. Not without the power to strap someone to a chair and ruin his career.”
“I already have a list,” said Gabriel.
“Do you?” asked Seymour, surprised. “And how many names are on it?”
“Only one.”
28
Vienna Woods, Austria
The annals of the ensuing operation—it had no code name, then or ever—would record that the first blow in the quest for the mole would be struck not by Gabriel but by his luckless predecessor, Uzi Navot. The time was half past two that same afternoon, the place was the same timbered lodge at the edge of the Vienna Woods where Navot had dined some three weeks previously. The seeming carelessness of his tradecraft was not without forethought. Navot wanted Werner Schwarz to think there was nothing out of the ordinary. For the sake of his security, he wanted the Russians to think the same.
Prior to his arrival in Vienna, however, Navot had left nothing to chance. He had come not from the East and the nations of the long-dead Warsaw Pact but from the West—from France and northern Italy and, eventually, into Austria itself. He had not made the journey alone; Mikhail Abramov had acted as his traveling companion and bodyguard. Inside the restaurant they sat apart, Navot at his usual table, the one he had reserved under the name Laffont, Mikhail near a window. His jacket was unbuttoned for easy access to his gun, which he wore on his left hip. Navot had a gun of his own, a Barak SP-21. It had been a long time since he had carried one, and he was dubious about his ability to deploy the weapon in an emergency without killing himself or Mikhail in the process. Gabriel was right; Navot had never been all that dangerous with a firearm. But the gentle pressure of the holster against his lower spine felt comforting nonetheless.
“A bottle of Grüner Veltliner?” asked the corpulent proprietor, and Navot, in the accent and manner of Monsieur Laffont, the French travel writer of Breton descent, replied, “In a minute, please. I’ll wait for my friend.”
Ten more minutes passed with no sign of him. Navot, however, was not concerned; he was receiving regular updates from the watchers. Werner had caught a bit of traffic leaving the city. There was no evidence to suggest he was being followed by elements of the service that employed him, or by anyone who answered to Moscow Center.
Finally, a car pulled up outside Mikhail’s window, and a single figure, Werner Schwarz, emerged. When he entered the restaurant, the proprietor pumped his hand vigorously, as though trying to draw water from a well, and led him to the table where Navot sat. Werner was clearly disappointed by the absence of wine. There was only a small decorative box from Demel, the Viennese chocolatier.
“Open it,” said Navot.
“Here?”
“Why not?”
Werner Schwarz lifted the lid and looked inside. There was no money, only a brief note that Navot had composed in German. Werner Schwarz’s hand trembled as he read it.
“Maybe we should take a walk in the woods before lunch,” said Navot as he rose. “It will be good for our appetite.”
29
Vienna Woods, Austria
“It’s not true, Uzi! Where ever did you get an idea like that?”
“Don’t call me by my real name. I’m Monsieur Laffont, remember? Or are you having trouble keeping the names of your controllers straight in your head?”
They were walking along a footpath of trampled snow. On their right, the trees climbed a gentle hill; on their left, they sank into the cleft of a small valley. The orange sun was low in the sky and shining directly into their faces. Mikhail was walking about thirty yards behind them. His overcoat was tightly buttoned, which meant he had moved his gun from his hip to his pocket.
“How long, Werner? How long have you been working for them?”
“Uzi, really, you have to come to your senses.”
Navot stopped suddenly and seized Schwarz’s elbow. Schwarz grimaced in pain. He was sweating in spite of the bitter cold.
“What are you going to do, Uzi? Get rough with me?”
“I’ll leave that to him.” Navot glanced at Mikhail, who was standing motionless on the footpath, his long shadow stretched behind him.
“The cadaver,” sneered Schwarz. “One phone call and he spends several years in an Austrian prison for murder. You, too.”
“Go for it, Werner.” Navot squeezed harder. “Make the call.”
Werner Schwarz made no movement for his phone. Navot, with a flick of his thick wrist, flung him down the footpath, deeper into the woods.
