“From what?”
Navot smiled sadly and led Gabriel along a corridor with harsh fluorescent lights overhead. The corridor led to a secure door, and the door to a restricted area just off the main traffic circle outside the terminal. A motorcade rumbled in the yellow lamplight. Navot started toward the open rear passenger door of Gabriel’s SUV before abruptly stopping and walking around the back of the vehicle to the driver’s side. Navot was Gabriel’s direct predecessor as chief. In an unprecedented break with Office tradition, he had agreed to stay on as Gabriel’s deputy instead of accepting a lucrative job with a defense contractor in California, as Bella had wished. He was doubtless regretting his decision.
“In case you’re wondering,” said Gabriel as the SUV drew away, “I didn’t kill him.”
“Don’t worry, I believe you.”
“It seems you’re the only one.” Gabriel picked up the copy ofHaaretzthat lay on the seat between them and stared gloomily at the headline. “You know it’s bad when your hometown newspaper thinks you’re guilty.”
“We sent a back-channel message to the press making it clear we had nothing to do with Kirov’s death.”
“Obviously,” said Gabriel as he leafed through the other newspapers, “they didn’t believe you.”
Every major publication, no matter its political tilt, had declared Vienna a botched Office operation and was calling for an official inquiry.Haaretz, which leaned left, went so far as to wonder whether Gabriel Allon, a gifted field operative, was up to the job of chief. How things had changed, he thought. A few months earlier he had been fêted as the man who had eliminated Saladin, ISIS’s terror mastermind, and prevented a dirty-bomb attack outside Downing Street in London. And now this.
“I have to admit,” said Navot, “it does bear more than a passing resemblance to you.” He was scrutinizing Gabriel’s photograph on the front page ofHaaretz. “And that little fellow next to you reminds me of someone else I know.”
“There must have been an SVR team in the building on the other side of the street. Judging from the camera angle, I’d say they were on the third floor.”
“The analysts say it was probably the fourth.”
“Do they?”
“In all likelihood,” Navot continued, “the Russians had another static post at the front of the building, a car, maybe another flat.”
“Which means they knew where Kirov was going.”
Navot nodded slowly. “I suppose you should consider yourself lucky they didn’t take the opportunity to kill you, too.”
“A pity they didn’t. I might have received better press coverage.”
They were approaching the end of the airport exit ramp. To the right was Jerusalem and Gabriel’s wife and children. To the left was Tel Aviv and King Saul Boulevard. Gabriel instructed the driver to take him to King Saul Boulevard.
“Are you sure?” asked Navot. “You look like you could use a few hours of sleep.”
“And what would they write about me then?”
Navot thumbed the combination locks of a stainless-steel attaché case. From it he removed a photograph, which he handed to Gabriel. It was the photograph Mikhail had snapped of Konstantin Kirov’s assassin. The eyes were not quite dead; somewhere was a faint trace of light. The rest of the face was a mess, but not from the accident. It had been stretched and pulled and stitched to such a degree it scarcely looked human.
“He looks like a rich woman I once met at an art auction,” said Gabriel. “Have you run him through the database?”
“Several times.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
Gabriel returned the photograph to Navot. “One wonders why an operative of his obvious skill and training didn’t eliminate the one and only threat to his life.”
“Mikhail?”
Gabriel nodded slowly.
“He fired four shots at him.”
“And all four missed. Even you could have hit him from that distance, Uzi.”
“You think he was ordered to miss?”
