London. He had taken it to an art gallery in St. James’s owned by a man named Julian Isherwood. Over the years Isherwood had suffered many indignities because of his secret association with the Office, but to have a stranger’s cat thrust upon him without warning was, he said, the final insult. His mood, however, changed dramatically upon seeing Olga for the first time. But then Gabriel had known it would. Julian Isherwood had a weakness for three things: Italian paintings, French wine, and beautiful women. Especially Russian women. And like Uzi Navot, he was easily appeased.
“I don’t know why we had to come to this place,” Navot said now. “You know how much I love the potted chicken at Jo Goldenberg.”
“It’s closed, Uzi. Haven’t you heard?”
“I know. But I still can’t quite believe it. What’s the Marais without Jo Goldenberg?”
For more than half a century, the kosher delicatessen had occupied a prominent corner at 7 rue des Rosiers. Jews from around the world had crowded into the restaurant’s worn red banquettes and gorged themselves on caviar, chopped liver, brisket, and potato latkes. So had French film stars, government ministers, and famous writers and journalists. But the prominence of Jo Goldenberg made it an inviting target for extremists and terrorists, and in August 1982 six patrons were killed in a grenade and machine-gun attack carried out by the Palestinian terrorist group Abu Nidal. In the end, though, it was not terrorism that brought down the Paris landmark but soaring rents and repeated citations for poor sanitary conditions.
“You’re lucky that chicken didn’t kill you, Uzi. God knows how long it had been lying around before they tossed it in a bowl and served it to you.”
“It was excellent. And so was the borscht. You loved the borscht at Jo Goldenberg.”
“I hate borscht. I’ve always hated borscht.”
“Then why did you order it?”
“You ordered it for me. And then you ate it for me, too.”
“I don’t remember it that way.”
“Whatever you say, Uzi.”
They had been speaking to one another in rapid French. Navot turned to Olga and in English asked, “Wouldn’t you have enjoyed a good bowl of borscht, Miss Sukhova?”
“I’m Russian. Why on earth would I come to Paris and order borscht?”
Navot looked at Gabriel again. “Is she always so friendly?” he asked in Hebrew.
“Russians have a somewhat dark sense of humor.”
“I’ll say.” Navot glanced out the window into the narrow street. “This place has changed since I left Paris. I used to come here whenever I had a few hours to kill. It was like a little slice of Tel Aviv, right in the center of Paris. Now…” he shook his head slowly. “It’s just another place to buy a handbag or expensive jewelry. You can’t even get good falafel here anymore.”
“That’s exactly the way the mayor wants it. Neat and tidy with lots of chic stores paying big rents and big tax bills. They even tried to put in a McDonald’s a few months back, but the neighborhood rose up in rebellion. Poor Jo Goldenberg couldn’t make a go of it anymore. At the end, his rent was three hundred thousand euros a year.”
“No wonder the kitchen was a mess.”
Navot looked down at his menu. When he spoke again, his tone was decidedly less cordial.
“Let me see if I understand this correctly. I come to Italy and order you to return to Israel because we believe your life may be in danger. You tell me that you need three days to finish a painting, and I foolishly agree. Then, within twenty-four hours, I learn that you’ve slipped away from the bodyguards and traveled to London to investigate the disappearance of one Grigori Bulganov, missing Russian defector. And this morning I receive a message saying you’ve arrived in Paris, accompanied by Russian defector number
“We had to leave Olga’s cat behind at Julian’s gallery. You need to send someone from London Station to collect it. Otherwise, Julian’s liable to let it loose in Green Park.”
Gabriel removed Grigori’s letter from his coat pocket and dealt it onto the table. Navot read it silently, his face an inscrutable mask, then looked up again.
“I want to know everything you did while you were in England, Gabriel. No shortcuts, deletions, edits, or abridgments. Do you understand me?”
Gabriel gave Navot a complete account, beginning with his first meeting with Graham Seymour and ending with the assassination attempt on Olga’s doorstep.
“They disabled the lock?” Navot asked.
“It was a nice touch.”
“It’s a shame the shooter didn’t realize you were unarmed. He could have simply climbed out of the car and killed you.”
“You don’t really mean that, Uzi.”
“No, but it makes me feel better to say it. Rather sloppy for a Russian hit team, don’t you think?”
“It’s not so easy to kill someone from a moving vehicle.”
“Unless you’re Gabriel Allon. When we set our sights on someone, he dies. The Russians are usually like that, too. They’re fanatics when it comes to planning and preparation.”
Gabriel nodded in agreement.
“So why send a couple of amateurs to Oxford?”
“Because they assumed it would be easy. They probably thought the second string could handle it.”
“You’re assuming Olga was the target and not you?”
“That’s correct.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I’d only been in the country three days. Even we would be hard-pressed to organize a hit that quickly.”
“So why didn’t they call it off when they saw she wasn’t alone?”
“It’s possible they simply mistook me for Olga’s boyfriend or one of her students, not someone who knows to hit the deck when a lock suddenly stops working.”
A waiter approached the table. Navot sent him away with a subtle gesture of his hand.
“It might have been wiser if you’d shared some of these observations with Graham Seymour. He allowed you to conduct your own review of Grigori’s disappearance. And how did you repay him? By sneaking out of the country with another one of his defectors.” Navot gave a humorless smile. “Graham and I could form our own little club. Men who have placed their trust in you, only to be burned.”
Navot looked at Olga and switched from Hebrew to English.
“Your neighbors didn’t notice the bullet holes and the broken front door until about eight o’clock. When they couldn’t find you, they called the Thames Valley Police.”
“I’m afraid I know what happened next,” she said. “Because my address had a special security flag on it, the dispatch officer immediately contacted the chief constable.”
“And guess what the chief constable did?”
“I suspect he called the Home Office in London. And then the Home Office contacted Graham Seymour.”
Navot’s gaze shifted from Olga to Gabriel. “And what do you think Graham Seymour did?”
“He called our London station chief.”
“Who’d been quietly scouring the city for you for the past three days,” Navot added. “And when Graham got the station chief on the telephone, he read him the riot act. Congratulations, Gabriel. You’ve managed to bring relations between the British and the Office to a new low. They want a full explanation of what happened in Oxford last night. And they’d also like their defector back. Graham Seymour is expecting us in London tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
“Us?”
“You, me, and Olga.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Navot added, “And the Old Man, too.”
“How did Shamron manage to get himself involved in this?”
“The same way he always does. Shamron abhors a vacuum. He sees an empty space and he fills it.”
“Tell him to stay in Tiberias. Tell him we can handle it.”
“Please, Gabriel. As far as Shamron is concerned, we’re still a couple of kids trying to learn how to ride a bicycle, and he can’t quite bring himself to let go of the seat. Besides, it’s too late. He’s already here.”
“Where is he?”
