Portrait of a Spy

Gabriel gave a perceptive smile.
    “How much more weight does Bella want you to lose?”
    “Five pounds. Then I get to go on maintenance,” Navot added gloomily, as though it were a prison sentence. “What I wouldn’t give for your metabolism. You’re married to one of the world’s greatest cooks, but you still have the body of a twenty-five-year-old. Me? I’m married to one of the country’s foremost experts on Syria, and if I even smell a pastry, I have to let my trousers out.”
    “Maybe it’s time you told Bella to lighten up on the dietary restrictions.”
    “ You tell her,” Navot said. “All those years studying the Baathists in Damascus have left a mark on her. Sometimes I feel as though I’m living in a police state.”
    They were seated at an isolated table near the rain-spattered windows. Gabriel was facing the interior; Navot, the sea. He was wearing a pair of corduroy trousers and a beige sweater that still smelled of the men’s department at Harrods. He placed his cap on an adjacent chair and ran a hand over his cropped strawberry-blond hair. It had a bit more gray in it than Gabriel remembered, but that was understandable. Uzi Navot was now the chief of Israel’s secret intelligence service. Gray hair was one of the many fringe benefits of the job.
    Were Navot’s brief tenure to end now, it would almost certainly be regarded as among the most successful directorships in the long and storied history of the Office. The accolades that had been bestowed upon him were the result of Operation Masterpiece, the joint Anglo-American-Israeli undertaking that had resulted in the destruction of four secret Iranian nuclear facilities. Much of the credit rightly belonged to Gabriel, though Navot preferred not to dwell on that aspect of the affair. He had been awarded the job as chief only because Gabriel had repeatedly turned it down. And the four enrichment facilities would still be spinning away if Gabriel hadn’t identified and recruited the Swiss businessman who was covertly selling component parts to the Iranians.
    For the moment, however, Navot’s thoughts seemed focused only on the plate of scones. Unable to resist any longer, he selected one, split it with great care, and smothered it with strawberry preserves and a dollop of the clotted cream. Gabriel poured himself a cup of tea from an aluminum pot and quietly asked about the purpose of Navot’s unannounced visit. He did so in fluent German, which he spoke with the Berlin accent of his mother. It was one of five languages he and Navot had in common.
    “I had a number of housekeeping issues to discuss with my British counterparts. Included on the agenda was a somewhat perplexing report about one of our former agents who’s now living in retirement here under MI5 protection. There was a wild rumor going around about this agent and the bombing in Covent Garden. To be honest, I was a bit dubious when I heard it. Knowing this agent well, I couldn’t imagine that he would endanger his position in Britain by doing something so foolish as drawing his weapon in public.”
    “What should I have done, Uzi?”
    “You should have called your MI5 minder and washed your hands of it.”
    “And if you had found yourself in a similar position?”
    “If I were in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv, I wouldn’t have hesitated to put the bastard down. But here . . .” Navot’s voice trailed off. “I suppose I would have considered the potential consequences of my actions first.”
    “Eighteen people died, Uzi.”
    “Consider yourself lucky the death toll wasn’t nineteen.” Navot removed his spindly eyeglasses, something he often did before embarking on an unpleasant conversation. “I’m tempted to ask whether you actually intended to take the shot. But given your training and your past exploits, I’m afraid I know the answer. An Office agent draws his weapon in the field for one reason and one reason only. He doesn’t wave it around like a gangster or make idle threats. He pulls the trigger and shoots to kill.” Navot paused, then added, “Do unto others before they have a chance to do unto you. I believe those words can be found on page twelve of Shamron’s little red book.”
    “He knows about Covent Garden?”
    “You know better than to ask a question like that. Shamron knows everything. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he heard about your little adventure before I did. Despite my attempts to ease him into permanent retirement, he