The Defector

runs from the train station, through the shopping district of Templars Square, and over Magdalen Bridge to the distant council estate of Blackbird Leys. Gabriel and Olga boarded outside All Souls College and disembarked at the first stop in Cowley Road. Five other passengers left with them. Four went their separate ways. The fifth, a middle-aged man, walked behind them for a short time before entering the church at the corner of Jeune Street. From inside came the sound of voices raised in prayer.
    “They have evening services every Wednesday.”
    “Wait inside while I get your things.”
    “I want to say good-bye to Cassandra and make sure she’s all right.”
    “You don’t trust me to feed her?”
    “I can tell you don’t like animals.”
    “Actually, it’s the other way around. And I have the scars to prove it.”
    They turned into Rectory Road and made their way directly to Olga’s door. Her bicycle was still leaning against the rubbish bin behind the tiny brick wall. Hanging from the door latch was a lime-green flyer advertising a new Indian takeaway. Olga removed it before inserting her key into the lock, but the key refused to turn. Then, somewhere along the darkened street, a car engine turned over. And Gabriel felt the back of his neck turn to fire.
    To a normal person, the two consecutive events would probably have meant very little. But to a man like Gabriel Allon, they were the equivalent of a flashing neon sign warning of danger. Twisting his head quickly to the right, he saw the car approaching at high speed from the direction of St. Clement’s Street, headlamps doused. The driver had wide shoulders and was holding the wheel calmly with both hands. Directly behind him, protruding from the open rear window, Gabriel noticed a shape that was instantly familiar: a semiautomatic pistol fitted with a suppressor.
    They were trapped, just as Grigori had been trapped before them. But this was not to be an abduction. This was a killing operation. To survive the next ten seconds would require Gabriel to play defense, something that violated decades of experience and training. Unfortunately, he had no other choice. He had come to Oxford unarmed.
    He took a step back and gave the door a thunderous kick. Solid as a bulkhead, it refused to budge. Glancing to his left, he saw the tiny front garden of white gravel. As the first shots slammed into the front of the house, he seized Olga by the arm and forced her to the ground behind the stubby brick wall.
    The gunfire lasted no more than five seconds—a single magazine’s worth, thought Gabriel—and the driver didn’t stop for the gunman to reload or switch weapons. Gabriel raised his head as the car rounded the slight bend in the road. He was able to confirm the make and model.
    Vauxhall Insignia.
    Saloon model.
    Dark blue.
    I believe they call it Metro Blue . . .
    “You’re crushing me.”
    “Are you all right?”
    “I think so. But remind me never to let you walk me home again.”
    Gabriel stayed on the ground a moment longer, then got to his feet and gave the door another kick, this one fueled by adrenaline and anger. The dead bolt gave way, and the door flew inward as if it had been hit by a blast wave. Stepping cautiously into the entrance hall, he noticed a pair of feline eyes regarding him calmly from the base of the stairs. Olga scooped up the cat and held it tightly to her breast.
    “I’m not leaving here without her.”
    “Just hurry, Miss Chesnikova. I’d like to be on our way before the people with the gun come back to finish the job.”

PART TWO
    Anatoly

20
    THE MARAIS, PARIS
    THE QUARTER of Paris known as the Marais lies on the right bank of the Seine and spreads across portions of the 3rd and 4th arrondissements. Once a marshland, it had been a fashionable address during the monarchy, a working-class slum after the Revolution, and, in the twentieth century, the city’s most vibrant Jewish neighborhood. Scene of a nightmarish Nazi roundup during the Second World War, it had fallen into a state of ruin by the 1960s, when the government launched a concerted effort to bring it back to life. Now among the most fashionable districts in Paris, the Marais was filled with exclusive shops, art museums, and trendy restaurants. It was in one such restaurant, on rue des Archives, that Uzi Navot waited late the following afternoon. He wore a roll-necked sweater that left the unflattering impression his head was bolted directly onto his thick