The English Girl: A Novel

is it?”
    “I’m afraid management didn’t say.”
    The pink man in the white robe snatched the gift bag and slammed the door on Yossi’s false hotelier’s smile. With that, Yossi turned on his heel and, after plucking the name tag from his lapel, headed back to his own room. There he quickly removed his suit and changed into a pair of jeans and a heavy woolen sweater. His suitcase stood at the foot of the bed; if everything went according to plan, a courier from Moscow Station would collect it in a few hours and destroy the contents. Yossi stuffed the suit into a side pocket and pulled the zipper closed. Then he wiped down every object he had touched in the room and left it for what he hoped would be the last time.
    Downstairs in the lobby, he saw Dina leafing skeptically through an English-language Moscow newspaper. He walked past her as though they were unacquainted and stepped outside. A Range Rover waited at the curb, its tailpipe sending a plume of vaporous exhaust into the bitterly cold night. Seated behind the wheel was Christopher Keller. He pulled into the evening rush-hour traffic on Tverskaya Street even before Yossi had closed the door. Directly before them rose the Kremlin’s Corner Arsenal Tower, its red star glowing like a warning light. Keller whistled tunelessly as he drove.
    “Do you know the way?” asked Yossi.
    “Left on Okhotnyy Ryad Street, left on Bol’shaya Dmitrovka Street, and then another left on the Boulevard Ring.”
    “Spend much time in Moscow, do you?”
    “Never had the pleasure.”
    “Can you at least pretend to be nervous?”
    “Why should I be nervous?”
    “Because we’re about to kidnap a KGB officer in the middle of Moscow.”
    Keller smiled as he made the first left turn. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
    I t took Keller and Yossi the better part of twenty minutes to make the short drive to their holding point on the Boulevard Ring. Upon arrival, Yossi fired off a secure message to Gabriel at the Metropol, and Gabriel in turn bounced it to King Saul Boulevard, where it flashed across the status screen in the Op Center. Seated in his usual chair was Uzi Navot. He was staring at a live video image of the Ritz-Carlton’s lobby, courtesy of the miniature transmitter concealed in Dina’s handbag. The time was 7:36 in Moscow, 6:36 in Tel Aviv. At 6:38 the phone at Navot’s elbow rang. He brought the receiver swiftly to his ear, grunted something that sounded like his own name, and heard the voice of Orit, his executive secretary. Inside King Saul Boulevard, she was known as “the Iron Dome” because of her unrivaled ability to shoot down requests for a moment with the chief.
    “No way,” responded Navot. “Not a chance.”
    “He’s made it clear he’s not going to leave.”
    Navot sighed heavily. “All right,” he said. “Send him down, if you have to.”
    Navot hung up the phone and stared at the image of the hotel lobby. Two minutes later he heard the sound of the Op Center door opening and closing behind him. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a liver-spotted hand place two packs of Turkish cigarettes on the tabletop, along with a battered old Zippo. The lighter flared. A cloud of smoke blurred the image on the screen.
    “I thought I pulled all your passes,” Navot said quietly, still staring straight ahead.
    “You did,” replied Shamron.
    “How did you get in the building?”
    “I tunneled in.”
    Shamron twirled the old lighter in his fingertips. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left.
    “You have a lot of nerve showing your face around here,” Navot said.
    “This isn’t the time or the place, Uzi.”
    “I know it isn’t,” Navot said. “But you still have a lot of nerve.”
    Two turns to the right, two turns to the left . . .
    “Would it be possible to turn up the volume on the audio feed from Mikhail’s phone?” Shamron asked. “My hearing isn’t what it once was.”
    “Your hearing isn’t the only thing.”
    Navot caught the eye of one of the technicians and gestured for him to increase the volume.
    “What’s that song he’s singing?” Shamron asked.
    “What difference does it make?”
    “Answer the question, Uzi.”
    “It’s ‘Penny Lane.’ ”
    “The Beatles?”
    “Yes, the Beatles.”
    “Why do you suppose he chose that song?”
    “Maybe he likes it.”
    “Maybe,” said Shamron.
    Navot glanced at the clock. It was 7:42 in Moscow, 6:42 in Tel Aviv. Shamron crushed out his cigarette and