The Other Woman. Daniel Silva

The simple Roman pasta dish was one of his favorites, especially the way Chiara prepared it.

      “You know,” he said, watching her work, “there’s a very nice man in the Mahane Yehuda Market who will do that for you.”

      “Or maybe I should just buy it in a jar at the supermarket.” She shook her head reproachfully. “The cheese has to be grated to the proper consistency. Otherwise, the results will be disastrous.”

      He frowned at the small television at the end of the counter. “Just like Vienna.”

      Chiara plucked a strand of spaghetti from the pot and after testing it poured the rest through a colander. Next she tossed it with melted butter, olive oil, the grated cheeses, and a few ounces of pasta water, and seasoned the dish with enough pepper to give it a bit of bite. They ate together at the little café table in the kitchen, the baby monitor between them, the television playing silently. Gabriel declined Chiara’s offer of Tuscan red wine; only heaven knew what the night might bring. She poured a small glass for herself and listened intently to his description of the events in Vienna.

      “What happens now?” she asked.

      “We undertake a rapid but unsparing review to determine where the leak occurred.”

      “Who knew the address of the safe flat?”

      “Eli, Mikhail, the Neviot officers, the deskman from Housekeeping who rented it, and six field security men, including my bodyguards. And Uzi, of course.”

      “You didn’t mention the British.”

      “Didn’t I?”

      “Surely, you have a suspect.”

      “I wouldn’t want to prejudice the investigation in any way.”

      “You’ve been spending too much time with the prime minister.”

      “It’s one of the hazards of my new job.”

      Chiara’s gaze wandered to the television. “Forgive me for what I’m about to say, but Uzi must be secretly enjoying this. Kirov was recruited on his watch. And now he’s dead.”

      “Uzi has been nothing but supportive.”

      “He has no choice. But try to imagine how this looks from his point of view. He ran the Office competently for six years. Not brilliantly,” she added, “but competently. And for his reward, he was pushed out in favor of you.”

      A silence fell between them. There was only the rhythmic breathing of the children on the monitor.

      “You were adorable with Irene,” said Chiara at last. “She was so excited you were coming home that she refused to go to sleep. I must say, Raphael deals with your absences rather well. He’s a stoic young boy, just like his father must have been. But Irene misses you terribly when you’re away.” She paused, then added, “Almost as much as I do.”

      “If this affair turns into a full-fledged scandal, you might be seeing much more of me.”

      “Nothing would make us happier. But the prime minister would never dare fire the great Gabriel Allon. You’re the most popular figure in the country.”

      “Second,” said Gabriel. “That actress is much more popular than I am.”

      “Don’t believe those polls, they’re never right.” Chiara smiled. “You know, Gabriel, there are worse things than being fired.”

      “Like what?”

      “Having your brains blown out by a Russian assassin.” She raised her wineglass to her lips. “Are you sure you won’t have a little? It’s really quite good.”

       9

       KING SAUL BOULEVARD, TEL AVIV

      The concerns of the prime minister notwithstanding, Gabriel left the inquiry in the hands of Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern, two of his most trusted senior officers and closest friends. His reasons were personal. The Office’s last independent inquiry, conducted after a string of botched operations in the late 1990s, had hastened the recall of Ari Shamron from his restless retirement. Among his first official acts was to make his way to West Cornwall, where Gabriel had locked himself away in an isolated cottage with only his paintings and his grief for company. Shamron, as usual, had not arrived empty-handed; he had come bearing an operation. It would prove to be the first step of Gabriel’s long journey from self-imposed exile to the executive suite of King Saul Boulevard. The moral of the story, at least from Gabriel’s perspective, was that spies admitted outsiders into their midst at their peril.

      The first order of business for Yossi and Rimona was to clear themselves of any suspicion over the leak. They did so by submitting to a pair of wholly unnecessary polygraph tests, which they passed with flying colors. Next they requested the assistance of an additional analyst. Reluctantly, Gabriel lent them Dina Sarid, a terrorism expert with a pile of active cases on her cluttered desk, including three involving ISIS that fell into the category of ticking time bombs. Dina knew almost nothing about the Kirov case or the Russian’s pending defection. Even so, Gabriel had her strapped to the poly. Not surprisingly, she passed. So did Eli Lavon, Mikhail Abramov, Yaakov Rossman, the Neviot team, the members of the field security unit, and the desk officer from Housekeeping.

      The primary phase of the investigation, which was concluded at noon the following day, was predictable in its findings. The three analysts uncovered no evidence to suggest a leak by any Office personnel. Nor could they find fault with the execution of the operation itself. All had participated in undertakings far more complex than a garden-variety defection and exfiltration. It was, as Yossi wrote in his memorandum, “child’s play, by our standards.” Still, he acknowledged there were “knowns and unknowns.” Chief among them was the possibility the leak had come from none other than Konstantin Kirov himself.

      “How?” asked Gabriel.

      “You sent a total of four text messages to him that night—is that correct?”

      “You have them all, Yossi. You know it’s correct.”

      “The first message instructed Kirov to leave the InterContinental and walk to the train station. The second instructed him to board the last train to Vienna. Upon arrival, you told him to take a taxi to the Best Western. But a minute before he arrived there, you sent him the address of the safe flat.”

      “Guilty as charged.”

      “He was still in the taxi, which meant Mikhail and Keller couldn’t see him clearly.”

      “Your point?”

      “He could have forwarded the message.”

      “To whom?”

      “Moscow Center.”

      “He had himself killed?”

      “Maybe he was under the impression the evening would turn out differently.”

      “In what way?”

      “A different target, for example.”

      “Who?”

      Yossi shrugged. “You.”

      Which heralded the second phase of the inquiry: a full review of Konstantin Kirov’s recruitment, handling, and enormous output of intelligence. With the benefit of hindsight, the three analysts weighed each of Kirov’s reports. They found no evidence of deception. Kirov, they concluded, was that rarest of birds. Despite the circumstances of his coerced recruitment, he remained as good as gold.

      But the Office had not kept Kirov’s precious intelligence to itself; it had shared the bounty with the Americans and the British. Each instance of sharing was logged in Kirov’s voluminous case file: the type of material, the date, the all-important