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to live there.”
    “You always did remind me a bit of Shamron,” Gabriel said with a frown, “but now the resemblance is uncanny.”
    “Gilah told me the same thing not long ago.”
    “I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
    “Neither did she.” Navot added another spoonful of clotted cream to his scone with exaggerated care.
    “So why are you here, Uzi?”
    “I want to present you with a unique opportunity.”
    “You sound like a salesman.”
    “I’m a spy,” Navot said. “There’s not much of a difference.”
    “What are you offering?”
    “A chance to atone for a mistake.”
    “What mistake was that?”
    “You should have shot Farid Khan through the back of the head before he hit his detonator switch.” Navot lowered his voice and added confidingly, “That’s what I would have done, if I’d been in your shoes.”
    “And how might I make amends for this lapse in judgment?”
    “By accepting an invitation.”
    “From whom?”
    Navot gazed silently westward.
    “The Americans?” asked Gabriel.
    Navot smiled. “More tea?”
    The rain ceased as abruptly as it began. Gabriel left money on the table and led Navot down the steep footpath to Polpeor Cove. The bodyguard was still leaning against the crumbled lifeboat ramp. He watched with feigned indifference as Gabriel and Navot made their way slowly across the rocky beach to the water’s edge. Navot cast a distracted glance at his stainless steel wristwatch and turned up his coat collar against the gusty wind rising from the sea. Gabriel was once again struck by the uncanny resemblance to Shamron. The likeness went beyond the superficial. It was as if Shamron, by the sheer force of his indomitable will, had somehow managed to take possession of Navot, body and soul. It was not the Shamron who had been weakened by age and infirmity, thought Gabriel, but Shamron in his prime. All that was missing were the wretched Turkish cigarettes that had ravaged Shamron’s health. Bella had never permitted Navot to smoke, not even for the sake of his cover.
    “Who’s behind the bombings, Uzi?”
    “Thus far, we’ve been unable to make a firm attribution. The Americans, however, seem to think he’s the future face of global jihadist terror—the new Bin Laden.”
    “Does this new Bin Laden have a name?”
    “The Americans insist on sharing that information with you face-to-face. They’d like you to come to Washington, all expenses paid, of course.”
    “How was this invitation extended?”
    “Adrian Carter called me personally.”
    Adrian Carter was the director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service.
    “What’s the dress code?”
    “Black,” said Navot. “Your visit to America will be entirely off the books.”
    Gabriel regarded Navot in silence for a moment. “You obviously want me to go, Uzi. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
    “It couldn’t hurt,” Navot said. “At the very least, it will give us an opportunity to hear what the Americans have to say about the bombings. But there are other fringe benefits as well.”
    “Such as?”
    “Our relationship could use a bit of retouching.”
    “What sort of retouching?”
    “Haven’t you heard? There’s a new wind blowing through Washington. Change is in the air,” Navot added sarcastically. “The new American president is an idealist. He believes he can repair relations between the West and Islam, and he’s convinced himself that we’re part of the problem.”
    “So the solution is to send me , a former assassin with the blood of several Palestinian and Islamic terrorists on his hands?”
    “When spies play nicely together, it tends to spill over into the political realm, which is why the prime minister is eager for you to make the trip as well.”
    “The prime minister? The next thing you’re going to tell me is that Shamron is involved, too.”
    “He is.” Navot picked up a stone and hurled it into the sea. “After the Iran op, I allowed myself to think Shamron might