The Other Woman

“My mother always told me that. I still don’t know what it means.”

“It means you should drop that report into your shredder.”

“Not a chance.”

“In that case,” said Navot with a sigh, “you should send someone back to Vienna to see if he can add a few more details. Someone who speaks the language like a native. Someone with a contact or two inside the local security service. Who knows? If he plays his cards right, he might be able to disabuse the Austrians of the notion we killed our own defector.”

“Know anyone who fits the bill?”

“I might.”

Gabriel smiled. “You can have a nice Wiener schnitzel while you’re in town, Uzi. I know how much you love the way they make it in Vienna.”

“And the Rindsgulasch.” Navot ran a hand absently over his ample midsection. “Just what I need. Bella’s liable to put me on punishment rations.”

“You sure you don’t mind going?”

“Someone has to do it.” Navot stared morosely at the plate of celery sticks. “It might as well be me.”

10 (#ulink_96e4c511-34d7-5b06-8391-53220615b991)

VIENNA WOODS, AUSTRIA (#ulink_96e4c511-34d7-5b06-8391-53220615b991)

Uzi Navot passed an uneventful evening with Bella at their comfortable home in the Tel Aviv suburb of Petah Tikva, and in the morning, having risen at the hateful hour of three, he boarded the five-ten El Al flight to Warsaw, known affectionately inside the Office as the Polish Express. His overnight bag contained two changes of clothing and three changes of identity. His seatmate, a woman of thirty-three from a town in the Upper Galilee, did not recognize him. Navot was both relieved and, when he analyzed his feelings honestly, deeply resentful. For six years he had led the Office without blemish, and yet already he was forgotten. He had long ago resigned himself to the fact he would be remembered merely as a placeholder chief, the one who had kept a chair warm for the chosen one. He was an asterisk.

But he was also, at his core, a fine spy. Admittedly, he was no action figure like Gabriel. Navot was a true spy, a recruiter and runner of agents, a collector of other men’s secrets. Before his bureaucratic ascent at King Saul Boulevard, Western Europe had been his primary field of battle. Armed with an array of languages, a fatalistic charm, and a small fortune in financing, he had recruited a far-flung network of agents inside terrorist organizations, embassies, foreign ministries, and security services. One was Werner Schwarz. Navot rang him that evening from a hotel room in Prague. Werner sounded as though he’d had one or two more than was good for him. Werner was rather too fond of his drink. He was unhappily married. The alcohol was anesthesia.

“I’ve been expecting your call.”

“I really hate to be predictable.”

“A drawback in your line of work,” said Werner Schwarz. “I suppose Vienna is in your travel plans.”

“Tomorrow, actually.”

“The day after would be better.”

“I have time considerations, Werner.”

“We can’t meet in Vienna. My service is on edge.”

“Mine, too.”

“I can only imagine. How about that little wine garden in the Woods? You remember it, don’t you?”

“With considerable fondness.”

“And who will I be dining with?”

“A Monsieur Laffont.” Vincent Laffont was one of Navot’s old cover identities. He was a freelance travel writer of Breton descent who lived out of a suitcase.

“I look forward to seeing him again. Vincent was always one of my favorites,” said Werner Schwarz, and rang off.

Navot, as was his habit, arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes early, bearing a decorative box from Demel, the famous Viennese chocolatier. He had eaten most of the treats during the drive and in their place tucked five thousand euros in cash. The owner of the restaurant, a small man shaped like a Russian nesting doll, remembered him. And Navot, playing the role of Monsieur Laffont, regaled him with stories of his latest travels before settling in a quiet corner of the timbered dining room. He ordered a bottle of Grüner Veltliner, confident it would not be the last. Only three other tables were occupied, and all three parties were in the last throes of their luncheon. Soon the place would be deserted. Navot always liked a bit of ambient noise when he was doing his spying, but Werner preferred to betray his country unobserved.

He arrived at the stroke of three, dressed for the office in a dark suit and overcoat. His appearance had changed since Navot had seen him last, and not necessarily for the better. A bit thicker and grayer, a few more broken blood vessels across his cheeks. His eyes brightened as Navot filled two glasses with wine. Then the usual disappointment returned. Werner Schwarz wore it like a loud necktie. Navot had spotted it during one of his fishing trips to Vienna, and with a bit of money and pillow talk he had reeled Werner into his net. From his post inside the BVT, Austria’s capable internal security service, he had kept Navot well informed about matters of interest to the State of Israel. Navot had been forced to relinquish control of Werner during his tenure as chief. For several years they had had no contact other than the odd clandestine Christmas card and the regular cash deposits in Werner’s Zurich bank account.

“A little something for Lotte,” said Navot as he handed Werner the box.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“It was the least I could do. I know you’re a busy man.”

“Me? I have access but no real responsibility. I sit in meetings and bide my time.”

“How much longer?”

“Maybe two years.”

“We won’t forget you, Werner. You’ve been good to us.”

The Austrian waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not some girl you picked up in a bar. Once I retire, you’ll struggle to remember my name.”

Navot didn’t bother with a denial.

“And what about you, Monsieur Laffont? Still in the game, I see.”

“For a few more rounds, at least.”

“Your service treated you shabbily. You deserved better.”

“I had a good run.”

“Only to be cast aside for Allon.” In a confessional murmur, Werner Schwarz asked, “Did he really think he could get away with killing an SVR officer in the middle of Vienna?”

“We had nothing to do with it.”

“Uzi, please.”

“You have to believe me, Werner. It wasn’t us.”

“We have evidence.”

“Like what?”

“One of the members of your hit team. The tall one,” Werner Schwarz persisted. “The one who looks like a cadaver. He helped Allon with that little problem at the Stadttempel a few years ago, and Allon was foolish enough to send him back to Vienna to take care of the Russian. You would have never made a mistake like that, Uzi. You were always very cautious.”

Navot ignored Werner’s flattery. “Our officers were present that night,” he admitted, “but not for the reason you think. The Russian was working for us. He was in the process of defecting when he was killed.”