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powerful right hand was a stainless-steel attaché case with combination locks. From it he removed a slender file folder, which he placed on the mahogany desk. Inside was a document, one page in length; the Israelis prided themselves on the brevity of their cables. Seymour read the subject line. Then he glanced at the photograph lying next to his inkwell and swore softly. On the opposite side of the imposing desk, Uzi Navot permitted himself a brief smile. It wasn’t often that one succeeded in telling the director-general of MI6 something he didn’t already know.
    “Who’s the source of the information?” asked Seymour.
    “It’s possible he was an Iranian,” replied Navot vaguely.
    “Does MI6 have regular access to his product?”
    “No,” answered Navot. “He’s ours exclusively.”
    MI6, the CIA, and Israeli intelligence had worked closely for more than a decade to delay the Iranian march toward a nuclear weapon. The three services had operated jointly against the Iranian nuclearsupply chain and shared vast amounts of technical data and intelligence. It was agreed that the Israelis had the best human sources in Tehran, and, much to the annoyance of the Americans and the British, they protected them jealously. Judging from the wording of the report, Seymour suspected that Navot’s spy worked for VEVAK, the Iranian intelligence service. VEVAK sources were notoriously difficult to handle. Sometimes the information they traded for Western cash was genuine. And sometimes it was in the service of taqiyya , the Persian practice of displaying one intention while harboring another.
    “Do you believe him?” asked Seymour.
    “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Navot paused, then added, “And something tells me you believe him, too.”
    When Seymour offered no reply, Navot drew a second document from his attaché case and laid it on the desktop next to the first. “It’s a copy of a report we sent to MI6 three years ago,” he explained. “We knew about his connection to the Iranians back then. We also knew he was working with Hezbollah, Hamas, al-Qaeda, and anyone else who would have him.” Navot added, “Your friend isn’t terribly discriminating about the company he keeps.”
    “It was before my time,” Seymour intoned.
    “But now it’s your problem.” Navot pointed toward a passage near the end of the document. “As you can see, we proposed an operation to take him out of circulation. We even volunteered to do the job. And how do you suppose your predecessor responded to our generous offer?”
    “Obviously, he turned it down.”
    “With extreme prejudice. In fact, he told us in no uncertain terms that we weren’t to lay a finger on him. He was afraid it would open a Pandora’s box.” Navot shook his head slowly. “And now here we are.”
    The room was silent except for the ticking of C’s old grandfatherclock. Finally, Navot asked quietly, “Where were you that day, Graham?”
    “What day?”
    “The fifteenth of August, nineteen ninety-eight.”
    “The day of the bombing?”
    Navot nodded.
    “You know damn well where I was,” Seymour answered. “I was at Five.”
    “You were the head of counterterrorism.”
    “Yes.”
    “Which meant it was your responsibility.”
    Seymour said nothing.
    “What happened, Graham? How did he get through?”
    “Mistakes were made. Bad mistakes. Bad enough to ruin careers, even today.” Seymour gathered up the two documents and returned them to Navot. “Did your Iranian source tell you why he did it?”
    “It’s possible he’s returned to the old fight. It’s also possible he was acting at the behest of others. Either way, he needs to be dealt with, sooner rather than later.”
    Seymour made no response.
    “Our offer still stands, Graham.”
    “What offer is that?”
    “We’ll take care of him,” Navot answered. “And then we’ll bury him in a hole so deep that none of the old problems will ever make it to the surface.”
    Seymour lapsed into