“Maybe I’m afraid that one day someone will have a box like that on his shelf with my name on it.”

“Someone already does, my son.” Shamron switched on his magnifying work lamp.

“You’re showing remarkable restraint.”

“How so?”

“You haven’t asked me once about the operation.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re pathologically incapable of minding your own business.”

“Which is why I’m a spy.” He adjusted the magnifying lamp and scrutinized a worn-out piece of circuitry.

“What kind of radio is it?”

“An RCA Art Deco model with a marbleized Catalin polymer covering. Standard and shortwave. It was manufactured in 1946. Imagine,” said Shamron, pointing out the original paper sticker on the base, “somewhere in America in 1946, someone was putting together this radio while people like your mother and father were trying to put together their lives.”

“It’s a radio, Ari. It had nothing to do with the Shoah.”

“I was just making an observation.” Shamron smiled. “You seem tense. Is something bothering you?”

“No, not at all.”

They lapsed into silence while Shamron tinkered. Repairing old radios was his only hobby, other than meddling in Gabriel’s life.

“Uzi tells me you’re thinking about going to Morocco,” he said at last.

“Why would he do a thing like that?”

“Because he couldn’t talk you out of it, and he thought I could.”

“I haven’t made a final decision.”

“But you’ve asked the Americans to renew your passport.”

“Reactivate,” said Gabriel.

“Renew, reactivate—what difference does it make? You never should have accepted it in the first place. It belongs in a little glass coffin like those shell casings.”

“It’s proven useful on numerous occasions.”

“Blue and white,” said Shamron. “We do things for ourselves, and we don’t help others with problems of their own making.”

“Maybe once,” answered Gabriel, “but we can’t operate like that any longer. We need partners.”

“Partners have a way of disappointing you. And that passport won’t protect you if something goes wrong in Morocco.”

Gabriel picked up the little display case with the spent .22 rounds. “If my memory is correct, and I’m sure it is, you were in the backseat of a car in the Piazza Annibaliano while I was inside that apartment house dealing with Zwaiter.”

“I was the chief of Special Ops then. It was my place to be in the field. A more appropriate analogy,” Shamron went on, “would be Abu Jihad. I was the chief then, and I stayed aboard that naval vessel while you and the rest of the team went ashore.”

“With the defense minister, as I recall.”

“It was an important operation. Almost as important,” said Shamron quietly, “as the one you’re about to carry out. It’s time for Saladin to leave the stage, with no encores or curtain calls. Just make sure you don’t give him what he really wants.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

Gabriel returned the case to its place on the shelf.

“Will you permit me a question or two?” asked Shamron.

“If it will make you happy.”

“Bolt-holes?”

Gabriel explained that there would be two. One was an Israeli corvette. The other was the Neptune, a Liberian-registered cargo vessel that in reality was a floating radar and eavesdropping station operated by AMAN, Israel’s military intelligence service. The Neptune would be stationed off Agadir, on Morocco’s Atlantic coast.

“And the corvette?” asked Shamron.

“A little Mediterranean port called El Jebha.”

“I assume that’s where the Sayeret team will come ashore.”

“If I require it. After all,” said Gabriel, “I have a former Sayeret officer and a veteran of the British Special Air Service at my disposal.”

“Both of whom will have their hands full maintaining control of this Jean-Luc Martel character.” Shamron shook his head slowly. “Sometimes the worst thing about a successful recruitment is that you’re stuck with the asset. Whatever you do, don’t trust him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Shamron’s cigarette had extinguished itself. He lit another and returned to work on the radio while Gabriel stared at the photograph on the shelf, trying to reconcile the black-and-white image of a spymaster in his prime with the elderly figure before him. It had happened so quickly. Soon, he thought, it would happen to him. Not even Raphael and Irene could stave off the inevitable.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Shamron asked suddenly.

“Get what?”

“Your phone. It’s driving me to distraction.”

Gabriel looked down. He had been so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed the message from the Ramatuelle safe house.

“Well?” asked Shamron.

“It seems Mohammad Bakkar would like a word with Jean-Luc Martel about those missing drugs. He was wondering whether he could come to Morocco early next week.”