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easier for you to find Tariq than Gabriel Allon.”
    “I’ll find Allon, and Allon will find Tariq.” Shamron pulled his lips into a fatalistic frown. “And then it will be done.”

4
     
    SAMOS, GREECE
     
    The ferry from Turkey arrived twelve hours late because of heavy seas in the Straits of Mycale. Tariq had never cared for boats—he hated the feeling of being surrounded by water with no route of escape. He stood at the bow, collar up against the night wind, watching the approach to Samos. In the moonlight he could see the peaks of the island’s two distinctive mountains: Mount Ampelos in the foreground and Mount Kerkis in the distance.
    In the five days since the Paris assassination, he had worked his way southeast across Europe, changing identities and passports, subtly altering his appearance. Six times he changed automobiles. The last, a dark green Volvo station wagon, he left near the terminal in Kusadasi on the Turkish side of the strait. It had been collected by an agent from his organization.
    He had seduced three women during his odyssey: a waitress in Munich, a hairdresser in Bucharest, and a hotel hostess in Sofia. He told each of them a different story. To the German girl he was an Italian fabric salesman on his way to Paris. To the Romanian girl he was an Egyptian trader hoping to do some business in Ukraine. To the Bulgarian hostess he was a Frenchman with rich parents who traveled and read books about philosophy. He made love to each of them differently. He slapped the German girl and was unconcerned about her satisfaction. He gave the Romanian many orgasms and a gold bracelet. The Bulgarian was a dark-haired girl with olive skin. She reminded him of girls from Palestine. They made love all night, until it was time for her to go back on duty. He was sad when she was gone.
    The ferry slipped into the sheltered water of the harbor and tied up. Tariq disembarked and walked to a brightly lit taverna. Parked outside was a dark blue motor scooter with a smashed rearview mirror, just as he had been promised. Inside his coat pocket was the key. He strapped his overnight bag onto the back of the bike and started the engine. A moment later he was speeding along a narrow track toward the mountains.
    He was not dressed for a night ride; his thin leather gloves, low-cut loafers, and black jeans were no match for the cold. Still, he opened the throttle and pushed the little bike as hard as it would go up a long hill at the base of Mount Kerkis. He slowed for a switchback, then opened the throttle again and raced through a vineyard spilling down the side of the hill into a little valley. Above the vineyard lay an olive grove and above the olive grove a line of towering cypress trees, silhouettes against a carpet of wet stars. The tang of cypress was heavy on the air. Somewhere, meat was cooking over a wood fire. The scent reminded him of Lebanon. Good to be out of Paris, he thought. Dull gray Paris of late autumn. Good to be back in the eastern Mediterranean.
    The road turned to a pitted track. Tariq eased off the throttle. It was a stupid thing to do, driving so fast on an unfamiliar road, but he had taken to doing needlessly risky things lately. For the first time since leaving Paris, he thought of the American girl. He felt no remorse or guilt. Her death, while unfortunate, was completely necessary.
    He opened the throttle again and raced down a gentle slope into a tiny valley. He thought about this need of his, this compulsion to be in the company of a woman during an operation. He supposed it came from growing up in the camps of Sidon. His father had died when Tariq was young, and his older brother, Mahmoud, was murdered by the Jews. Tariq was raised by his mother and his older sister. There was only one room in their hut at the camp, so Tariq and his mother and sister all slept in the same bed—Tariq in the middle, head resting against his mother’s bosom, his sister’s bony body pressed against his back.