"Don't move!" said the commando.

A boot stomped down on Peter's back between his shoulder blades, forcing the air from his lungs. A few feet off, a pair of commandos pinned Davila to the slimy rocks, frisking her head to toe. Finding nothing, they released her. Then someone barked an order in a harsh, guttural language, and the boot on Peter's back relented. He gulped at the briny air, ribs aching as he struggled to his feet.

There were maybe seven commandos in all. Each was armed with a submachine gun, a pistol, and an arsenal of grenades. The man barking orders was older than the rest, tall and sinewy, with a hawk nose, ebony eyes, and curly grayish hair that sprouted from beneath his watch cap. He barked another order, and two of his men sprinted to the police officer lying in the rocks by the seawall.

The commander slung his submachine gun and approached Davila, hands raised with peaceful intent. He spoke to her in that same guttural language, Hebrew maybe, his tone low and urgent. When she nodded to one of his questions, he gripped his submachine gun and ordered his four remaining men to the island. They raced to the seawall, one breaking right, one left, two scaling the wooden stairs and penetrating the raised interior.

"Now," he said in thickly accented English. "Let's get you two off this damn island."

The two commandos returned with the body of the dead police officer and lifted it into the Zodiac boat. Peter and Davila were made to hunker down in the bow as they shoved off and raced away, bouncing over the waves.

Ten minutes later, the aquatic roller coaster ride came to an end at the barnacled hull of a hundred-foot fishing vessel. Webbing dropped over the side, and Peter wobbled to his feet, woozy and seasick. He was about to reach for the webbing, when a rescue harness clicked into place beneath his arms. Up he went, dangling briefly from a little crane before being lowered to the deck. A loose crowd of gruff-looking European men received him and unhooked the harness, sending it back down again. Once Davila had been delivered safely to the deck, they attached the crane's cable to a basket litter and lowered it over the side.

The commander climbed up the webbing and hauled himself aboard. Without a word, he ushered Peter and Davila below deck to a stateroom, dank, dark, and squalid, the air sick with diesel fumes. They sat in a booth beneath a swaying lamp, the commander on one side of a grimy white table cratered with cigarette burns, Peter and Davila on the other.

The commander brushed aside a stray cigarette butt and removed his watch cap to a head of long peppery curls. Taking out a deck of playing cards, he cradled it in his hand, his long fingers twirling and cutting the deck like a spider with its prey.

He introduced himself as Avram, an employee of the government of Israel. What branch of government, he did not say, but Peter had his guesses. The commander leveled his dark-brown eyes at Davila. "We've been tracking you for some time now."

She stared down at the cratered table, fists clenched beneath it. "My phone," she said coldly.

"Yes. Your government-issued phone was sending us your location, your conversations, even the images you captured. We know everything you discovered about the Mustard Seeds."

Peter thought he could see steam rising from her still-damp hair.

"It's the only reason you're still alive," Avram explained. "It's the only reason we had someone on hand to help you when you were attacked in Seattle."

"Nobody helped us," said Peter. The sequence of events remained etched in his mind: Davila flying through the air, taking down the first assassin with a karate kick, knocking him unconscious with his own pistol then using it to shoot the second assassin.

Her cold hand alighted on Peter's. "I never pulled the trigger," she said. "It was the skateboarder on the other side of the trees. He shot him."

Avram nodded. "That was our man. We've had agents protecting you every step of the way."

"Then where were you today?" said Peter. "Gryphus nearly killed us."

Avram's fingers paused with the cards face up, the five of spades. "The body we took back, the police officer lying in the rocks—he was the skateboarder in Seattle. He died today in your service."

Peter fell back against the sticky vinyl cushion.

Davila lifted her face, expression hard. "Why didn't you warn me about Gryphus?"

"We tried. At least I did, back in London. Do you remember the man with the umbrella outside your taxi? That was me. I wanted to warn you even earlier, but our psychologists worried that if you knew Gryphus was after you, you'd go into hiding."

"And why would that be a bad thing?"

He set aside the cards and ran his hand through his hair. "How much did your father tell you about Munich?"

Her lips parted then closed again.

The commander seemed to study her face, auguring the lines of blood and soot. "You know something. That much I can tell."

A tear ran down her cheek, streaking the soot and gathering beneath her jaw.

Avram's mouth fell open. "You didn't know. You had no idea until Gryphus told you." His dark eyes narrowed. "What exactly did he tell you?"

The tear broke loose, and her eyes followed it down. She spoke into her lap. "He said my father murdered his family. He said they were innocent, that they had nothing to do with Munich." Her head whipped back up, eyes glistening with a question.

Avram's gaze drifted toward the stairs. Somewhere up on deck, the crew had begun to sing in unison, a dirge of some sort. Peter thought they might be Estonian. "I was with your father on that mission," he said. "And a hundred missions before it. We did many things we came to regret."

The Estonians' dirge somehow reminded Peter of "Solveig's Song," of his mother, of his father, of all things left unsaid.

More tears streaked Davila's face. "But why didn't he tell me?"

Avram hesitated. "I don't know. But I have daughters of my own. Perhaps he didn't want you to be touched by what he had done. Vengeance is a poison."

She wiped away another tear, her voice rising. "Then you knew all along that Gryphus never wanted the ossuary. All he wanted was my father. And me. Why didn't you tell me I was in danger as soon as I woke up in hospital? Why didn't you warn me then?"

"Because we thought you were safe, at least for the moment. Gryphus believed you were dead. And you'd been given a new identity. Still, we've been guarding you ever since, doubly since we laid our trap with the IAA."

Davila took in a sharp breath.

"Yes," said Avram. "The entire sting operation, the fake ossuary, the leaked rumors—all of that was a Mossad operation, although the IAA was made to believe it was their own idea."

"God damn you!"

"Save your anger for what I'm about to say." Up on deck, the Estonians had joined into a stirring chorus, their voices rising and falling. "Our sting operation was just a front. Sure, it might have generated a few leads about the Ramallah Ossuary. But that was never the primary objective. Our true objective was to draw Gryphus out in the open."

"Why would Gryphus ever risk showing himself?"

"Because the fake ossuary was never the bait."

Her entire body seemed to tense. The vinyl seat crackled beneath her. "I was," she whispered. "I was the bait."

Avram sighed. "For what it's worth, I opposed the plan from the outset. But I couldn't deny it might be the only way to draw him out. You've changed your appearance, but not so much that he wouldn't recognize your face. We knew the instant he saw it, he would personally hunt you down and avenge his family. And when he tried, we would be ready to capture him. Or kill him."

The commander pocketed his deck of cards. "I was amazed to see you two standing on the spit, alive and unharmed."

"Unharmed?" said Peter, putting his arm around Davila's shoulders. "Look at her."

"I'll have our medic attend to both of you shortly. But first, tell me what happened on the island. Your signal went dead thirty minutes before we found you on the spit."

"That's because Gryphus threw her phone in the fire."

The commander swiveled on Peter. "What happened during those thirty minutes? What did Gryphus say to you?"

"No," said Davila, removing Peter's arm and pushing him away. "I'll handle this." She met the commander's gaze. "We know why Gryphus is killing Jews. We know who he works for. We know where the Mustard Seeds are hidden. And we know exactly where you can find Gryphus next."

The commander smiled thinly. "And I suppose you'll tell me on one condition."

"Three, actually."

He curled his lower lip. "Go ahead."

"First, get us on a plane back to the US."

"That's going to be sticky now that Interpol is after you."

"I'm sure you can manage. Second, leave the Mustard Seeds to us, whatever they turn out to be. You take care of Gryphus, but leave the Mustard Seeds to us."

"All right," he said after a moment's thought. "But what's your third condition?"

Up on deck, the Estonians had finished their song.

"Send our gratitude to the family of the man who gave his life today."