The Spy House

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Israel’s ambassador to France was due to retire in three months, but that wasn’t going to happen because in six minutes he’d be dead.

He had no inkling of his imminent demise, given that he was a healthy fifty-nine-year-old who’d recently undergone a full medical checkup and had been told by his doctor that he wasn’t going to die anytime soon. In fairness, his doctor could not have been expected to anticipate that his patient’s heart might be targeted by a sniper.

The ambassador was not alone as he walked through Paris’s oldest square. Tourists were ambling nearby, taking photos of the striking identical seventeenth-century red-brick houses that surrounded the square. Children were playing tag, running through the vaulted arcades. Lovers were strolling arm in arm, admiring the manicured lawns that partly covered the interior of the square and the rows of trees that had turned an autumnal russet.

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