The Defector (17 page)

He was waiting for Gabriel the following afternoon in a conference room on the seventh floor of CIA Headquarters, the Valhalla of America’s sprawling and often dysfunctional intelligence establishment. The antithesis of Graham Seymour in appearance, Carter had tousled thinning hair and a prominent mustache that had gone out of fashion with disco music, Crock-Pots, and the nuclear freeze. Dressed as he was now, in flannel trousers and a burgundy cardigan, he had the air of a professor from a minor university, the sort who championed noble causes and was a constant thorn in the side of his dean. He peered at Gabriel over his reading glasses, as if mildly surprised to see him, and offered his hand. It was cool as marble and dry to the touch.

Gabriel had contacted Carter the previous day before leaving London via a secure cable sent from the CIA station at the American Embassy. The cable had given Carter only the broadest outlines of the affair. Now Gabriel filled in the details. At the conclusion of the briefing, Carter picked through the physical evidence, beginning with the letter Grigori had left in Oxford and ending with the Heathrow Airport surveillance photos of the man known only as Anatoly.

“In all honesty,” said Carter, “we never put much stock in the story that Grigori had a change of heart and redefected to the motherland. As you might recall, I actually had a chance to spend some time with him the night you came out of Russia.”

Gabriel did recall, of course. In a logistical feat only the Agency could manage, Carter had put a squadron of Gulfstream executive jets on the ground in Kiev, just a few hours after the car bearing Gabriel and his trio of Russian defectors had crossed the Ukrainian border. Gabriel had returned to Israel, while Grigori and Olga had flown into exile in Britain. Carter had personally brought Elena Kharkov to the United States, where she was granted defector status. Her current circumstances were so closely held that even Gabriel had no idea where the CIA had hidden her.

“We sent a team to debrief Grigori within twenty-four hours of his arrival in England,” Carter resumed. “No one who took part ever voiced any skepticism about Grigori’s authenticity. After his disappearance, I ordered a review of the tapes and transcripts to see if we’d missed something.”

“And?”

“Grigori was as good as gold. Needless to say, we were rather surprised when the British thought otherwise. As far as Langley is concerned, it seemed a rather transparent attempt to foist some of the blame for his disappearance onto you. They have no one to blame but themselves. He should have never been allowed to get mixed up with opposition types floating around London. It was only a matter of time before Ivan got to him.”

“Is Ivan still a target of NSA surveillance?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you know he just sold several thousand antitank missiles and RPGs to Hezbollah?”

“We’ve heard rumors to that effect. But for the moment, keeping track of Ivan’s business activities is low on our list of priorities. Our main concern is keeping his former wife and children safe from harm.”

“Has he ever made any formal effort to reclaim them?”

“A couple of months ago, the Russian ambassador raised the issue during a routine meeting with the secretary of state. The secretary acted somewhat surprised and said she would look into the matter. She’s a good poker player, the secretary. Would have made an excellent case officer. A week later, she told the ambassador that Elena Kharkov and her children were not currently residing in the United States, nor had they ever resided here at any time in the past. The ambassador thanked the secretary profusely for her efforts and never raised the matter again.”

“Ivan must know they’re here, Adrian.”

“Of course he knows. But there’s nothing he and his friends in the Kremlin can do about it. That operation you ran in Saint-Tropez last summer was a thing of beauty. You plucked the children from Ivan cleanly and with a veneer of legality. Furthermore, when Ivan divorced Elena in a Russian court, he effectively gave up all legal claim to them. The only way he can get them now is to steal them. And that’s not going to happen. We take better care of our defectors than the British do.”

“She’s somewhere safe, I hope.”

“Very safe. But will you allow me to give you a piece of advice, as one friend to another? Take Grigori’s words to heart. Forget about that promise you made that night in Russia. Besides, I suspect Ivan has already put a bullet in the back of his head. Knowing Ivan, I imagine he did the deed himself. Go home to your wife, and let the British clean up their mess.”

“I like to keep promises. I used to think you did, too, Adrian.”

Carter steepled his fingertips and pressed them to his chin. “I think your characterization is a tad unfair. But since you put it that way, how can Langley be of service?”

“Give those photos of Anatoly to the Counterintelligence Center. See if they can put a name and a résumé to that face.”

“I’ll ask the chief to handle it personally.” Carter gathered up the photos. “How long are you planning to stay in town?”

“As long as it takes.”

“One of our officers is about to leave on an overseas assignment. She was wondering if you might be free for dinner.”

Gabriel didn’t bother to ask the officer’s name.

“Where’s she going, Adrian?”

“That’s classified.”

“I don’t suppose I have to remind you that she was involved in the operation against Ivan?”

“No, you don’t.”

“So why are you letting her leave the country?”

“Your concern over her safety is touching but completely unnecessary. What should I tell her about dinner?”

Gabriel hesitated. “I’ll take a rain check, Adrian. It’s complicated.”

“Why? Because she’s dating one of your team?”

“What are you talking about?”

“She and Mikhail are seeing each other. I’m surprised no one told you.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“It started shortly after the Saint-Tropez operation. Since Mikhail is an employee of a foreign intelligence service, she was required to report the relationship to the Office of Personnel. Personnel wasn’t pleased about it, but I intervened on their behalf.”

“How thoughtful of you, Adrian. Actually, I will have dinner with her.”

Carter jotted the time and place on a slip of paper. “Just be nice to her, Gabriel. I think she’s happy. It’s been a long time since Sarah has been happy.”

31

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

1789 RESTAURANT , a Georgetown landmark, is regarded as one of the finest in Washington and is one of the few that still requires gentlemen to wear a jacket. With that admonition, Carter sent Gabriel to Brooks Brothers, where in the span of ten minutes he picked out gabardine trousers, an oxford-cloth shirt, and the requisite blue blazer. He drew the line at a necktie, though. Like most Israelis, he wore them only under duress or for the purposes of cover. Besides, if he wore a tie, Sarah might get the wrong impression. The blazer was going to cause him enough problems.

He arrived a few minutes early and was informed by the hostess that his dinner companion was already seated. He wasn’t surprised; he had personally overseen Sarah Bancroft’s training and regarded her as one of the finest natural operatives he had ever encountered. Multilingual, well-traveled, and extremely well-educated, she had been working as an assistant curator at the Phillips Collection in Washington when Gabriel recruited her to find a terrorist mastermind lurking in the entourage of Saudi billionaire Zizi al-Bakari. After the operation, Sarah joined the CIA on a full-time basis and was assigned to the Counterterrorism Center. Gabriel had borrowed her again the previous summer and, with the help of a forged painting, had placed her alongside Elena Kharkov. Mikhail had posed as Sarah’s Russian-American boyfriend during the operation, and they had spent several nights together in a five-star Saint-Tropez hotel. Gabriel reckoned the attraction had started then.

He was not happy about it for a number of reasons, not least of which because it violated his ban on sexual relationships between members of his team. But his anger went only so far. He knew the unique combination of stress and boredom could sometimes lead to romantic entanglements in the field. In fact, he could speak from experience. Twenty years earlier, while preparing for a major assassination in Tunis, he had an affair with his female escort officer that nearly destroyed his marriage to Leah.

The hostess escorted him through the intimate dining room to a corner table near the fireplace. Sarah was seated along the banquette with her shoulders turned in a way that allowed her to discreetly survey the entire space. She was wearing a black sleeveless dress and a double strand of pearls. Her pale hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and her wide blue eyes shone with the warm light of the candles. One hand was resting on the stem of a martini glass. The other was placed lightly against her teardrop chin. Her cheek, when kissed, smelled of lilac.

“Can I get you one of these?” she asked, tapping a manicured nail on the base of the glass.

“I’d rather drink your nail polish remover.”

“Would you like that with a twist or just on the rocks?” She looked up at the hostess. “A glass of champagne, please. Something nice. He’s had a long day.”

The hostess withdrew. Sarah smiled and raised the martini to her lips.

“They say it’s bad to drink the night before you fly, Sarah.”

“If I can survive one of your operations, I think I can survive a transatlantic flight with a bit of gin in my bloodstream.”

“So it’s Europe? Is that where Carter is sending you?”

“Adrian warned me to be on my toes around you. You’re not going to get it out of me.”

“I think I have a right to know.”

“Really?” She set down her glass and leaned forward over the table. “You might find this difficult to believe, Gabriel, but I don’t actually work for the Office. I am employed by the National Clandestine Service of the Central Intelligence Agency, which means Adrian Carter, not you, makes my assignments.”

“Would you like to say that a little louder? I’m not sure the cooks and the dishwashers heard you.”

“Weren’t you the one who told me that nearly every important professional conversation you’d ever had was conducted in public places?”

It was true. Safe rooms were only safe if they hadn’t been bugged.

“At least rule out a couple of places for me. I’ll sleep easier knowing that Langley, in its infinite wisdom, hasn’t decided to send you to Saudi Arabia or Moscow.”

“You may sleep in peace because Langley has decided nothing of the sort.”

“So it is Europe?”

“Gabriel, really.”

“What kind of work will you be doing?”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “It’s related to my government’s continuing efforts to combat global terrorism.”

“How gallant. And to think that four years ago you were putting together an exhibition called Impressionists in Winter.”

“I hope that was meant as a compliment.”

“It was.”

“You obviously don’t approve of my going into the field without you.”

“I’ve stated my concerns. But Adrian is your boss, not me. And if Adrian thinks it’s appropriate, then who am I to question his judgment?”

“You’re Gabriel Allon, that’s who you are.”

The waiter appeared. He gave them menus and a detailed briefing on the evening’s specials. When he was gone, Gabriel perused the entrées and, with as much detachment as he could manage, asked whether Mikhail was aware of Sarah’s travel plans. Greeted by silence, he looked up and saw Sarah staring at him, her alabaster cheeks flushed.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t act like that when you were around Zizi and Ivan,” Gabriel said.

“Did Mikhail tell you?”

“Actually, the chief of the National Clandestine Service let it slip in conversation.”

Sarah made no response.

“So it’s true, then? You’re actually dating a member of my team?”

“Are you jealous or angry?”

“Why on earth would I be jealous, Sarah?”

“I couldn’t carry a torch for you forever. I had to move on.”

“And you couldn’t find anyone else other than someone who works for me?”

“Funny how that worked out. I guess there was something about Mikhail that I found familiar.”

“Dating a man who’s employed by the intelligence service of a foreign country isn’t exactly a wise career move, Sarah.”

“Langley is having trouble retaining bright young talent. They’re willing to bend some of the old rules.”

“Maybe I should have a quiet word with Personnel. They might have second thoughts.”

“You wouldn’t dare, Gabriel. You also have no right to interfere in my private life.”

Sarah’s private life, Gabriel knew, had been largely in ruins since 9:03 on the morning of September 11, 2001, when United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. On board the doomed aircraft was a young Harvard-trained lawyer named Ben Callahan. Ben had been able to make one call during the final moments of his life, and it had been to Sarah. Since that time, she had permitted herself to have feelings for only one other man. Unfortunately, that man had been Gabriel.

“You should think long and hard before you get involved with a man who kills people for a living. Mikhail’s done a lot of terrible things for the sake of his country.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Things that might make him difficult to be around sometimes.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

“This isn’t a joke, Sarah. This is your life. Besides, Israeli men are notoriously unreliable. Just ask your average Israeli woman.”

“The Israeli men I know are quite wonderful, actually.”

“That’s because we’re the best of the best.”

“Mikhail included?”

“He wouldn’t be on my team if he wasn’t. How much time have you spent with him?”

“He’s come here a few times, and we met in Paris once.”

“It’s not safe for you to be in Paris alone.”

“I’m not alone. I’m with Mikhail.” A silence, then, “It’s almost like being with you.”

Her words hung between them for a moment. “Is that what this is about, Sarah?”