The Defector (31 page)

IT APPEARED to him as a cycle of vast paintings, oil on canvas, rendered by the hand of Tintoretto. The paintings lined the nave of a small church in Venice and were darkened by yellowed varnish. Gabriel, in his thoughts, drifted slowly past them now with Chiara at his side, her breast pressing against his elbow, her long hair brushing the side of his neck. Even with Carter’s help, getting her and Grigori out of the dacha alive would be an operational and logistical nightmare. Ivan would be playing on his home turf. All the advantages would be his. Unless Gabriel could somehow turn the tables. By way of deception . . .

Gabriel had to get Ivan to let down his guard. He had to keep Ivan occupied at the time of the raid. And, more pressing, he had to convince Ivan not to kill Chiara and Grigori for another four days. In order to do that, he needed one more thing from Adrian Carter. Not one, actually, but two.

He blinked away the vision of Venice and gazed once again at the photograph of the dacha in the trees. Yes, he thought again, he needed two more things from Adrian Carter, but they were not Carter’s to give. Only a mother could surrender them. And so, with Carter’s blessing, he entered an unoccupied office in the far corner of the annex and quietly closed the door. He dialed the isolated compound in the Adirondack Mountains. And he asked Elena Kharkov if he could borrow the only two things in the world she had left.

56

PARIS

IN THE AFTERMATH, during the inevitable postmortem and deconstruction that follows an affair of this magnitude, there was spirited debate over who among its far-flung cast of characters bore the most responsibility for its outcome. One participant was not asked for an opinion and would surely not have ventured one if he had been. He was a man of few words, a man who stood a lonely post. His name was Rami, and his job was to keep watch over a national treasure, the Memuneh. Rami had been at the Old Man’s side for the better part of twenty years. He was Shamron’s other son, the one who stayed at home while Gabriel and Navot were running around the world playing the hero. He was the one who snuck the Old Man cigarettes and kept his Zippo filled with lighter fluid. The one who sat up nights on the terrace in Tiberias, listening to the Old Man’s stories for the thousandth time and pretending it was still the first. And he was the one who was walking exactly twenty paces behind the Old Man’s back, at four the following afternoon, as he entered the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris.

Shamron found Sergei Korovin where he said he would be, seated ramrod straight on a wooden bench near the Jeu de Paume. He was wearing a heavy woolen scarf beneath his overcoat and smoking the stub of a cigarette that left no doubt about his nationality. As Shamron sat down, Korovin raised his left arm slowly and pondered his wristwatch.

“You’re two minutes late, Ari. That’s not like you.”

“The walk took me longer than expected.”

“Bullshit.” Korovin lowered his arm. “You should know that patience isn’t one of Ivan’s strong suits. That’s why he was never selected to work in the First Chief Directorate. He was deemed too impetuous for pure espionage. We had to assign him to the Fifth, where his temper could be put to good use.”

“Breaking heads, you mean?”

Korovin gave a noncommittal shrug. “Someone had to do it.”

“He must have been a great disappointment to his father.”

“Ivan? He was an only child. He was . . . indulged.”

“It shows.”

Shamron removed a silver case from the pocket of his overcoat and took his time lighting a cigarette. Korovin, annoyed, gave his wristwatch another distracted glance.

“Perhaps I should have made something clear to you, Ari. This deadline was more than hypothetical. Ivan is expecting to hear from me. If he doesn’t, chances are your agent will turn up somewhere with a bullet in the back of her head.”

“That would be rather foolish, Sergei. You see, if Ivan kills my agent, he’ll lose his only chance of getting his children back.”

Korovin’s head turned sharply in Shamron’s direction. “What are you saying, Ari? Are you telling me the Americans have agreed to return Ivan’s children to Russia?”

“No, Sergei, not the Americans. It was Elena’s decision. As you might expect, it’s torn her to pieces, but she wants no more blood shed because of her husband.” Shamron paused. “And she also knows her children well enough to realize that they’ll leave Russia the moment they’re old enough and come back to her.”

Age seemed to have taken a toll on Korovin’s ability to dissemble. He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the Parisian dusk and did a very poor job of concealing his surprise at the development.

“What’s wrong, Sergei? You told me Ivan wanted his children.” Shamron watched the Russian carefully. “It makes me think your offer wasn’t a serious one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ari. I’m just stunned you were actually able to pull it off.”

“I thought you learned a long time ago never to underestimate me.”

The gardens were receding into the gathering darkness. Shamron glanced around, then settled his gaze on Korovin.

“Are we alone, Sergei?”

“We’re alone.”

“Anyone listening?”

“No one.”

“You’re sure?”

“No one would dare. I might be old, but I’m still Korovin.”

“And I’m still Shamron. So listen carefully, because I’m not going to say this twice. On Thursday afternoon at two o’clock Washington time, the Russian ambassador to the United States is to present himself at the main gate of Andrews Air Force Base. He will be met there by base security and a team of officers from the CIA and the State Department. They will take him to a VIP lounge, where he will be allowed to spend a few minutes with Anna and Nikolai Kharkov.” Shamron paused. “Are you with me, Sergei?”

“Two p.m. Thursday, Andrews Air Force Base.”

“When the meeting is over, the children will be placed aboard a C-32, the military’s version of a Boeing 757. It will land in Russia at precisely nine a.m. Friday morning. The Americans want to use the airfield outside Konakovo. Do you know the one I’m talking about, Sergei? It’s the old air base that was converted to civilian use when your air force couldn’t figure out how to fly planes anymore.”

Korovin lit another of his Russian cigarettes and slowly waved out the match. “Nine o’clock. The airfield outside Konakovo.”

“Elena doesn’t want the children walking off the plane into the arms of some stranger. She insists Ivan come to the airport and greet them. If Ivan isn’t there, the children don’t get off that plane. Are we clear on that, Sergei?”

“No Ivan, no children.”

“At 9:05, the aircraft will be parked with its doors opened. If my agent is standing outside the entrance of the Israeli Embassy in Moscow, the children will walk off that plane. If she’s not there, the crew will fire up those engines and take off again. And don’t get any ideas about playing rough with that aircraft. It’s American soil. And at 9 a.m. on Friday morning, the American president will be sitting down with the Russian president and the other Group of Eight leaders for a working breakfast at the Kremlin. We wouldn’t want anything to spoil the mood, would we, Sergei?”

“Say what you like about our president, Ari, but he is a man who respects international law.”

“If that’s true, then why does your president allow Ivan to flood the most volatile corners of the world with Russian weapons? And why did he allow Ivan to kidnap one of my officers and use her as barter to get his children back?” Greeted by silence, Shamron said, “I suppose it all comes down to money, doesn’t it, Sergei? How much money did your president demand of Ivan? How much did Ivan have to pay for the privilege of kidnapping Grigori and my agent?”

“Our president is a servant of the people. These stories of his personal wealth are lies and Western propaganda designed to discredit Russia and keep it weak.”

“You’re showing your age, Sergei.”

Korovin ignored the remark. “As for your missing agent, Ivan had absolutely nothing to do with her disappearance. I thought I made that clear during our first meeting.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. But let me make something clear to you now. If my agent isn’t returned, safe and sound, at nine o’clock Friday morning, I’m going to assume that you and your client were acting in bad faith. And it’s going to make me very angry.”

“Ivan isn’t my client. I’m just a messenger.”

“No, you’re not. You’re Korovin.” Shamron watched the traffic hurtling round the Place de la Concorde. “Do you know the identity of the agent Ivan is holding?”

“I know very little.”

Shamron gave a disappointed smile. “You used to be a better poker player, Sergei. You know exactly who she is. And you know exactly who her husband is. And that means you know what’s going to happen if she isn’t released.”

Shamron dropped the end of his cigarette onto the gravel footpath. “But just so there are no misunderstandings, I’m going to spell it out for you. If Ivan kills her, I’m going to hold the Kremlin responsible. And then I’m going to unleash my service on yours. No Russian intelligence officer anywhere in the world will be able to walk the streets without feeling our breath on the back of his neck.” Shamron placed his hand on Korovin’s forearm. “Are we clear, Sergei?”

“We’re clear, Ari.”

“Good. And there’s one other thing. I want Grigori Bulganov. And don’t tell me he’s none of my concern.”

Korovin hesitated, then said, “We’ll see.”

“Two p.m. Thursday, Andrews Air Force Base. Nine a.m. Friday, the airfield at Konakovo. Nine a.m. Friday, my agent outside our embassy in Moscow. Don’t disappointment me, Sergei. Many lives will be lost if you do.”

Shamron rose without another word and headed toward the Louvre with Rami now walking vigilantly at his side. The bodyguard had not been able to hear what had just transpired but was certain of one thing. The Old Man was still the one in charge. And he had just put the fear of God in Sergei Korovin.

57

SHANNON AIRPORT, IRELAND

THE NAME Aaron Davis of the White House Office of Presidential Advance was unfamiliar to them. Their orders, however, were unambiguous. They were to pick him up during the Shannon refueling stop and get him into Moscow without a hitch. And don’t try to talk to him during the flight. He’s not the talkative sort. They didn’t ask why. They were Secret Service.

They were never told his real name or the country of his birth. They never knew that their mysterious passenger was a legend, or that he had spent the previous forty-eight hours in London engaged in advance work of quite another kind, shuttling between Grosvenor Square and the Israeli Embassy in Kensington. Though he was visibly fatigued and on edge, all those who encountered Gabriel during this period would later remember his extraordinary composure. Not once did he lose his temper, they said. Not once did he show the strain. His team, physically worn after two weeks in the field, responded with lightning speed to his calm but relentless pressure. Just twelve hours after the call to Elena Kharkov, half were on the ground in Moscow, credentials around their necks, covers intact. The rest joined them later that night, including the chief of Special Ops, Uzi Navot. No other service in the world would have put so senior a man on the ground in so hostile a land. But then no other service was quite like the Office.

Shamron remained at Gabriel’s side for all but a few hours, when he returned to Paris to hold the hand of Sergei Korovin. Ivan was getting nervous. Ivan was dubious about the entire thing. Ivan didn’t understand why he had to wait until Friday to get his children back. “He wants to do it now,” Korovin said. “He wants it over and done with.” Shamron did not tell his old friend that he already knew this—or that the NSA had been kind enough to share the original recording, along with a transcript. Instead, he assured the Russian there was no need to worry. Elena just needed some time to prepare the children, and herself, for the pending separation. “Surely even a monster like Ivan can understand how difficult this is going to be on her.” As for the schedule, Shamron made it clear there would be no changes: 2 p.m. at Andrews, 9 a.m. at Konakovo, 9 a.m. at the Israeli Embassy in Moscow. No Ivan, no children. No Chiara, no safe place for any Russian intelligence officer on earth. “And don’t forget, Sergei—we want Grigori back, too.”

Though he tried not to show it, the meeting in Paris left Shamron deeply shaken. Gabriel’s gambit had clearly thrown Ivan off balance. But it had also made him suspicious of a trap. Gabriel’s opening would be brief, a few minutes, no more. They would have to move swiftly and decisively. These were the words Shamron spoke to Gabriel late Wednesday night as they sat together in the back of a CIA car on the rain-lashed tarmac of Shannon Airport.

Gabriel’s bag was on the seat between them, his eyes focused on the massive C-17 Globemaster that would soon deliver him to Moscow. Shamron was smoking—despite the fact that the CIA driver had asked him repeatedly not to—and running through the entire operation one more time. Gabriel, though exhausted, listened patiently. The briefing was more for Shamron’s benefit than his. The Memuneh would spend the next forty-eight hours watching helplessly from the CIA annex. This was his last chance to whisper directly into Gabriel’s ear, and he took it without apology. And Gabriel indulged him because he needed to hear the sound of the Old Man’s voice one more time before getting on that plane. He drew courage from the voice. Faith. It made him believe the operation might actually work, even though everything else told him it was doomed to failure.

“Once you get them into the car, don’t stop. Kill anyone you need to kill. And I mean anyone. We’ll clean up the mess later. We always do.”

Just then, there was a knock at the window. It was the CIA escort, saying the plane was ready. Gabriel kissed Shamron’s cheek and told him not to smoke too much. Then he climbed out of the car and headed toward the C-17 through the rain.