He left the thought unfinished. Mikhail began drumming his fingers again.
“Do you think he’ll come?”
“He’ll come.”
“Two days of waiting. I can’t stand the waiting anymore.”
“You won’t have to wait much longer, Mikhail.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because Anton Petrov just walked past us.”
52
ZURICH
HE WORE a dark toggle coat, a gray scarf, large wire-framed glasses, and a flat cap pulled low. Oddly enough, the crude disguise threw the advantage over to Gabriel. He had spent countless hours staring at the surveillance photographs from Heathrow Airport, the fragmentary glimpses of a sturdy-jawed man wearing glasses and a fedora. It was this man who walked past the café overlooking the Paradeplatz, carrying a pair of mismatched attaché cases. And it was this man who was now rounding the corner into the Talstrasse. Gabriel raised his wrist mic carefully to his lips and informed Sarah and Navot that Petrov was headed their way. By the time the transmission was complete, Mikhail was on his feet, moving toward the door. Gabriel left a wad of money on the table and followed after him. “You forgot to pay the bill,” he said. “The Swiss get very angry when you run out on a check.”
PETROV WALKED past the bank twice before finally presenting himself at the entrance just three minutes before closing. Pressing the buzzer, he identified himself as Herr Otto Wolfe and was admitted without delay. The receptionist immediately telephoned Miss Irene Moore, Herr Becker’s temporary secretary, and was instructed to send the client back straightaway. Outside, on the Talstrasse, two pairs of men moved quietly into place: Yaakov and Oded at one end, Gabriel and Mikhail at the other. Mikhail was calmly humming to himself. Gabriel didn’t hear it. He was focused only on the voice in his ear, the voice of Sarah Bancroft, bidding a pleasant evening to one of the world’s most dangerous men. “Why don’t you have a seat, Herr Wolfe,” she said in perfect German. “Herr Becker will be with you in just a moment.”
HE PLACEDthe attaché cases on the floor next to the chair, unbuttoned his coat, and removed his leather gloves. The fingers of the left hand were absent any rings. On the third finger of the right hand, the one where an ordinary Russian would have worn a wedding band, was a heavy ring with a dark stone. In America, it would have been mistaken for a class ring or the ring of a military unit. Sarah, seated at her desk, forced herself not to look at it.
“May I take your coat?”
“No.”
“Something to drink? Coffee or tea?”
He shook his head, and sat without removing his overcoat or hat. “You’re not Herr Becker’s usual secretary.”
“She’s sick.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Just a virus.”
“There’s a lot going around. I’ve never seen you here before.”
“I’m a temp.”
“You’re not Swiss.”
“American, actually.”
“Your German is very good. It even has a bit of a Swiss accent.”
“I went to school here for a few years when I was young.”
“Which one?”
Sarah’s answer was interrupted by the appearance of Becker in the door of his office. Petrov stood.
“Your secretary was just telling me the name of the school she attended in Switzerland.”
“It was the International School of Geneva.”
“It has an excellent reputation.” He extended his right hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Moore.” Sarah grasped the hand firmly. “Irene Moore.”
Petrov released Sarah’s hand and entered Becker’s office. Thirty seconds later, the formalities complete, the two men emerged and set off together toward the vault room. Sarah passed that information to Gabriel over the microphone concealed on her desk, then reached beneath the desk and unzipped her handbag. The gun was there, barrel pointed downward, grip exposed. She glanced at the clock and waited for the sound of the front buzzer. Her hand was beginning to itch on the spot where Petrov’s ring had touched her. It was nothing, she told herself. Just her mind playing tricks.
UZI NAVOT was waiting outside the entrance to the vault room when Becker appeared, followed by Anton Petrov. The Heathrow surveillance photos had not done justice to the Russian’s size. He was well over six feet, broad shouldered, and well built. He was also clearly uneasy. Staring directly at Navot, he asked of Becker, “Where’s the usual security guard?”
The banker answered without hesitation. “We had to fire him. I’m afraid I can’t go into the details. You may rest assured that no client assets were involved, including yours.”
“I’m relieved.” His eyes were still on Navot. “Quite a coincidence, though. A new secretary and a new guard.”
Again, Becker managed a swift response. “I’m afraid the only constant is change, even in Switzerland.”
Navot opened the secondary door to the vault room and stepped aside. The Russian remained frozen in place, his gaze flickering back and forth between the banker and the security guard. Petrov was obviously suspicious and reluctant to enter. Navot wondered whether five million euros in cash might be enough to tempt him. He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Herr Becker, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll see to my business another time.”
Becker seemed taken aback. For an instant, Navot feared he might improvise and ask the Russian to reconsider his decision. Instead, he stepped aside with the curtness of a headwaiter and gestured toward the exit.
“As you wish.”
Petrov fixed Navot with a cautionary stare, then turned and started down the corridor. Navot quickly considered his options. If the Russian managed to make it out of the bank, the team would be left with two choices: snatch him off a busy Zurich street—hardly optimal—or follow him to his next destination. Better to take him here, inside the premises of Becker & Puhl, even if it meant doing it alone.
Navot had one brief advantage—the fact Petrov’s back was turned—and he took it. Moving Becker aside with one sweep of his left hand, he delivered a knifelike strike to the Russian’s neck with his right. The blow might have killed a normal man, but Petrov merely stumbled. Regaining his balance, he quickly released the two attaché cases and reached beneath his coat with his left hand. As he turned to face Navot, the gun was already on its way out. Navot grabbed the Russian’s left wrist and slammed it hard to the wall. Then he turned his head and frantically searched for the right hand. It wasn’t hard to find. Fingers splayed, killing ring exposed, it was reaching for Navot’s neck. Navot grabbed another wrist and held on. You won’t be alone, Gabriel had said. Funny how things never seemed to go according to plan.
SARAH HEARD two noises in rapid succession: a man grunting in pain, followed by a heavy thump. Then, a few seconds later, she heard a third sound: the intercom buzzer. Gabriel and the others were waiting outside the entrance of the bank. It would take at least thirty seconds for them to be admitted and make their way to the vault room. Thirty seconds that Uzi would be fighting for his life alone with a professional Russian assassin.
I won’t hesitate either, Uzi.
You sure about that?
I’m sure.
Sarah reached beneath her desk and drew the gun from her handbag. Chambering the first round, she got to her feet and headed into the corridor.
. . .
ON THE third ring, the receptionist finally answered.
“May I help you?”
“My name is Heinrich Kiever. Herr Becker is expecting me.”
“One moment, please.”
The moment seemed to last an eternity.
“Herr Kiever?”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid no one is answering Herr Becker’s line. Can you wait another moment, please?”
“Would it be possible for us to wait inside? It’s a bit chilly out here
.”
“I’m afraid it’s against policy. I’m sure Herr Becker will be with you in a moment.”
“Thank you.”
Gabriel glanced at Mikhail. “I think we might have a problem in there.”
“What do we do?”
“Unless you can think of some way to break into a Zurich bank, we wait.”
NO AMOUNT of firearms training could have possibly prepared Sarah for the sight that greeted her as she entered the corridor leading to the vault room: one Swiss banker huddled in fear, two large men trying very hard to kill each other. Navot had managed to pin Petrov to the wall and was struggling to control the Russian’s arms. In Petrov’s left hand was a gun. His right was empty, but the fingers were spread wide, and he appeared to be trying to grab Navot’s neck.
The ring!
One touch of the stylus was all it would take. One touch, and Navot would be dead within minutes.
Gun in her outstretched hands, Sarah sidestepped Becker and moved toward the two struggling men. Petrov immediately took note of her approach and attempted to aim his own weapon in her direction. Navot reacted quickly, twisting the Russian’s arm and slamming it to the wall so the barrel was pointed toward the ceiling.
“Shoot him, Sarah! Shoot him, damn it!”
Sarah took two steps forward and pressed the gun against Petrov’s left hip. I won’t hesitate either, Uzi . . . She didn’t. Not for an instant. The round shattered the Russian’s hip joint and caused his leg to buckle. Somehow, the left hand managed to maintain its grip on the gun. The right was still inching toward Navot’s neck.
“Again, Sarah! Shoot him again!”
This time, she placed the gun against Petrov’s left shoulder and pulled the trigger. As the Russian’s arm went limp, she quickly tore the gun from his grasp. Free to use his own right hand, Navot balled it into a massive fist and gave Petrov three sledgehammer blows to the face. The final two were unnecessary. The Russian was out on his feet after the first.
53
BARGEN, SWITZERLAND
THREE MILES from the German border, at the end of a narrow logging valley, stands little Bargen, famous in Switzerland because it is the country’s northernmost town. It has little to offer other than a gas station and a small market frequented by travelers on their way somewhere else. No one seemed to take note of the two men waiting outside in the parking lot in an Audi sedan. One had thinning flyaway hair and was drinking coffee from a paper cup. The other had eyes of emerald and was watching the traffic speeding along the motorway, white lights headed toward Zurich, red lights streaming toward the German border. The waiting . . . Always the waiting . . . Waiting for a plane or a train. Waiting for a source. Waiting for the sun to rise after a night of killing. And waiting for a van carrying a wounded Russian assassin.
“There’s going to be hell to pay at that bank,” said Eli Lavon.
“Becker will keep it quiet. He has no choice.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Then we’ll clean up the mess later.”
“Good thing the Swiss joined the modern world and took down their border posts. Remember the old days, Gabriel? They would get us coming and going.”
“I remember, Eli.”
“I can’t tell you how many times I had to sit there while those smug Swiss boys searched my trunk. Now they barely look at you. This will be our fourth Russian in three days, and no one will be the wiser.”
“We’re doing them a favor.”
“If we keep going at this rate, there won’t be any Russians left in Switzerland.”
“My point exactly.”
Just then a van turned into the lot. Gabriel climbed out of the Audi and walked over. Pulling open the rear door, he saw Sarah and Navot sitting on the floor of the cargo hold. Petrov was stretched between them.
“How is he?”
“Still unconscious.”
“Pulse?”
“Okay.”
“How’s the blood loss?”
“Not too bad. I think the rounds cauterized the vessels.”
“King Saul Boulevard is sending a doctor to the interrogation site. Can he make it?”
“He’ll be fine.” Navot handed Gabriel a small ziplock plastic bag. “Here’s a souvenir.”
Inside was Petrov’s ring. Gabriel carefully slipped the bag into his coat pocket and gestured for Sarah to get out of the van. He helped her into the backseat of the Audi, then climbed behind the wheel. Five minutes later, both vehicles were safely over the invisible border and heading north into Germany. Sarah managed to keep her emotions in check for a few minutes longer. Then she leaned her head against the window and began to weep.
“You did the right thing, Sarah. You saved Uzi’s life.”
“I’ve never shot anyone before.”
“Really?”
“Don’t make jokes, Gabriel. I don’t feel so well.”
“You will.”
“When?”
“Eventually.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Should I pull over?”
“No, keep going.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll stop just in case.”
“Maybe you should.”
Gabriel pulled to the side of the motorway and crouched at Sarah’s side as her body retched.
“I did it for you, Gabriel.”
“I know, Sarah.”
“I did it for Chiara.”
“I know.”
“How long am I going to feel this way?”
“Not long.”
“How long, Gabriel?”
He rubbed Sarah’s back as her body convulsed again.
Not long, he thought. Only forever.
PART FOUR
Resurrection Gate
54
NORTHERN GERMANY
FOR EVERY safe house, there is a story. A salesman who lives out of a suitcase and rarely sees home. A couple with too much money to be tied to one place for long. An adventurous soul who travels to faraway lands to take pictures and scale mountains. These are the tales told to neighbors and landlords. These are the lies that explain short-term tenants and guests who arrive in the middle of the night with keys in their pockets.
The villa near the Danish border had a story, too, though some of it happened to be true. Before the Second World War, it had been owned by a family called Rosenthal. All but one member, a young girl, perished in the Holocaust, and after emigrating to Israel in the mid-1950s she bequeathed her family home to the Office. Known as Site 22XB, the property was the jewel in Housekeeping’s crown, reserved for only the most sensitive and important operations. Gabriel believed a Russian assassin with two bullet wounds and a head filled with vital secrets certainly fell into that category. Housekeeping had agreed. They had given him the keys and made certain the pantry was well provisioned.
The house stood a hundred yards from a quiet farm road, a lonely outpost on the stark, flat plain of western Jutland. Time had taken its toll. The stucco needed a good scrubbing, the shutters were broken and peeling for want of paint, and the roof leaked when the big storms swept in from the North Sea. Inside was a similar story: dust and cobwebs, rooms not quite furnished, fixtures and appliances from a bygone era.
Indeed, to wander the halls was to step back in time, especially for Gabriel and Eli Lavon. Known to Office veterans as Château Shamron, the house had served as a planning base during Operation Wrath of God. Men had been condemned to death here, fates had been sealed. On the second floor was the room Lavon and Gabriel had shared. Now, as then, it contained nothing but a pair of narrow beds separated by a chipped nightstand. As Gabriel stood in the doorway, an image flashed in his memory: the watcher and the executioner lying awake in the darkness, one made sleepless by stress, the other by visions of blood. The ancient transistor radio that had filled the empty hours still stood on the table. It had been their link to the outside world. It had told them about wars won
and lost, about an American president who resigned in disgrace; and, sometimes, on summer nights, it played music for them. The music normal boys were listening to. Boys who weren’t killing terrorists for Ari Shamron.
Gabriel tossed his bag onto his old bed—the one nearest the window—and headed downstairs to the cellar. Anton Petrov lay supine across a bare stone floor, Navot, Yaakov, and Mikhail standing over him. His hands and feet were secured, though at this point it was scarcely necessary. Petrov’s skin was ghostly white, his forehead damp with perspiration, his jaw distorted from swelling at the spot where Navot had hit him. The Russian was in desperate need of medical attention. He would get it only if he talked. If not, Gabriel would allow the rounds still lodged in his pelvis and shoulder to poison his body with sepsis. The death would be slow, feverish, and agonizing. It was the death he deserved, and Gabriel was more than prepared to grant it. He crouched at the Russian’s side and spoke to him in German.
“I believe this is yours.”
He reached into his coat pocket and removed the plastic bag Navot had given him at the Swiss border. Petrov’s ring was still inside. Gabriel removed it and pressed firmly on the stone. From the base emerged a small stylus, not much larger than a phonograph needle. Gabriel made a show of examining it, then moved it suddenly toward Petrov’s face. The Russian recoiled in fear, twisting his head violently to the right.
“What’s wrong, Anton? It’s just a ring.”
Gabriel inched it closer to the soft skin of Petrov’s neck. The Russian was now writhing in terror. Gabriel pressed the stone again, and the needle retreated safely into the base of the ring. He slipped it back into the plastic bag and handed it carefully to Navot.
“In the interest of full disclosure, we worked on a similar device. But to be honest with you, I’ve never really cared for poisons. They’re for cheap hoods like you, Anton. I’ve always preferred to do my killing with one of these.”