“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 peri
od 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.
FOR NOW, he was an American, even if he couldn’t quite speak like one. He carried an American suitcase filled with American clothes. An American cell phone filled with American numbers. An American BlackBerry filled with American e-mails. He also carried a second PDA with features not available on ordinary models, but that belonged to someone else. A boy from the Valley of Jezreel. A boy who would have been an artist if not for a band of Palestinian terrorists known as Black September. Tonight, that boy did not exist. He was a painting lost to time. He was now Aaron Davis of the White House Office of Presidential Advance, and he had a pocketful of credentials to prove it. He thought American thoughts, dreamed American dreams. He was an American, even if he couldn’t quite speak like one. And even if he couldn’t quite walk like one, either.
As it turned out, there was not one presidential limousine on the plane but two, along with a trio of armored SUVs. The chief of the Secret Service detail was a woman; she escorted Gabriel to a seat near the center of the aircraft and gave him a parka to wear against the sharp cold. Much to his surprise, he was able to get a bit of badly needed sleep, though one agent would later note that he seemed to stir at the precise instant the plane crossed into Russian airspace. He woke with a start fifteen minutes before landing, and as the plane descended toward Sheremetyevo he thought of Chiara. How had she returned to Russia? Had she been bound and gagged? Had she been conscious? Had she been drugged? As the wheels touched down, he forced such questions from his mind. There was no Chiara, he told himself. There was no Ivan. There was only Aaron Davis, servant of the American president, dreamer of American dreams, who was now just minutes away from his first encounter with Russian authorities.
They were waiting on the darkened tarmac, stamping their feet against the bitter cold, as Gabriel and the Secret Service detail filed down the rear cargo ramp. Standing next to the Russian delegation was a pair of officials from the U.S. Embassy, one of whom was an undeclared CIA officer with diplomatic cover. The Russians greeted Gabriel with warm handshakes and smiles, then gave his passport a cursory glance before stamping it. In return, Gabriel gave each a small token of American goodwill: White House cuff links. Five minutes later, he was seated in the back of an embassy car, speeding down Leningradsky Prospekt toward the city center.
Size has always mattered to the Russians, and to spend any time there is to discover nearly everything is the biggest: the biggest country, the biggest bell, the biggest swimming pool. If the Leningradsky was not the biggest street in the world, it was certainly among the ugliest—a hodgepodge of crumbling apartment houses and Stalinist monstrosities, lit by countless neon signs and piss-yellow streetlamps. Capitalism and Communism had collided violently on the prospekt, and the result was an urban nightmare. The G-8 banners the Russians had so carefully hung looked more like warning flags of the fate that awaited them all if they didn’t put their financial houses in order.
Gabriel felt his stomach tighten by degrees as the car drew closer to the Kremlin. As they passed Dinamo Stadium, the CIA man handed him a satellite photograph of the dacha in the birch forest. There were three Range Rovers instead of two, and four men were clearly visible outside. Once again, Gabriel’s eye was drawn to the parallel depressions in the woods near the house. It appeared there had been a change since the last pass. At the end of one depression was a dark patch, as if the snow cover had recently been disturbed.
By the time Gabriel returned the photo to the CIA man, the car was traveling along Tverskaya Street. Directly before them rose the Kremlin’s Corner Arsenal Tower, its red star looking oddly like the symbol of a certain Dutch beer that now flowed freely in the watering holes of Moscow. The darkened offices of Galaxy Travel flashed by Gabriel’s window, then the little side street where Anatoly, friend of Viktor Orlov, had been waiting to take Irina to dinner.
A hundred yards beyond Irina’s office, Tverskaya Street emptied into the twelve lanes of Okhotny Ryad Street. They turned left and sped past the Duma, the House of Unions, and the Bolshoi Theatre. The next landmark Gabriel saw was a floodlit fortress of yellow stone looming directly ahead over Lubyanka Square—the former headquarters of the KGB, now home to its domestic successor, the FSB. In any other country, the building would have been blown to bits and its horrors exposed to the healing light of day. But not Russia. They had simply hung a new sign, and buried its terrible secrets where they couldn’t be found.
Just down the hill from Lubyanka, in Teatralnyy Prospekt, was the famed Hotel Metropol. Bag in hand, Gabriel sailed through the art deco entrance as if he owned the place, which is how Americans always seemed to enter hotels. The lobby, empty and silent, had been faithfully restored to its original décor—indeed, Gabriel could almost imagine Lenin and his disciples plotting the Red Terror over tea and cakes. The check-in counter was absent any customers; even so, Gabriel had to wait an eternity before Khrushchev’s doppelgänger be
ckoned him forward. After filling out the lengthy registration form, Gabriel refused a bell-man’s indifferent offer of assistance and made his way upstairs to his room alone. It was now approaching five o’clock. He stood in the window, hand to his chin, head tilted to one side, and waited for the sun to rise over Red Square.
58
MOSCOW
THOUGH THE global financial crisis had caused economic pain across the industrialized world, few countries had fallen further or faster than Russia. Fueled by skyrocketing oil prices, Russia’s economy had grown at dizzying speed in the first years of the new millennium, only to come crashing back to earth again with oil’s sharp decline. Her stock market was a shambles, her banking system in ruins, and her once-docile population was now clamoring for relief. Inside the foreign ministries and intelligence services of the West, there was fear Russia’s weakening economy might provoke the Kremlin to retreat even deeper into a Cold War posture—a sentiment shared by several key European leaders, who were becoming increasingly dependent on Russia for their supplies of natural gas. It was this concern that had prompted them to hold the emergency G-8 summit in Moscow in the dead of winter. Show the bully respect, they reckoned, and he might be encouraged to change his behavior. At least, that was the hope.
Had the summit taken place in any other G-8 country, the arrival of the leaders and their delegations would scarcely have been a blip on the local media’s radar. But the summit was being held in Russia, and Russia, despite protests to the contrary, was not yet a normal country. Its media was either owned by the state or controlled by it, and its television networks went live as each presidential or prime ministerial aircraft sunk out of the iron-gray sky over Sheremetyevo. To hear the Russian reporters explain it, the Western leaders were coming to Moscow because they had been personally summoned by the Russian president. The world was in turmoil, the reporters warned, and only Russia could save it.