The helicopters settled onto the tarmac and, one by one, killed their engines. From the two flanking aircraft emerged a security detail fit for a Russian president: big boys, well groomed, heavily armed, hard as nails. After establishing a perimeter around the third helicopter, one guard stepped forward and opened the cabin door. For a long moment, no one appeared. Then came a flash of lustrous blond hair, framing a face of Slavic youth and perfection. The features were instantly recognizable to the control tower as well as the members of the Moscow delegation. The woman had appeared on countless magazine covers and billboards, usually with far less clothing than she was wearing now. Her name had once been Yekaterina Mazurov. Now she was known as Yekaterina Kharkov. Though meticulously coiffed and painted, she was clearly on edge. Immediately after placing an elegant boot on the tarmac, she gave one of the bodyguards a good tongue-lashing, which, unfortunately, could not be heard. Someone in the Moscow delegation pointed out that Yekaterina’s anxiety was to be forgiven. She was about to become a mother of two and was still little more than a child herself.
The second person to emerge from the helicopter was a trim man in a dark overcoat with a face that hinted of ancestors from deep in Russia’s interior. He was holding a cell phone to his ear and appeared to be engaged in a conversation of great import. No one in the control tower or the Moscow delegation recognized him, which was hardly surprising. Unlike the ravishing Yekaterina, this man’s photograph never appeared in the papers, and few people outside the insular world of the siloviki and the oligarchs knew his name. He was Oleg Rudenko, a former colonel in the KGB who now served as chief of Ivan Kharkov’s personal security service. Even Rudenko was the first to admit the title was merely an honorific. Ivan called all the shots; Rudenko just made the trains run on time. Thus the cell phone pressed tightly to his ear and the grim expression on his face.
The interval between Rudenko and the emergence of the third passenger was eighty-four long seconds, as timed by the control tower staff. He was an immensely powerful-looking figure, somewhat short in stature, with angular cheekbones, a pugalist’s broad forehead, and coarse hair the color of steel wool. One of the officials briefly confused him for a bodyguard, which was a common mistake and one he secretly enjoyed. But any inclination to such thinking was immediately dispelled by the cut of his magnificent English overcoat. And by the manner in which his trousers broke across his handmade English shoes. And by the way his own bodyguards seemed to fear his very presence. And by the sundial-sized gold watch on his left wrist. Look at him, murmured someone in the Moscow delegation. Look at Ivan Borisovich! The controversy, the arrest warrants, the indictments in the West: any one of them would have gladly accepted it all, just to live like Ivan Borisovich for a day. Just to ride in his helicopters and his limousines. And just to climb into bed one time with Yekaterina. But why the frown, Ivan Borisovich? Today is a joyous occasion. Today is the day your children are coming home from America.
He strode across the tarmac, Yekaterina on one side, Rudenko on the other, bodyguards all around. The head of the delegation, deputy foreign minister so-and-so of department such-and-such, met him halfway. Their conversation was brief and, by all appearances, unpleasant. Afterward, each retreated to his respective corner. When asked to recount what Ivan had said, the deputy refused. It couldn’t be repeated in polite company.
Look at him! Look at Ivan Borisovich! The fancy American helicopter, the beautiful young wife, the mountain of money. And underneath it all, he was still a KGB hood. A KGB hood in a fancy English suit.
LIKE OLEG Rudenko, Adrian Carter was at that moment holding a telephone to his ear, a secure landline device connected directly to the Global Ops Center at Langley. Shamron had a phone to his ear as well, though his was connected to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard. He was staring at the clock while at the same time battling a crippling craving for nicotine. Smoking was strictly forbidden in the annex. So, apparently, was speaking because Carter had not uttered a word in several minutes.
“Well, Adrian? Is he there or not?”
Carter nodded his head vigorously. “The spotter just confirmed it. Ivan’s birds are on the ground.”
“How long until the plane gets there?”
“Seven minutes.”
Shamron looked at the Moscow clock: 8:53.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t they?”
“We’re fine, Ari.”
“Just make sure they switch on those jammers at 9:05, Adrian. Not a second sooner, not a second later.”
“Don’t worry, Ari. No phone calls for Ivan. No phone calls for anyone.”
Shamron looked at the clock: 8:54.
Silence, speed, timing . . .
All they needed now was a bit of luck.
HAD UZI Navot been privy to Shamron’s thoughts, he would have surely recited the Office maxim that luck is always earned, never bestowed. He would have done so because at that moment he was lying on his face in the snow, one hundred yards behind the dacha, a weapon bearing his name cradled in his arms. Fifty yards to his right, in precisely the same position, was Yaakov. And fifty yards to his left was Oded. Standing directly in front of each of them was a Russian. It had been five hours since Navot and the others had crept into position through the birch forest. In that time, two shifts of guards had come and gone. There had been no relief, of course, for the visiting team. Navot, though properly outfitted for such an operation, was trembling with cold. He assumed Yaakov and Oded were suffering as well, though he had not spoken to either man in several hours. Radio silence was the order of the morning.
Navot was tempted to feel sorry for himself, but his mind would not allow it. Whenever the cold started to eat at his bones, he thought about the camps and the ghettos and terrible winters his people had endured during the Shoah. Like Gabriel, Navot owed his very existence to someone who had summoned the courage, the will, to survive those winters—a paternal grandfather who had spent five years toiling in the Nazi labor camps. Five years living on starvation rations. Five years sleeping in the cold. It was because of his grandfather that Navot had joined the Office. And it was because of his grandfather that he was lying in the snow, one hundred yards behind a dacha, surrounded by birch trees. The Russian standing before him would soon be dead. Though Navot was not an expert like Gabriel and Mikhail, he had done his obligatory time in the army and had undergone extensive weapons training at the Academy. So, too, had Yaakov and Oded. For them, fifty yards was nothing, even with frozen hands, even with suppressors. And there would be no going for the comfort zone of the torso. Only head shots. No dying calls on the radio.
Navot rolled his left wrist toward him a few degrees and glanced at his digital watch: 8:59. Six more minutes to contend with the cold. He flexed his fingers and waited for the sound of Gabriel’s voice in his miniature earpiece.
. . .
THE SECOND and final session of the emergency G-8 summit convened at the stroke of nine in the ornate St. George’s Hall of the Great Kremlin Palace. As always, the American president arrived precisely on time and settled into his place at the breakfast table. As luck would have it, the British prime minister had been placed to his right. The Russian president was seated opposite between the German chancellor and the Italian prime minister, his two closest allies in Western Europe. His attention, however, was clearly focused on the Anglo-American side of the table. Indeed, he had fixed both English-speaking leaders with his trademark stare, the one he always adopted when he was trying to look tough and decisive to the Russian people.
“Do you think he knows?” asked the British prime minister.
“Are you kidding? He knows everything.”
“Will it work?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
“I only hope no harm comes to that woman.”
The president sipped his coffee. “What woman?”
STALIN WAS never quite able to get his hands on Zamoskvorechye. The streets of his pleasant old quarter just south of the
Kremlin were largely spared the horror of Soviet replanning and are still lined with grand imperial houses and onion-domed churches. The district is also home to the embassy of the State of Israel, which stands at Bolshaya Ordynka 56. Rimona was waiting just inside the security gate, flanked by a pair of Shin Bet embassy guards. Like Uzi Navot, she was watching a single object: an S-Class Mercedes sedan, which had pulled to the curb outside the embassy at the stroke of nine.
The car was crouched low over its wheels, weighed down by armor plating and bulletproof windows. The glass was also blacked out, which made it impossible for Rimona to see into the passenger seats. All she could make out was the driver’s chin, and a pair of hands resting calmly on the wheel.
Rimona raised her secure cell phone to her ear and heard the cacophony of the Ops Desk at King Saul Boulevard. Then the voice of a desk officer, pleading for information. “The plane is on the ground. Tell us if she’s there. Tell us what you see.” Rimona complied with the order. She saw a Mercedes car with blacked-out windows. And she saw a pair of hands resting on the wheel. And then, in her mind, she saw a pair of angels sitting in a Range Rover. A pair of angels who would create hell on earth unless Chiara got out of that car.
62
GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
THERE WERE no pictures, only distant voices on secure phones and words that flashed and blinked on the billboard-sized communications screens. At 9:00 a.m. Moscow time, the screens told Shamron that the children’s plane was safely on the ground. At 9:01, that the plane was taxiing toward the control tower. At 9:03, that the plane was being approached by ground crew and motorized passenger-boarding stairs. A few seconds later, he was informed by telephone transmission from King Saul Boulevard that “Joshua” was proceeding to the target—Joshua being the Office code name for Gabriel and Mikhail. And finally, at 9:04, he was notified by Adrian Carter that the forward cabin door was now open.
“Where’s Ivan?”
“Approaching the plane.”
“Is he alone?”
“Full entourage. The wife, the muscle, the thug.”
“By that you mean Oleg Rudenko?”
Carter nodded. “He’s on his cell.”
“He’d better not be for long.”
“Don’t worry, Ari.”
Shamron looked at the clock: 9:04:17. Squeezing the telephone to his ear, he asked King Saul Boulevard for an update on the car parked outside the embassy gate. The desk officer reported no change.
“Perhaps we should force the issue,” Shamron said.
“How, boss?”
“That’s my niece standing out there. Tell her to improvise.”
Shamron listened while the desk officer relayed the order. Then he looked at the message flashing on the screen: AIRCRAFT DOOR OPEN . . . ADVISE . . .
Be careful, Rimona. Be very careful.
“THE MEMUNEH wants you to force the issue.”
“Does the Memuneh have any suggestions?”
“He suggests you improvise.”
“Really?”
Thank you, Uncle Ari.
Rimona stared at the Mercedes. Same chin. Same hands on the wheel. But now the fingers were in motion. Tapping a nervous rhythm.
He suggests you improvise . . .
But how? During the pre-op briefings, Uzi Navot had been resolute on one key point: under no circumstances were they going to give Ivan the opportunity to kidnap another Office agent, especially another woman. Rimona was to remain on embassy grounds at all times because, technically, the grounds were Israeli soil. Unfortunately, there was no way to force the issue in fifteen seconds by remaining behind the safety of the gate. Only by approaching the car could she do that. And to approach the car she had to leave Israel and enter Russia. She glanced at her watch, then turned to one of the Shin Bet security guards.
“Open the gate.”
“We were ordered to keep it closed.”
“Do you know who my uncle is?”
“Everyone knows who your uncle is, Rimona.”
“So what are you waiting for?”
The guard did as he was told and followed Rimona into Bolshaya Ordynka, gun drawn in violation of all diplomatic protocol, written and unwritten. Rimona went without hesitation to the rear passenger door of the Mercedes and rapped on the heavy bulletproof glass. Receiving no response, she gave the window two more firm knocks. This time, the glass slid down. No Chiara, only a well-dressed Russian in his late twenties wearing sunglasses in spite of the overcast weather. He was holding two things: a Makarov pistol and an envelope. He used the gun to keep the Shin Bet security guard at bay. The envelope he handed to Rimona. As the window rose, the Russian was smiling. Then the car lurched forward, tires spinning over icy pavement, and disappeared around the corner.
Rimona’s first instinct was to let the envelope fall to the ground. Instead, after giving it a cursory inspection, she tore open the flap. Inside was a gold ring. Rimona recognized it. She had been standing at Gabriel’s side when he purchased it from a jew eler in Tel Aviv. And she had been standing on her uncle’s terrace overlooking the Sea of Galilee when Gabriel placed it on Chiara’s finger. She brought her secure cell to her ear and told the Operations Desk what had just happened. Then, after retreating once again to the Israeli side of the security gate, she read the inscription on the wedding band, tears streaming down her face.
FOREVER, GABRIEL.
THE NEWS from the embassy confirmed what they always suspected: that Ivan had never intended to release Chiara. Shamron immediately spoke four words calmly in Hebrew: “Send Joshua to Canaan.” Then he turned to Adrian Carter. “It’s time.”
Carter snatched up his phone. “Switch on the jammers. And give Ivan the note.”
Shamron gazed at the message still winking at him from the display screens. His command had unleashed a torrent of noise and activity at King Saul Boulevard. Now, amid the pandemonium, he heard two familiar voices, both calm and unemotional. The first was Uzi Navot’s, reporting that the sentries at the back of the dacha appeared restless. The next voice was Gabriel’s. Joshua was thirty seconds away from the target, he said. Joshua would soon be knocking on the devil’s door.
THOUGH NEITHER Gabriel nor Shamron could see it, the devil was rapidly running out of patience. He was standing at the base of the passenger-boarding stairs, his malletlike hands resting on his hips, his weight shifting forward to aft. Veteran Kharkov watchers would have recognized the curious pose as one of many he had taken from his hero, Stalin. They would have also suggested that now might be a good time to take cover, because when Ivan started rocking heel to toe it usually meant an eruption was coming.
The source of his rising anger was the door of the American C-32. For more than a minute, there had been no activity there, other than the appearance of two heavily armed men in black. His anger scaled new heights shortly after 9:05 when Oleg Rudenko, who was standing at Ivan’s right hand, reported that his cell phone no longer appeared to be functioning. He blamed it on interference from the plane’s communications system, which was partially correct. Ivan, however, was clearly dubious.
At this point, he briefly attempted to take matters into his own hands. Pushing past one of his bodyguards, he mounted the passenger stairs and started toward the cabin door. He froze on the third step when one of the CIA paramilitaries leveled a compact submachine gun and, in excellent Russian, instructed him to stay back. On the tarmac, hands reached beneath overcoats, and the control tower staff later claimed to have spotted the flash of a weapon or two. Ivan, furious and humiliated, did as he was told and retreated to the base of the stairs.
And there he remained for two more tense minutes, hands on his hips, eyes fixed on the two men with machine guns standing shoulder to shoulder in the doorway of the C-32. When finally the CIA men parted, it was not his children Ivan saw but the pilot. He was holding a note. Using only hand signals, he summoned a member of the Russian ground crew and instructed him to deliver the note to the enraged-looking man in the
English overcoat. By the time the note had reached Ivan, the aircraft’s door was closed and the twin Pratt & Whitney engines were roaring. As the plane began to taxi, those on board were treated to the extraordinary sight of Ivan Kharkov—oligarch, arms dealer, murderer, and father of two—wadding the paper into a ball and hurling it to the ground in disgust.
Another man might have conceded defeat at this point. But not Ivan. Indeed, the last thing the crew saw was Ivan seizing hold of Oleg Rudenko’s cell phone and hurling it at the aircraft. It bounced harmlessly off the belly of the fuselage and shattered into a hundred pieces on the tarmac. A few of the crew laughed. Those who knew what was coming next did not. Blood was going to flow. And men were going to die.
AS IT TURNED OUT, the wash from the C-32’s engines blew the note across the tarmac toward the Moscow delegation, and, eventually, to the feet of the deputy minister himself. For a moment he considered allowing it to continue on its journey into oblivion, but his bureaucratic upbringing would not allow it. After all, the letter was an official document of sorts.
Ivan’s mighty fist had compressed the sheet of paper into a wad the size of a golf ball, and it took the deputy several seconds to pry it open and flatten it out again. Across the top of the paper was the official letterhead of the 89th Airlift Wing. Beneath it were a few lines of English script, clearly written by the hand of a child under emotional stress. Glancing at the first line, the deputy considered reading no further. Once again, duty demanded otherwise.
We do not want to live in Russia.