The English Girl: A Novel

  The transformation was made complete shortly after ten o’clock when he did a spot-on imitation of Viktor Orlov, along with the twitching left eye, which brought down the house. Only Pavel Zhirov seemed not to find it amusing. Nor did he join in the ovation that followed Gennady Lazarev’s benedictory remarks. Afterward, the party spilled onto the pavement, where a line of Volgatek limousines waited at the curb. Lazarev offhandedly asked Mikhail to stop by the office on his way out of town in the morning to tie up a few loose ends on the deal memo. Then he guided him toward the open rear door of a waiting Mercedes. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said through his mathematician’s smile, “I’m going to have Pavel run you back to the hotel. He has a few questions he’d like to ask you on the way.”

  Mikhail heard himself say “No problem, Gennady.” Then, without an instant’s hesitation, he slid into the waiting car. Pavel Zhirov, the night’s only loser, sat opposite, staring inconsolably out his window. He said nothing as the car pulled into the street. Mikhail tapped his finger against the armrest. Then he forced himself to stop.

  “Gennady said you had a few questions for me.”

  “Actually,” replied Zhirov in his underpowered voice, “I only have one.”

  “What is it?”

  Zhirov turned and looked at Mikhail for the first time. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Sounds like Pavel just moved the goalposts,” Navot said.

  Shamron frowned; he considered the use of sports metaphors to be inappropriate for a business as vital as espionage. He looked up at one of the video panels and saw lights moving quickly across a map of central Moscow. The light depicting Mikhail’s position flashed red. Four blue lights moved along with it, two in front, two behind.

  “Looks like we’ve got him boxed in,” said Shamron.

  “Quite nicely, actually. The question is, does Pavel have backup of his own, or is he flying solo?”

  “I’m not sure it matters much at this point.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Kick the ball,” said Shamron, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Quickly.”

  They shot past Tverskaya Street in a blur and continued on along the Boulevard Ring.

  “My hotel is that way,” said Mikhail, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  “You seem to know Moscow well,” replied Zhirov. Clearly, it was not meant as a compliment.

  “Habit of mine,” said Mikhail.

  “What’s that?”

  “Getting to know my way around foreign cities. Hate having to ask for directions. Don’t like doing the tourist thing.”

  “You like to blend in?”

  “Listen, Pavel, I don’t like the sound of where this is—”

  “Or maybe you’ve been to Moscow before,” Zhirov suggested.

  “Never.”

  “Not recently?”

  “No.”

  “Not as a child?”

  “Never means never, Pavel. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to my hotel.”

  Zhirov was looking out his window again. Or was he peering into the driver’s sideview mirror? Mikhail couldn’t be sure.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Zhirov said finally.

  “I haven’t answered it because it doesn’t deserve one,” Mikhail shot back.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Nicholas Avedon,” Mikhail said calmly. “I’m an employee of Viktor Orlov Investments in London. And thanks to this little display of yours, I’m going to remain one.”

  Zhirov was obviously unconvinced. “Who are you?” he asked again.

  “I’m Nicholas. I grew up in England. I went to Cambridge and Harvard. I worked in the oil biz in Aberdeen for a time. And then I came to Viktor.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did I grow up in England? Why did I go to Harvard?”

  “Why did you go to work for a known enemy of the Kremlin like Viktor Orlov?”

  “Because he was looking for someone to take over his oil portfolio. And at this moment, I’m sorry I betrayed him.”

  “Did you know about his politics when you went to work for him?”

  “I don’t care about his politics. In fact, I don’t care about anyone’s politics.”

  “You’re a freethinker?”

  “No, Pavel, I’m a businessman.”

  “You are a spy.”

  “A spy? Are you off your meds, Pavel?”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Take me back to my hotel.”

  “The British?”

  “My hotel, Pavel.”

  “The Americans?”

  “You were the ones who approached me, remember, Pavel? It happened in Copenhagen, at the oil forum. We met at the house in the middle of nowhere. I’m sure you were there.”

  “Who are you working for?” Zhirov asked again, a teacher to a dull pupil.

  “Stop the car. Let me out.”

  “Who?”

  “Stop the fucking car.”

  It did stop, but not because of Zhirov; they had reached Petrovka Street. It was a large intersection, with streets leading away in several different directions. The light had just turned red. Directly in front of them was a Land Rover with two men in front. Mikhail shot a glance over his shoulder and saw a second Rover behind them. Then he felt his mobile phone give three short bursts of vibration.

  “What was that?” asked Zhirov.

  “Just my mobile.”

  “Turn it off and remove the battery.”

  “You can never be too careful, right, Pavel?”

  “Turn it off,” Zhirov snapped.

  Mikhail reached into his overcoat, drew the Makarov, and screwed the barrel hard into Zhirov’s ribs. The Russian’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. He looked at Mikhail for a few seconds, then his gaze moved toward Yaakov, who was climbing out of the Land Rover in front of them. Keller had already climbed out of the second Land Rover and was approaching the Mercedes from behind.

  “Tell the driver to put the car in park,” Mikhail said quietly. “Otherwise, I’m going to put a bullet in your heart. Tell him, Pavel, or you’re going to die right now.”

  When Zhirov made no response, Mikhail thumbed back the hammer of the weapon. Keller was now standing at Zhirov’s window.

  “Tell him, Pavel.”

  The traffic light turned green. Somewhere a car horn sounded. Then another.

  “Tell him!” Mikhail barked in Russian.

  Zhirov glanced into the rearview mirror, met the driver’s gaze, and nodded once. The driver slipped the car into park and placed his hands atop the wheel.

  “Tell him to get out of the car and do exactly as he’s told.”

  Another glance into the mirror, another nod of the head. The driver responded by opening the door and climbing slowly out. Yaakov waited there to take possession of him. After murmuring a few words into the driver’s ear, he led him to the Land Rover, shoved him into the backseat, and slid in after him. By then, Keller had taken the driver’s place behind the wheel of the Mercedes. When the Land Rover moved off, he slipped the car into gear and followed after it. Mikhail still had the Makarov to Zhirov’s ribs.

  “Who are you?” Zhirov asked.

  “I’m Nicholas Avedon,” Mikhail answered.

  “Who are you?” Zhirov repeated.

  “I’m your worst nightmare,” said Mikhail. “And if you don’t shut your mouth, I’m going to kill you.”

  In the Op Center at King Saul Boulevard, the lights of the team were moving vertically up the video map of Moscow—all but one, which was motionless on Teatralny Prospekt, just down the hill from Lubyanka Square. There were no celebrations, no congratulations on a job well done. The setting wouldn’t allow it. Moscow had a way of fighting back.

  “Thirty seconds from start to finish,” Navot said, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Not bad.”

  “Thirty-three,” said Shamron. “But who’s counting?”

  “You were.”

  Shamron gav
e a faint smile; he had been counting. In fact, he had been counting his entire life. The number of family members lost to the fires of the Holocaust. The number of countrymen lost to the bullets and the bombs. The number of times he had cheated death.

  “How far is it to the safe house?”

  “One hundred and forty-seven miles from the Outer Ring.”

  “What’s the weather forecast?”

  “Horrendous,” replied Navot, “but they can handle it.”

  Shamron said nothing more. Navot stared at the lights moving across Moscow.

  “Thirty seconds,” he repeated. “Not bad.”

  “Thirty-three,” said Shamron. “And let’s hope no one else was watching.”

  Though Shamron did not know it, those were the same thoughts running through the head of the man standing in the window of his fourth-floor room at the Hotel Metropol. He was gazing down the curve of Teatralny Prospekt, toward the yellow fortress looming over Lubyanka Square. He wondered whether he would be able to detect some sort of reaction—lights coming on in the upper floors, cars careening out of the garage—but decided it was unlikely. Lubyanka had always been good at hiding her emotions, just as Russia had always been good at hiding her dead.

  He turned away from the window, switched off his computer, and stuffed it into the side pocket of his overnight bag. Then he rode the elevator down to the lobby, accompanied by a pair of prostitutes, seventeen going on forty-five. Outside a Volvo SUV idled at the curb, watched over by a miserable-looking valet. He gave the valet a large tip, climbed behind the wheel, and drove away. Twenty minutes later, having rounded the walls of the Kremlin, he joined the river of steel and light flowing north out of Moscow. In the Op Center at King Saul Boulevard, however, he was but a single red light, an angel of vengeance alone in the city of heretics.

  51

  TVER OBLAST, RUSSIA

  It was once the dacha of a powerful man—a member of the Central Committee, maybe even the Politburo. No one could say for certain, for in the chaotic days after the collapse all had been lost. State-owned factories had remained shuttered because no one could find the keys; government computers had slept because no one could remember the codes. Russia had stumbled into the brave new millennium without a map or a memory. There were some who said it had no memory still, though now its amnesia was deliberate.

  For several years, the forgotten dacha sat empty and derelict, until a newly well-to-do Moscow developer named Bloch acquired it for a song and rebuilt it from the ground up. Eventually, like many of Russia’s early rich, Bloch ran afoul of the new crowd in the Kremlin and decided to leave the country while he still could. He settled in Israel, in part because he thought he might be a little bit Jewish, but mainly because no other country would have him. Over time, he sold off his Russian assets, but not the dacha in Tver Oblast. He gave that to Ari Shamron and told him to use it in good health.

  It stood by a lake with no name and was reached by a road that appeared on no map. It was not truly a road, more like a groove that had been beaten into the birch forest long before anyone had ever heard of a place called Russia. The dacha’s original gate remained, as did the old Soviet NO TRESPASSING sign that Bloch, a child of the Stalinist era, had been too terrified to remove. It flashed briefly through Gabriel’s headlamps as he came bumping up the snowbound drive. Then the dacha appeared, heavy and timbered, with a peaked roof and broad porches all around. Parked outside were several vehicles, including an S-Class Mercedes owned by Volgatek Oil & Gas. As Gabriel climbed out of the Volvo SUV, a cigarette flared in the darkness.

  “Welcome to Shangri-La,” said Christopher Keller. He was wearing a heavy down parka and holding a Makarov pistol.

  “How’s the perimeter?” asked Gabriel.

  “Cold as hell, but clean.”

  “How long can you stay out here?”

  Keller smiled. “I’m Regiment, luv.”

  Gabriel slipped past Keller and entered the dacha. The rest of the team were scattered in various states of repose across the rustic furnishings in the great room. Mikhail was still dressed for dinner at Café Pushkin. He was soaking his right hand in a bowl of ice water.

  “What happened?” Gabriel asked.

  “I bumped it.”

  “Against what?”

  “Another man’s face.”

  Gabriel asked to see the hand. It was badly swollen, and three of the knuckles had no skin.

  “How many times did you bump it?” asked Gabriel.

  “Once or twice. Or maybe it was more like ten or twelve.”

  “How’s the face?”

  “See for yourself.”

  “Where is he?”

  Mikhail pointed toward the floor.

  Among the dacha’s many luxury features was a nuclear fallout shelter. It had once contained a year’s worth of food, water, and supplies. Now it contained two men. Both were heavily trussed in duct tape: hands, feet, knees, mouths, eyes. Even so, it was obvious that the face of the elder man had suffered significant damage as a result of repeated collisions against Mikhail’s dangerous right hand. He was propped against one wall, with his legs stretched before him across the floor. Upon hearing the opening of the door, his head began to swivel from side to side, a radar dish in search of an invading aircraft. Gabriel crouched before him and tore away the duct tape covering the eyes, taking part of one brow with it, which left him with an expression of permanent surprise. There was a deep gash on one cheek and dried blood around the nostrils of his now-crooked nose. Gabriel smiled and removed the duct tape from the mouth.

  “Hello, Pavel,” he said. “Or should I call you Paul?”

  Zhirov said nothing. Gabriel scrutinized the broken nose.

  “That must hurt,” he said. “But these things happen in a place like Russia.”

  “I look forward to returning the favor, Allon.”

  “So you do recognize me.”

  “Of course,” Zhirov said a little too confidently. “We’ve been watching you since the moment you set foot in Russia.”

  “Who’s we?” asked Gabriel. “Volgatek? The SVR? The FSB? Or shall we just put aside the niceties and call you the KGB, which is exactly what you are.”

  “You’re dead, Allon—you and all your people. You’ll never leave Russia alive.”

  Gabriel’s smile was still firmly in place. “I’ve always found it best not to make hollow threats, Pavel.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Then perhaps you should drop the pretense that you knew I was in Moscow, or that you knew Nicholas Avedon was my creation. You would have never made a move against him tonight without FSB backup if you’d known he was my agent.”

  “Who says I didn’t have backup?”

  “I do.”

  “You’re wrong, Allon. But then you have a long history of being wrong. The FSB is just waiting to make sure they’ve identified all the members of your team. You’ve got a few hours at most. Then you’ll be the one sitting in a cell with a broken nose.”

  “Then I suppose we should get started.”

  “On what?”

  “Your confession,” said Gabriel. “You’re going to tell the world how you kidnapped an English girl named Madeline Hart so Volgatek Oil and Gas could gain access to the North Sea.”

  Zhirov feigned surprise. “The English girl? Is that what this is about?”

  Gabriel shook his head slowly, as if disappointed by Zhirov’s response. “Come on, Pavel,” he said. “Surely you can do better than that. You plucked her from the coast road near Calvi a few hours after having lunch with her at Les Palmiers. A Marseilles lowlife named Marcel Lacroix took you to the mainland, where you handed her over to another Marseilles lowlife named René Brossard for safekeeping. Then, after collecting ten million euros in ransom from the British prime minister, you left her in the back of a car on the beach at Audresselles and lit a match.”

  “Not bad, Allon.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t all that difficult. You left p
lenty of clues to follow. But that was your intention. You wanted Madeline’s kidnapping and murder to appear to be the work of French criminals. But you made one mistake, Pavel. You should have listened when I warned you not to harm her. I told you exactly what would happen if you did. I told you that I would find you. I also told you that I would kill you.”

  “So why haven’t you? Why put your people at risk by kidnapping me and bringing me here?”

  “We didn’t kidnap you, Pavel. We captured you. And we brought you here because, in spite of your current circumstances, this is your lucky day. I’m going to give you something that doesn’t come along often in our business. I’m going to give you a second chance.”

  “What do I have to do for this second chance?”

  “Answer a few questions, tie up a few loose ends.”

  “That’s all?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “And then?”

  “You’ll be free to go.”

  “Go where?” asked Zhirov seriously.

  “Back to Volgatek. Back to the SVR. Back to the rock you crawled out from under.”

  Zhirov managed a condescending smile. “And what do you think will happen to me when I return to Yasenevo after answering your questions and tying up your loose ends?”

  “I suppose you’ll be given vysshaya mera,” Gabriel said. “The highest measure of punishment.”

  Zhirov gave a nod of admiration. “You know a great deal about my service,” he said.

  “Not by choice,” replied Gabriel. “And to be perfectly honest with you, Pavel, I couldn’t care less what your service does to you.”