“Then we’ll pop over to Moscow, too. And we’ll kill him there.”
No, said Gabriel, shaking his head slowly, they would not be going back to Moscow. Moscow was their forbidden city. They had been lucky to survive their last visit. They would not be going back for a return engagement.
At one that afternoon the negotiators broke for lunch. The morning session had been particularly unproductive because both sides were still in a panic over Gabriel’s missing radioactive material. Reza Nazari slipped away from his delegation long enough to telephone Yaakov Rossman at the InterContinental. Yaakov then rang Keller at the safe flat and repeated the message.
“Radio silence from Moscow. No word from Alexei.”
By then, it was approaching two o’clock. The skies were low and leaden; a few flakes of snow were blowing sideways beyond the windows of the safe flat. Except for Nazari’s interrogation, Gabriel had been a prisoner of its rooms, hidden from view, shielded from the memories lurking just outside his door. It was Keller who suggested a walk. He helped Gabriel into his coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and pulled a hat low over his brow. Then he gave him a gun, a .45-caliber Glock, a man stopper, a weapon of mass destruction.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Shoot any Russian who asks you for directions.”
“What if I run into an Iranian?”
“Go,” said Keller.
By the time Gabriel stepped from the building, the snow was dropping from the sky straight and steady, and the pavements looked like sugar-dusted Viennese cakes. He walked blindly for a few moments, not bothering to check whether he was being followed. Vienna had long ago made a mockery of his tradecraft. He loved its beauty, he hated its history. He was envious of it. He pitied it.
The safe flat was located in Vienna’s Second District. Before the war it had been so heavily Jewish that the Viennese derisively referred to it as the Mazzesinsel, or the Matzo Island. Gabriel crossed the Ringstrasse, leaving the Second District for the First, and paused outside Café Central, where he had once encountered a man named Erich Radek, a former SS officer who had been ordered by Adolf Eichmann to conceal evidence of the Holocaust. Then he walked the short distance to Radek’s stately old mansion, from which a team of Office agents had plucked the war criminal and started him on the first leg of a journey that would end in an Israeli jail cell. Gabriel stood alone at the gate as the snow whitened his shoulders. The exterior of the house was worn and cracked, and the curtains hanging in the unwashed windows appeared threadbare. It seemed no one wanted to reside in the home of the murderer. Perhaps, thought Gabriel, there was hope for them after all.
From Radek’s fading mansion, he made his way through the Jewish Quarter to the Stadttempel. Two years earlier, in the narrow street outside the synagogue’s entrance, he and Mikhail Abramov had killed a team of Hezbollah terrorists who were planning to carry out a Sabbath-night massacre. The rest of the world had been led to believe that two members of EKO Cobra, Austria’s elite tactical police unit, had killed the terrorists. There was even a plaque outside the synagogue commemorating their bravery. Reading it, Gabriel smiled in spite of himself. It was as it should be, he thought. In both intelligence work and restoration, his goal was the same. He wished to come and go without being seen, to leave no trace of himself. For better or worse, it had not always worked out that way. And now he was dead.
After leaving the synagogue, Gabriel walked to a nearby building that had once housed a small investigative organization called Wartime Claims and Inquiries. The man who had run it, one Eli Lavon, had fled Vienna several years earlier, after a bomb destroyed the office and killed his two young female assistants. As Gabriel set off again, he noticed that Lavon was following him. He paused in the street and with a nearly imperceptible movement of his head instructed Lavon to join him. The watcher appeared sheepish. He didn’t like being spotted by his target, even if the target had known him since he was a boy.
“What are you doing?” Gabriel asked Lavon in German.
“I heard a silly rumor,” replied Lavon in the same language, “that the future chief of the Office was walking around Vienna without a bodyguard.”
“Where did you hear something like that?”
“Keller told me. I’ve been following you since you left the safe flat.”
“Yes, I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Lavon smiled. “You really should be more careful, you know. You have a lot to live for.”
They walked along the quiet street, the snow muffling the sound of their footfalls, until they came to a small square. Gabriel’s heart tolled like an iron bell in his chest, and his legs seemed suddenly like deadweight. He tried to walk on, but the memories pulled him to a stop. He recalled struggling with the straps of his son’s car seat, and the faint taste of wine on his wife’s lips. And he could hear an engine hesitate because a bomb was pulling power from the battery. Too late, he had tried to warn her not to turn the key a second time. Then, in a flash of brilliant white, his world had been destroyed. Now, finally, his restoration was nearly complete. He thought of Chiara, and for an instant he hoped that Alexei Rozanov would not rise to the bait. Lavon seemed to know what Gabriel was thinking. He usually did.
“My offer still stands,” he said quietly.
“What offer is that?”
“Leave Alexei to us,” answered Lavon. “It’s time for you to go home now.”
Gabriel moved slowly forward and stopped on the very spot where the car had burned down to a blackened skeletal ruin. Despite the bomb’s compact size, it had produced an unusually intense explosion and fire.
“Have you had a chance to look at Quinn’s file?” he asked.
“Interesting reading,” replied Lavon.
“Quinn was at Ras al Helal in the mid-eighties. You remember Ras al Helal, don’t you, Eli? It was that camp in eastern Libya, the one near the sea. The Palestinians trained there, too.” Gabriel peered over his shoulder. “Tariq was there.”
Lavon said nothing. Gabriel stared at the snow-covered cobbles. “He arrived in eighty-five. Or was it eighty-six? He’d been having trouble with his bombs. Detonation failures, problems with his fuses and his timers. But when he emerged from Libya again . . .”
Gabriel’s voice trailed off.
“It was a bloodbath,” said Lavon.
Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Do you suppose they knew each other?” he asked finally.
“Quinn and Tariq?”
“Yes, Eli.”
“I can’t imagine they didn’t.”
“Maybe it was Quinn who helped Tariq solve the problems he was having.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Maybe it was Quinn who designed the bomb that destroyed my family.”
“You settled that account a long time ago.”
Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Lavon, but Lavon was no longer listening. He was staring at the screen of his BlackBerry.
“What does it say?” asked Gabriel.
“It seems Alexei Rozanov would like to have a word with Nazari after all.”
“When?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Where?”
Lavon held up the BlackBerry. Gabriel peered at the screen and then tilted his face to the falling snow. Isn’t it beautiful? he thought. The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. The snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain down on Tel Aviv.
49
ROTTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS
IT WAS A FEW MINUTES after eleven in the morning when Katerina Akulova stepped from Rotterdam’s central train station. She entered a waiting taxi and in rather good Dutch instructed the driver to take her to the Hotel Nordzee. The street upon which it stood was more residential than commercial, and the hotel had the air of a run-down sea cottage that had been put to more prosperous use. Katerina went to the reception desk. The clerk, a young Dutch woman, seemed surprised to see her.
“Gertrude Berger,” said Katerina. “My friend checked in yesterday. Mr. M
cGinnis.”
The woman frowned at her computer terminal. “Actually,” she said, “your room is unoccupied.”
“Are you sure?”
The woman gave the serene smile she reserved for the most inane questions. “But a gentleman did leave something for you earlier this morning.” She handed over a letter-size envelope with the Hotel Nordzee insignia in the upper left corner.
“Do you know what time he left it?”
“About nine, if I remember correctly.”
“Do you recall what he looked like?”
The Dutch woman proceeded to describe a man approximately five feet ten inches in height, with dark hair and eyes.
“Was he Irish?”
“I couldn’t say. His accent was rather hard to place.”
Katerina placed a credit card on the desk. “I’ll only need the room for a few hours.”
The woman swiped the credit card and then handed over a key. “Do you need any help with your bag?”
“I can manage, thank you.”
Katerina climbed the stairs to the second floor. Her room was at the end of a hallway lined with floral wallpaper and prints of bucolic canal scenes and Dutch landscapes. There were no security cameras visible, so she ran her hand around the door frame before inserting the key into the lock. She left her bag at the foot of the bed and searched the interior of the room for hidden cameras or listening devices. The air smelled of lime and stale cigarettes. It was a singularly male aroma.
She opened the bathroom window to dispel the odor, returned to the bedroom, and picked up the envelope she had been given by the girl at reception. She checked the seal to make certain it hadn’t been tampered with and then tore away the flap. Inside was a single sheet of paper, neatly folded in thirds. On it, in block lettering, was a brief explanation for Quinn’s absence. “You bastard,” whispered Katerina. Then she burned the note in the bathroom sink.
Alexei Rozanov had ordered Katerina to proceed to the target country with no communication between herself and Moscow Center. The note, however, changed everything. It stated that Quinn would not be traveling with her as planned. Instead, he would meet her at the next stop on their itinerary, a small seaside hotel on England’s Norfolk Coast. Under the SVR’s strict operational rules, Katerina could not continue without the approval of her controller. And the only way to obtain that approval was to risk a contact.
She fished her phone from her handbag and composed a brief e-mail to an address with a German-based domain. The address was an SVR front that automatically encrypted the e-mail and forwarded it through a circuitous route of nodes and servers to Moscow Center. Alexei’s reply arrived ten minutes later. It was blandly worded but clear in its intentions. She was to play it Quinn’s way, at least for now.
By then, it was a few minutes after noon. Katerina reclined on the bed and dozed intermittently until half past three, when she checked out of the hotel and took a taxi to the P&O Ferries terminal. The Pride of Rotterdam, a 705-foot ferry capable of carrying 250 cars and more than a thousand passengers, was in the process of boarding. The SVR had reserved first-class accommodations for Katerina under the name Gertrude Berger. She left her suitcase in her assigned cabin, locked the door, and went upstairs to one of the bars. It was already packed with passengers, many of whom were in search of a little warm company to ease the loneliness of the ten-hour overnight passage. Katerina ordered a glass of wine and took a table on the vessel’s port side.
It did not take long for the men in the bar to notice the attractive young woman sitting alone with no company other than her phone. Eventually, one came over, two drinks in hand, and asked in English whether he could join her. Katerina could tell by his accent he was German. He was in his mid-forties, thinning hair, well dressed. It was possible he was employed by one of the European security services. Nevertheless, she reckoned it was better to fence with him over a drink than to give him the cold shoulder. She accepted the glass of wine and with a glance invited him to sit.
As it turned out, he worked as an account manager for a firm in Bremen that manufactured high-quality machine tools—not exciting work, he said, but stable. It seemed his firm did a great deal of business in the north of England, which explained his presence on the Rotterdam-to-Hull ferry. He preferred the ferry to airplanes because it gave him much-needed time away from his marriage, which, not surprisingly, was in a less than optimal state. For two hours Katerina flirted with him in her impeccable German, occasionally delving into such arcane matters as deflation in the euro zone or the debt crisis in Greece. The businessman was obviously smitten. His only disappointment came at the end of the evening when she declined his offer to return to his cabin.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” he said, rising slowly in defeat. “It seems you have a secret admirer.”
“Who?”
He nodded toward the opposite side of the bar, where a man sat alone at a table. “He’s been staring at you since the minute I sat down.”
“Really?”
“Know him?”
“No,” she said. “I’ve never seen him before.”
The German man moved off in search of a more promising target. Katerina rose and went outside to the empty observation deck to smoke a cigarette. Quinn joined her a moment later.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked.
“A salesman with hopes of glory.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure.” She turned to look at him. He wore a businessman’s gray suit, a tan raincoat, and black-rimmed spectacles that seemed to alter the shape of his face. The transformation was remarkable. Even Katerina scarcely recognized him. It was no wonder he had managed to survive all these years.
“Why weren’t you at the hotel?” she asked.
“You’re a smart girl. You tell me.”
She turned to face the sea again. “You weren’t there,” she said after a moment of thought, “because you were afraid Alexei was going to kill you.”
“And why would I be afraid of that?”
“Because he’s refusing to pay you the money he owes you. And you’re convinced the second phase of the operation is actually a plot to get rid of you so there will be no links between you and the SVR.”
“Is it?”
“Get a grip, Quinn.”
His gaze was moving over her, back and forth, up and down. “Are you armed?” he asked finally.
“No.”
“Mind if I check for myself?”
Before she could answer, he had pulled her close in a seemingly romantic embrace and was running a hand over her body. It took him only a second or two to find the Makarov pistol concealed beneath her sweater. He slipped it into his coat pocket. Then he opened her handbag and plucked out the mobile phone. He powered it on and searched through the e-mail in-box.
“You’re wasting your time,” she said.
“When was your last contact with Alexei?”
“Midday.”
“What were his instructions?”
“Proceed as planned.”
“Who was the man who bought you a drink in the bar?”
“I told you—”
“Was he SVR?”
“You’re paranoid.”
“True,” said Quinn. “Which is why I’m still alive.”
He powered down the phone and, smiling, held it out to her. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent it hurtling toward the sea.
“You bastard,” said Katerina.
“Luck of the Irish,” said Quinn.
Quinn’s cabin was on the same level as Katerina’s, a few doors closer to the prow. He forced her inside and immediately dumped out the contents of her handbag on the bed. There was nothing outwardly electronic, only a wallet containing her German passport and credit cards and a bit of makeup. There was also a suppressor for the Makarov. Quinn slipped it into his pocket and instructed Katerina to remove her clothing.
“In your dreams,” she said.
“It’s not as
if I haven’t seen you—”
“The only reason I ever slept with you is because Alexei ordered me to.”
“He ordered me to do the same thing. Now take off your clothes.” When she remained motionless, Quinn screwed the suppressor into the end of the Makarov’s barrel and pointed it at her face. “Let’s start with the coat, shall we?”
She hesitated before removing her coat and handing it to Quinn. He searched the pockets and the lining but found nothing other than her cigarettes and her lighter. The lighter was large enough to contain a tracking beacon. He pocketed it for later disposal.
“Now the sweater and the jeans.”
Again Katerina hesitated. Then she pulled the sweater over her head and wriggled out of the jeans. Quinn searched both articles of clothing, then, with a nod, instructed her to keep going.
“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Quinn.”
“Very,” he agreed.
“What are you trying to accomplish?”
“It’s quite simple, really. I want my money. And you’re going to make certain I get it.”
Quinn traced a finger along the curve of her breast while staring directly into her eyes. Her nipple firmed instantly to his touch. Her face, however, remained defiant.
“What did you expect would happen if you agreed to work for the SVR?”
“I expected Alexei to live up to his word.”
“How naive of you.”
“We had a deal. Promises were made.”
“When dealing with Russians,” she said, “promises mean nothing.”
“I realize that now,” said Quinn with a glance toward the Makarov.
“And if you get your money? Where will you go?”
“I’ll find a place. I always do.”
“Not even the Iranians would have you now.”
“Then I’ll go back to Lebanon. Or Syria.” He paused, then added, “Or maybe I’ll go home.”
“To Ireland?” she asked. “Your war is over, Quinn. The SVR is all you have left.”
“Yes,” he said, slipping the strap of Katerina’s bra from her shoulder. “And the SVR ordered you to kill me.”