by Daniel Silva
“The Haydn Group had already taken control of Nina’s computer when you sent that,” Felix explained. “I wish to thank you for finally giving us the opportunity to give the traitor Viktor Orlov the miserable death he deserved.”
“What would have happened if Nina had opened that contaminated package on the plane to London?”
“She would have died, along with several people seated around her. But she didn’t open it. She took the package straight to Viktor’s house in Cheyne Walk and placed it on his desk. It was one of the most perfect assassinations in our long and glorious history. The traitor Orlov was finally eliminated, and the meddlesome Nina Antonova was thoroughly discredited.”
“I hope you someday receive the recognition you so richly deserve.”
“I was only the delivery boy,” replied Felix, failing to notice the irony in Isabel’s remark. “Arkady was the one who planned it. He specialized in false-flag operations and active measures when he worked for the KGB.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up.” She tossed the phone into the Jacuzzi. “But one wonders why you’ve chosen this moment to confess your involvement in Viktor Orlov’s murder.”
Upstairs, the music died.
“Party’s over,” said Felix. “Time to take a ride.”
It occurred to Isabel that, with the deafening music switched off, someone might hear her call for help. But the first breath of air had scarcely escaped her lungs when Felix clamped a hand over her mouth. Her attempt at physical rebellion likewise failed. All it took was a bit of pressure to the base of her neck, and her body went limp.
He dragged her from the pool pavilion, past the entrance of a faux English pub. Like the drinking establishments of London, it was empty. Next door was the indoor tennis court, which for some reason was ablaze with light, as was the indoor skating rink and the marquee outside the movie theater. The featured attraction was From Russia with Love.
Beyond the movie theater was an arcade filled with pinball machines and vintage video games, and adjacent to the arcade was a strip club with a stage and a pole. It was a new low, thought Isabel. Not even Anil Kandar, her ethically challenged former colleague from RhineBank-London, had a home strip club.
Finally, they came to the chalet’s enormous six-car garage. Isabel, her dress soaked from the Jacuzzi, shivered in the sudden cold. Only two of the bays were occupied, one with a Mercedes AMG GT coupe, the other with a Range Rover. The door of the last bay was open. Outside in the drive was a Lynx snowmobile with a cargo sled attached.
An arctic suit lay on the spotless concrete floor along with a pair of night-vision goggles, a quilted moving blanket, a roll of heavy-duty packing tape, a tarpaulin, and a length of nylon rope. Isabel folded her arms across her chest as Felix wrapped her inside the quilt and bound it with the packing tape. A moment passed, presumably while he changed into his arctic suit. Then he hoisted Isabel over his shoulder and flung her like war dead onto the cargo sled of the Lynx.
She was lying on her back, with her head at the front of the sled. It sagged a few degrees as Felix climbed aboard the saddle and started the engine. As they drew away from the chalet, Isabel screamed for help until her throat gave out. She doubted even Felix was able to hear her. The high-pitched drone of the engine was like a buzz saw.
Her left hand was lying on the upper portion of her right arm. She closed her eyes and tried to play the opening of the Elgar concerto, but it was no use. For once, she could not hear the music in her head. Instead, she reflected upon the set of circumstances, the chain of misadventure and providence, that had placed her in her current predicament. It was the phone call, she thought—the call the Russian president had taken before their meeting. That was when it happened. That was when everything went wrong.
Five minutes after the music stopped, a line of chauffeur-driven luxury motorcars materialized at Arkady Akimov’s door. They set off at regular intervals, one by one, and joined a second queue of vehicles at the southern end of the rue de Nogentil. There, by order of the Élysée Palace, the departing guests were subjected to a second search. In none of the cars did the French police find what they were looking for—a German woman, thirty-four years of age, wearing a black Max Mara cocktail dress and carrying a clutch purse by Bottega Veneta.
Gabriel monitored the proceedings from the balcony of the safe house, a phone to his ear. It was connected to Paul Rousseau in Paris. Rousseau was in turn connected to the control tower at Chambéry Airport, which had just experienced an unexplained and catastrophic loss of power. Or so the control tower had informed the flight crew of the Russian president’s Ilyushin Il-96 aircraft.
“Is there any chance they could have smuggled her out of the chalet before the president’s departure?” asked Rousseau.
“Not by the front door, and not by car. She’s either on one of those helicopters or still inside the house.”
“The chief of the SDLP detail says the only additions to the president’s traveling party were Monsieur Akimov and his wife.”
“That leaves the house.”
“Don’t even think about it,” cautioned Rousseau.
“I was hoping your side might handle it.”
“On what grounds?”
“Something innocuous. A complaint from the neighbors, for example.”
“In Courchevel on New Year’s Eve?”
“There’s a first for everything.”
“As evidenced by this phone call. Be that as it may,” Rousseau continued, “the palace is rather keen to avoid world war three. Once we confirm your agent isn’t aboard any of the helicopters, the power at Chambéry Airport will be miraculously restored.”
Gabriel was about to offer up a protest when he heard the sound, like the grinding of a buzz saw, rising over Les Trois Vallées.
“Can you hear that, Paul?”
“I hear it,” answered Rousseau.
“What does that sound like to you?”
“It sounds like they just took her out the back door.”
From their observation post on the rue du Jardin Alpin, Mikhail Abramov and Christopher Keller heard the same sound. Like Gabriel, Mikhail did not immediately recognize the source, but Christopher knew at once that it was the engine of a snowmobile. Gazing across the ski area, he glimpsed no movement of light. Clearly, the operator of the snowmobile had doused the headlamp to avoid detection, which suggested the machine was being used to transport a German woman, thirty-four years of age, wearing a black Max Mara cocktail dress and carrying a clutch purse by Bottega Veneta.
Christopher climbed atop the Audi’s roof to have a better look and remained there, his eyes searching the darkened landscape, as the sound of the engine faded. It was definitely moving on a southwesterly heading, toward the mountain peak known as Dent de Burgin. In the valley beyond it lay the village of Morel and the Méribel ski resort. They were connected to Albertville by the D90, a perfect escape route. Unless, of course, they intended to drop her into a crevasse at the top of the ridge and call it a night.
He eased from the roof of the Audi to find Mikhail gazing calmly at his secure Solaris phone. “Message from headquarters,” he explained without looking up.
“What does it say?”
“Headquarters is of the opinion that our girl might very well be aboard that snowmobile. Furthermore, headquarters would like us to remove our girl from the aforementioned snowmobile before any harm comes to her.”
“And how are we supposed to do that without a snowmobile of our own?”
“Headquarters suggests we improvise. His word, not mine.” Mikhail smiled. “Good thing you packed your snowshoes.”
“I’ll show you how to put them on.”
“It’s not really my sort of thing. Besides,” Mikhail added, patting the steering wheel, “I’m driving.”
Christopher frowned. “Tell headquarters to put a police checkpoint on the D90 north of Morel.”
Mikhail popped the release for the rear cargo door. “Will do.”
&n
bsp; Christopher quickly pulled on the snowshoes and clipped a light to the front of his Gore-Tex jacket. Five minutes later, while traversing an ungroomed ski slope about two hundred meters west of Le Chalet de Pierres, he found a set of fresh tracks in the snow. Just as he suspected, they were headed to the southwest. He switched off his light, lowered his head into a knifelike wind, and kept walking.
56
Chambéry Airport, France
Arkady Akimov had been relegated to the second helicopter. His seat, the only one available, was at the back of the drafty cabin, next to the crates of secure communications equipment. Oksana was balanced childlike atop his knee, pouting. The thunderous beating of the rotors made conversation all but impossible, which was a blessing. In the car she had pummeled him with questions. Why were they returning to Moscow with Volodya? Were they in trouble? What would happen to the money? Who would look after her? Did it have something to do with Isabel? That was when she had pummeled him with her fists instead of more questions. And he had acquiesced, at least for a moment, for he had earned it. He was confident it would not be the first indignity he would suffer. More would follow once they arrived in Russia. Isabel had stripped away his veneer of wealth and power. She had destroyed him. He was no one, he thought. A nothing man.
The other eight passengers crammed into the second Airbus were all officers of Volodya’s security detail. As they were approaching Chambéry, the mood in the cabin grew anxious. Arkady could not make out what they were saying, but it appeared as though there was a problem at the airport. He shifted Oksana to his opposite knee and peered out the rear starboard-side window. The lights of Chambéry sparkled like gemstones, but there was a large black spot where the airport should have been.
Only the gleaming white Ilyushin Il-96, its landing and logo lights burning brightly, was visible in the gloom. The helicopter touched down about a hundred meters behind the tail. Oksana angrily rejected Arkady’s attempt to hold her hand as they crossed the darkened tarmac. The bodyguards walking behind them exchanged a few contemptuous remarks at his expense.
A nothing man . . .
Volodya, having left his helicopter, was trudging up the forward airstair, trailed by Yevgeny Nazarov and his other close aides. A second airstair stretched from the Ilyushin’s rear door. Arkady looked to one of the bodyguards for direction and was informed, with an insolent nod, that he would make the return trip to Moscow in the back of the plane, with the rest of the hired help.
Inside the cabin, he and Oksana parted company, perhaps for the last time. Oksana collapsed into a seat on the port side of the aircraft, next to one of Volodya’s bodyguards—the best-looking one, of course. Arkady sat across the aisle and stared into the night. His thoughts were filled with images of his own death. Given the available menu of options, a fall from an elevated window would indeed be preferable. Death by nerve agent, the death he had inflicted on the traitor Viktor Orlov, would be quick and relatively painless. Death by polonium, however, would be prolonged and excruciating, a Shostakovich symphony of suffering.
And then, he thought, there was the sort of death the KGB had meted out to those who betrayed it. A savage beating, a merciful bullet to the back of the head, a grave with no marker. Vysshaya mera . . . The highest measure of punishment. For the crime of giving eleven and a half billion dollars of his money to the likes of Gabriel Allon, Arkady feared he would leave this world in the worst way imaginable. He only hoped Volodya looked after Oksana when he was gone. Perhaps he would keep her for himself. When it came to women, his appetite was insatiable.
Suddenly, Arkady realized that Oksana was calling to him from across the aisle. He turned sharply, hopeful of clemency, but she pointed with irritation toward the left side of his suit jacket. He hadn’t noticed his phone was ringing.
The call was from a number he didn’t recognize. He declined it and tossed the phone on to the next seat. Instantly, it began to ring again. Same number. This time Arkady tapped the accept icon and raised the phone hesitantly to his ear.
“Am I catching you at a bad time, Arkady?” asked a voice in Berlin-accented German.
“Who is this?”
“Who do you think?”
“Your German is quite good, Allon. How can I help you?”
“You can call the driver of that snowmobile before he gets out of cellular range and tell him to turn around.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because if he doesn’t, I’m going to kill him. And then I’m going to kill you, Arkady.”
“I’m comfortably seated on Russian soil. Which means I’m quite beyond your reach.”
“That plane isn’t going anywhere unless you give me Isabel.”
“And if I do? What do I get in return?”
“You don’t have to go back to Moscow to face the music. Trust me, it won’t end well.”
Arkady squeezed the phone tightly. “I’m afraid I need something more tangible. An office building on Brickell Avenue in Miami, for example.”
“The money is gone, Arkady. It’s never coming back.”
“But I have to offer him something.”
“In that case, I suggest you improvise. And quickly.”
The connection died.
Outside on the tarmac, the flight crew and several members of Volodya’s security detail were engaged in a heated argument with two airport officials. Arkady closed his eyes and saw something else, a bloody and battered man on his knees in a small room with walls of concrete and a drain in the center of the floor.
The highest measure of punishment . . .
He opened his eyes with a start and contemplated the number stored in his phone’s directory of recent calls. Perhaps it was not inevitable, he thought. Perhaps Gabriel Allon, of all people, had just offered him a way out.
Oksana was now flirting shamelessly with her seatmate. Rising, Arkady headed up the center aisle to the partition separating the luxurious forward compartment from the rest of the cabin. The door was locked. He knocked politely and, receiving no answer, knocked again. At length, the door swung open, revealing the elegant form of Tatiana Nazarova, retired Olympic sprinter and current wife of Yevgeny Nazarov. She sneered at Arkady as though he were late delivering her main course.
“Volodya does not wish to see you at this time. Please return to your seat.”
She tried to close the door, but Arkady blocked it with his foot and pushed past her. The lights were dimmed, the mood tense. One aide was trying to awaken the Élysée Palace. Another was shouting in Russian at someone in Moscow—presumably the Russian foreign minister. A lot of good that would do. It was New Year’s Eve, and the foreign minister was one of the world’s great drunks.
Only Volodya appeared untroubled. He was slouched in a swivel chair, hands dangling from the armrests, an expression of terminal boredom on his face. Arkady stood before him, eyes averted, and awaited permission to speak.
It was Volodya who spoke first. “Is it safe to assume that this so-called power outage is not a coincidence?”
“It was Allon’s doing,” answered Arkady.
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“A moment ago.”
“Did he switch off the power supply on his own, or are the French involved, too?”
“He didn’t say.”
“What did he say?”
“He wants the woman.”
“The one you allowed to steal my money?”
“I didn’t know she was working for Allon.”
“You should have.”
With his penitential silence, Arkady conceded the point.
“Is there a deal to be made?”
“He says not. But I had the impression he might be prepared to be reasonable. Let me speak to him again. Face-to-face, this time.”
Volodya adopted a dead-eyed stare. “Thinking about crossing over to the other side? Selling our secrets to Allon and his friends at MI6 in exchange for a nice little cottage in the English countryside?”
“Of
course not,” lied Arkady.
“Good. Because you’re not going anywhere.” Outside, the tarmac was suddenly ablaze with light. Volodya smiled. “Perhaps you should return to your seat now.”
Arkady started toward the door of the compartment.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Arkady Sergeyevich?”
He stopped and turned around.
Volodya held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
57
Massif de la Vanoise, France
The Russian president’s Ilyushin aircraft departed Chambéry Airport at 1:47 a.m., some thirty-two minutes later than scheduled. Gabriel asked Paul Rousseau whether anyone on board the plane had unexpectedly disembarked before takeoff. Rousseau put the question to Chambery’s tower staff, and the tower staff double-checked with the ground crew. The answer bounced back a few seconds later. There were no members of the Russian president’s traveling party on the tarmac, or anywhere else for that matter.
“Where are the helicopters?” asked Gabriel.
“Still at the airport.”
“I need one.”
“You’re not going to find her in the middle of the night. We’ll mount a search-and-rescue operation first thing in the morning.”
“She’ll be dead in the morning, Paul.”
Rousseau put the request to the senior Service de la Protection officer, and the SDLP man raised it with the helicopter pilots. All three volunteered.
“One is all I need,” said Gabriel.
“He’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
Mikhail Abramov ran Gabriel up the winding road to Courchevel’s tiny airport. The Airbus Super Puma touched down at 2:14 a.m. Gabriel hurried across the tarmac and climbed aboard.
“Where should we start?” shouted the pilot.
Gabriel pointed to the southwest, toward the peaks of the Massif de la Vanoise.
When the snowmobile’s engine finally died, Isabel’s ears sang in the sudden silence—a persistent note, sweet and pure, like the sound Anna Rolfe produced when she laid her bow upon the strings of her Guarneri violin.