by Daniel Silva
“I have a telephone number to call in case of an emergency. The British say they can collect me in a matter of minutes.”
“As you might expect, I’m not terribly impressed with British security these days.”
“Is it your intention to move me from Oxford without telling them?”
“By force, if necessary. Where’s that new British passport of yours?”
“Top drawer of my bedside table.”
“You’re going to need it, along with a change of clothing and anything else you don’t want to leave behind.”
“I need my computer and my papers. And Cassandra. I’m not going without Cassandra.”
“Who’s Cassandra?”
“My cat.”
“We’ll leave it plenty of food and water. I’ll send someone to collect it tomorrow.”
“Cassandra is a girl, Gabriel, not an it.”
“Unless she’s a seeing-eye cat, she’s not allowed on the Eurostar.”
“The Eurostar?”
“We’re going to Paris. And we have to hurry if we’re going to make the last train.”
“What time does it leave?”
Seven thirty-nine, he thought. On the dot.
19
OXFORD
THE OXFORD City 5 bus runs from the train station, through the shopping district of Templars Square, and over Magdalen Bridge to the distant council estate of Blackbird Leys. Gabriel and Olga boarded outside All Souls College and disembarked at the first stop in Cowley Road. Five other passengers left with them. Four went their separate ways. The fifth, a middle-aged man, walked behind them for a short time before entering the church at the corner of Jeune Street. From inside came the sound of voices raised in prayer.
“They have evening services every Wednesday.”
“Wait inside while I get your things.”
“I want to say good-bye to Cassandra and make sure she’s all right.”
“You don’t trust me to feed her?”
“I can tell you don’t like animals.”
“Actually, it’s the other way around. And I have the scars to prove it.”
They turned into Rectory Road and made their way directly to Olga’s door. Her bicycle was still leaning against the rubbish bin behind the tiny brick wall. Hanging from the door latch was a lime-green flyer advertising a new Indian takeaway. Olga removed it before inserting her key into the lock, but the key refused to turn. Then, somewhere along the darkened street, a car engine turned over. And Gabriel felt the back of his neck turn to fire.
To a normal person, the two consecutive events would probably have meant very little. But to a man like Gabriel Allon, they were the equivalent of a flashing neon sign warning of danger. Twisting his head quickly to the right, he saw the car approaching at high speed from the direction of St. Clement’s Street, headlamps doused. The driver had wide shoulders and was holding the wheel calmly with both hands. Directly behind him, protruding from the open rear window, Gabriel noticed a shape that was instantly familiar: a semiautomatic pistol fitted with a suppressor.
They were trapped, just as Grigori had been trapped before them. But this was not to be an abduction. This was a killing operation. To survive the next ten seconds would require Gabriel to play defense, something that violated decades of experience and training. Unfortunately, he had no other choice. He had come to Oxford unarmed.
He took a step back and gave the door a thunderous kick. Solid as a bulkhead, it refused to budge. Glancing to his left, he saw the tiny front garden of white gravel. As the first shots slammed into the front of the house, he seized Olga by the arm and forced her to the ground behind the stubby brick wall.
The gunfire lasted no more than five seconds—a single magazine’s worth, thought Gabriel—and the driver didn’t stop for the gunman to reload or switch weapons. Gabriel raised his head as the car rounded the slight bend in the road. He was able to confirm the make and model.
Vauxhall Insignia.
Saloon model.
Dark blue.
I believe they call it Metro Blue . . .
“You’re crushing me.”
“Are you all right?”
“I think so. But remind me never to let you walk me home again.”
Gabriel stayed on the ground a moment longer, then got to his feet and gave the door another kick, this one fueled by adrenaline and anger. The dead bolt gave way, and the door flew inward as if it had been hit by a blast wave. Stepping cautiously into the entrance hall, he noticed a pair of feline eyes regarding him calmly from the base of the stairs. Olga scooped up the cat and held it tightly to her breast.
“I’m not leaving here without her.”
“Just hurry, Miss Chesnikova. I’d like to be on our way before the people with the gun come back to finish the job.”
PART TWO
Anatoly
20
THE MARAIS, PARIS
THE QUARTER of Paris known as the Marais lies on the right bank of the Seine and spreads across portions of the 3rd and 4th arrondissements. Once a marshland, it had been a fashionable address during the monarchy, a working-class slum after the Revolution, and, in the twentieth century, the city’s most vibrant Jewish neighborhood. Scene of a nightmarish Nazi roundup during the Second World War, it had fallen into a state of ruin by the 1960s, when the government launched a concerted effort to bring it back to life. Now among the most fashionable districts in Paris, the Marais was filled with exclusive shops, art museums, and trendy restaurants. It was in one such restaurant, on rue des Archives, that Uzi Navot waited late the following afternoon. He wore a roll-necked sweater that left the unflattering impression his head was bolted directly onto his thick shoulders. He scarcely lifted his eyes as Gabriel and Olga sat down.
They had arrived in Paris shortly after ten the previous evening and checked into a dreary little transit hotel across the street from the Gare du Nord. The journey had been uneventful; there had been no more attacks by Russian assassins, and Olga’s cat had behaved as well as could be expected during the train ride from Oxford to Paddington Station. Due to the Eurostar’s ban on pets, Gabriel had had no choice but to find lodging for the cat in London. He had taken it to an art gallery in St. James’s owned by a man named Julian Isherwood. Over the years Isherwood had suffered many indignities because of his secret association with the Office, but to have a stranger’s cat thrust upon him without warning was, he said, the final insult. His mood, however, changed dramatically upon seeing Olga for the first time. But then Gabriel had known it would. Julian Isherwood had a weakness for three things: Italian paintings, French wine, and beautiful women. Especially Russian women. And like Uzi Navot, he was easily appeased.
“I don’t know why we had to come to this place,” Navot said now. “You know how much I love the potted chicken at Jo Goldenberg.”
“It’s closed, Uzi. Haven’t you heard?”
“I know. But I still can’t quite believe it. What’s the Marais without Jo Goldenberg?”
For more than half a century, the kosher delicatessen had occupied a prominent corner at 7 rue des Rosiers. Jews from around the world had crowded into the restaurant’s worn red banquettes and gorged themselves on caviar, chopped liver, brisket, and potato latkes. So had French film stars, government ministers, and famous writers and journalists. But the prominence of Jo Goldenberg made it an inviting target for extremists and terrorists, and in August 1982 six patrons were killed in a grenade and machine-gun attack carried out by the Palestinian terrorist group Abu Nidal. In the end, though, it was not terrorism that brought down the Paris landmark but soaring rents and repeated citations for poor sanitary conditions.
“You’re lucky that chicken didn’t kill you, Uzi. God knows how long it had been lying around before they tossed it in a bowl and served it to you.”
“It was excellent. And so was the borscht. You loved the borscht at Jo Goldenberg.”
“I hate borscht. I’ve always hated borscht.”
“The
n why did you order it?”
“You ordered it for me. And then you ate it for me, too.”
“I don’t remember it that way.”
“Whatever you say, Uzi.”
They had been speaking to one another in rapid French. Navot turned to Olga and in English asked, “Wouldn’t you have enjoyed a good bowl of borscht, Miss Sukhova?”
“I’m Russian. Why on earth would I come to Paris and order borscht?”
Navot looked at Gabriel again. “Is she always so friendly?” he asked in Hebrew.
“Russians have a somewhat dark sense of humor.”
“I’ll say.” Navot glanced out the window into the narrow street. “This place has changed since I left Paris. I used to come here whenever I had a few hours to kill. It was like a little slice of Tel Aviv, right in the center of Paris. Now . . .” he shook his head slowly. “It’s just another place to buy a handbag or expensive jewelry. You can’t even get good falafel here anymore.”
“That’s exactly the way the mayor wants it. Neat and tidy with lots of chic stores paying big rents and big tax bills. They even tried to put in a McDonald’s a few months back, but the neighborhood rose up in rebellion. Poor Jo Goldenberg couldn’t make a go of it anymore. At the end, his rent was three hundred thousand euros a year.”
“No wonder the kitchen was a mess.”
Navot looked down at his menu. When he spoke again, his tone was decidedly less cordial.
“Let me see if I understand this correctly. I come to Italy and order you to return to Israel because we believe your life may be in danger. You tell me that you need three days to finish a painting, and I foolishly agree. Then, within twenty-four hours, I learn that you’ve slipped away from the bodyguards and traveled to London to investigate the disappearance of one Grigori Bulganov, missing Russian defector. And this morning I receive a message saying you’ve arrived in Paris, accompanied by Russian defector number two, Olga Sukhova. Have I left anything out?”
“We had to leave Olga’s cat behind at Julian’s gallery. You need to send someone from London Station to collect it. Otherwise, Julian’s liable to let it loose in Green Park.”
Gabriel removed Grigori’s letter from his coat pocket and dealt it onto the table. Navot read it silently, his face an inscrutable mask, then looked up again.
“I want to know everything you did while you were in England, Gabriel. No shortcuts, deletions, edits, or abridgments. Do you understand me?”
Gabriel gave Navot a complete account, beginning with his first meeting with Graham Seymour and ending with the assassination attempt on Olga’s doorstep.
“They disabled the lock?” Navot asked.
“It was a nice touch.”
“It’s a shame the shooter didn’t realize you were unarmed. He could have simply climbed out of the car and killed you.”
“You don’t really mean that, Uzi.”
“No, but it makes me feel better to say it. Rather sloppy for a Russian hit team, don’t you think?”
“It’s not so easy to kill someone from a moving vehicle.”
“Unless you’re Gabriel Allon. When we set our sights on someone, he dies. The Russians are usually like that, too. They’re fanatics when it comes to planning and preparation.”
Gabriel nodded in agreement.
“So why send a couple of amateurs to Oxford?”
“Because they assumed it would be easy. They probably thought the second string could handle it.”
“You’re assuming Olga was the target and not you?”
“That’s correct.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I’d only been in the country three days. Even we would be hard-pressed to organize a hit that quickly.”
“So why didn’t they call it off when they saw she wasn’t alone?”
“It’s possible they simply mistook me for Olga’s boyfriend or one of her students, not someone who knows to hit the deck when a lock suddenly stops working.”
A waiter approached the table. Navot sent him away with a subtle gesture of his hand.
“It might have been wiser if you’d shared some of these observations with Graham Seymour. He allowed you to conduct your own review of Grigori’s disappearance. And how did you repay him? By sneaking out of the country with another one of his defectors.” Navot gave a humorless smile. “Graham and I could form our own little club. Men who have placed their trust in you, only to be burned.”
Navot looked at Olga and switched from Hebrew to English.
“Your neighbors didn’t notice the bullet holes and the broken front door until about eight o’clock. When they couldn’t find you, they called the Thames Valley Police.”
“I’m afraid I know what happened next,” she said. “Because my address had a special security flag on it, the dispatch officer immediately contacted the chief constable.”
“And guess what the chief constable did?”
“I suspect he called the Home Office in London. And then the Home Office contacted Graham Seymour.”
Navot’s gaze shifted from Olga to Gabriel. “And what do you think Graham Seymour did?”
“He called our London station chief.”
“Who’d been quietly scouring the city for you for the past three days,” Navot added. “And when Graham got the station chief on the telephone, he read him the riot act. Congratulations, Gabriel. You’ve managed to bring relations between the British and the Office to a new low. They want a full explanation of what happened in Oxford last night. And they’d also like their defector back. Graham Seymour is expecting us in London tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
“Us?”
“You, me, and Olga.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Navot added, “And the Old Man, too.”
“How did Shamron manage to get himself involved in this?”
“The same way he always does. Shamron abhors a vacuum. He sees an empty space and he fills it.”
“Tell him to stay in Tiberias. Tell him we can handle it.”
“Please, Gabriel. As far as Shamron is concerned, we’re still a couple of kids trying to learn how to ride a bicycle, and he can’t quite bring himself to let go of the seat. Besides, it’s too late. He’s already here.”
“Where is he?”
“A safe flat up in Montmartre. Olga and I will stay here and get better acquainted. Shamron would like a word with you. In private.”
“About what?”
“He didn’t tell me. After all, I’m only the chief of Special Ops.”
Navot looked down at his menu and frowned.
“No potted chicken. You know how much I loved the potted chicken at Jo Goldenberg. The only thing better than the potted chicken was the borscht.”
21
MONTMARTRE, PARIS
THE APARTMENT house stood in the eastern fringes of Montmartre, next to the cemetery. It had a tidy interior courtyard and an elegant staircase covered by a well-worn runner. The flat was on the third floor; from the window of the comfortably furnished sitting room, it might have been possible to see the white dome of Sacré-Coeur had Shamron not been blocking the view. Hearing the sound of the door, he turned round slowly and stared at Gabriel for a long moment, as if debating whether to have him shot or thrown to the wild dogs. He was wearing a gray pin-striped suit and a costly silk necktie the color of polished silver. It made him look like an aging Middle European businessman who made money in shady ways and never lost at baccarat.
“We missed you at lunch, Ari.”
“I don’t eat lunch.”
“Not even when you’re in Paris?”
“I loathe Paris. Especially in winter.”
He fished a cigarette case from the breast pocket of his jacket and thumbed open the lid.
“I thought you’d finally given up smoking.”
“And I thought you were in Italy finishing a painting.” Shamron removed a cigarette, tapped the end three times on the lid, and slipped it between his lips. “And you wonder why
I won’t retire.”
His lighter flared. It was not the battered old Zippo he carried at home but a sleek silver device that, at Shamron’s command, produced a blue finger of flame. The cigarette, however, was his usual brand. Unfiltered and Turkish, it emitted an acrid odor that was as unique to Shamron as his trademark walk and his unyielding will to crush anyone foolish enough to oppose him.
To describe the influence of Ari Shamron on the defense and security of the State of Israel was tantamount to explaining the role played by water in the formation and maintenance of life on earth. In many respects, Ari Shamron was the State of Israel. He had fought in the war that led to Israel’s reconstitution and had spent the subsequent sixty years protecting the country from a host of enemies bent on its destruction. His star had burned brightest in times of war and crisis. He was named director of the Office for the first time not long after the disaster of the 1973 Yom Kippur War and served longer than any chief before or after him. When a series of public scandals dragged the reputation of the Office down to the lowest point in its history, he was called out of retirement and, with Gabriel’s help, restored the Office to its former glory. His second retirement, like his first, was involuntary. In some quarters, it was likened to the destruction of the Second Temple.
Shamron’s role now was that of an éminence grise. Though he no longer had a formal position or title, he remained the hidden hand that guided Israel’s security policies. It was not unusual to enter his home at midnight and find several men crowded around the kitchen table in their shirtsleeves, shouting at one another through a dense cloud of cigarette smoke—and poor Gilah, his long-suffering wife, sitting in the next room with her needle-point and her Mozart, waiting for the boys to leave so that she could see to the dishes.
“You’ve managed to create quite a row on the other side of the English Channel, my son. But then, that’s become your specialty.” Shamron exhaled a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, where it swirled in the half-light like gathering storm clouds. “Your friend Graham Seymour is apparently fighting for his job. Mazel tov, Gabriel. Not bad for three days’ work.”