The Defector

by Daniel Silva

  “Graham will survive. He always does.”

  “At what cost?” Shamron asked of no one but himself. “Downing Street and the top ranks of MI5 and MI6 are in an uproar over your actions. They’re making unpleasant noises about suspending cooperation with us on a broad range of sensitive issues. We need them right now, Gabriel. And so do you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Perhaps it’s escaped your notice, but the mullahs in Tehran are about to complete their nuclear weapon. Our new prime minister and I share a similar philosophy. We don’t believe in sitting around while others plot our destruction. And when people talk about wiping us off the face of the earth, we choose to take them at their word. We both lost our families in the first Holocaust, and we’re not going to lose our country to a second—at least, not without a fight.”

  Shamron removed his eyeglasses and inspected the lenses for impurity. “If we are forced to attack Iran, we can expect a ferocious response from their proxy army in Lebanon: Hezbollah. You should know that a delegation from Hezbollah made a secret trip to Moscow recently to do a bit of shopping. And they weren’t looking for nesting dolls and fur hats. They went to see your old friend Ivan Kharkov. Word is, Ivan sold them three thousand Kor net vehicle-mounted antitank weapons, along with several thousand RPG 32s. Apparently, he also gave them a nice discount since he knew they’d be using the weapons against us.”

  “We’re sure it was Ivan?”

  “We heard his name mentioned in several intercepts.” Shamron put on his eyeglasses again and scrutinized Gabriel for a moment. “With adversaries like Iran, Hezbollah, and Ivan Kharkov, we need friends wherever we can find them, Gabriel. That’s why we need good relations with the British.” Shamron paused. “And it’s why I need you to end your honeymoon without end and come home.”

  Gabriel could see where this was headed. He decided not to make Shamron’s task any easier by posing a leading question. Shamron, visibly annoyed by the calculated silence, stabbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table.

  “Our new prime minister has been an admirer of yours for many years. The same cannot be said of his feelings toward the current director of the Office. He and Amos served briefly together in AMAN, Israel’s military intelligence service. Their hatred was mutual and persists to this day. Amos will not survive long. Last week, over a private dinner, the prime minister asked me who I wanted to be the next chief of the Office. I gave him your name, of course.”

  “I’ve made it abundantly clear I’m not interested in the job.”

  “I’ve heard this speech before. It’s tiresome. More to the point, it does not reflect current realities. The State of Israel is facing a threat unlike any in its history. If you haven’t noticed, we’re not very popular right now. And the Iranian threat means even greater instability and potential violence across the region. What do you intend to do, Gabriel? Sit on your farm in Italy and restore paintings for the pope?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not realistic.”

  “Perhaps not to you, Ari, but it’s what I intend to do. I’ve given my life to the Office. I’ve lost my son. I’ve lost one wife. I’ve shed the blood of other men and my own blood. I’m finished. Tell the prime minister to choose someone else.”

  “He needs you. The country needs you.”

  “You’re being a bit hyperbolic, don’t you think?”

  “No, just honest. The country has lost faith in its political leaders. Our society is beginning to fray. The people need someone they can believe in. Someone they can trust. Someone beyond reproach.”

  “I was an assassin. I’m hardly beyond reproach.”

  “You were a soldier on the secret battlefield. You gave justice to those who could not seek it themselves.”

  “And I lost everything in the process. I almost lost myself.”

  “But your life has been restored, just like one of your paintings. You have Chiara. Who knows? Perhaps soon you’ll have another child.”

  “Is there something I should know, Ari?”

  Shamron’s lighter flared again. His next words were spoken not to Gabriel but the floodlit dome of Sacré-Coeur. “Come home, Gabriel. Take control of the Office. It is what you were born to do. Your future was determined when your mother named you Gabriel.”

  “That was the same thing you said when you recruited me for Operation Wrath of God.”

  “Was it?” Shamron gave a faint smile of remembrance. “No wonder you said yes to me then.”

  Shamron had been hinting at a scenario like this for years, but never before had he stated it so unequivocally. Gabriel, were he foolish enough to accept the offer, knew only too well how he would spend the rest of his life. Indeed, he had to look no further than the man standing before him. Running the Office had ruined Shamron’s health and wreaked havoc with his family. The country regarded him as a national treasure, but as far as his children were concerned, Shamron was the father who had never been there. The father who had missed birthdays and anniversaries. The father who traveled in armored cars, surrounded by men with guns. It was not the life Gabriel wanted, nor did he intend to inflict it on his loved ones. To say those words to Shamron now was not an option. Better to hold out a glimmer of hope and use the situation to his advantage. Shamron would understand that. It was exactly the way he would have played it if the roles were reversed.

  “How long before I would have to take control?”

  “Does that mean you’ll take the job?”

  “No, it means I’ll consider the offer—on two conditions.”

  “I don’t like ultimatums. The PLO learned that lesson the hard way.”

  “Do you want to hear my terms?”

  “If you insist.”

  “Number one, I get to finish my painting.”

  Shamron closed his eyes and nodded. “And the second?”

  “I’m going to get Grigori Bulganov out of Russia before Ivan kills him.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.” Shamron took a final pull at his cigarette and ground it out slowly in the ashtray. “See if there’s some coffee in this place. You know I’m incapable of discussing an operation without coffee.”

  22

  MONTMARTRE, PARIS

  GABRIEL SPOONED coffee into the French press and briefed Shamron while waiting for the water to boil. Shamron sat motionless at the small table in his shirtsleeves, his liver-spotted hands bunched thoughtfully beneath his chin. He moved for the first time to read the letter Grigori had left with Olga Sukhova in Oxford, then a moment later to accept his first cup of coffee. He was pouring sugar into it when he announced his verdict.

  “It’s clear Ivan is planning to hunt down and kill everyone who was involved in the operation against him. First he went after Grigori. Then Olga. But the person he really wants is you.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Spend the rest of my life hiding?” Gabriel shook his head. “To quote the great Ari Shamron, I don’t believe in sitting around while others plot my destruction. It seems to me we have a choice. We can live in fear. Or we can fight back.”

  “And how do you suggest we do that?”

  “By treating Ivan and his operators as though they are terrorists. By putting them out of business before they can go after anyone else. And if we’re lucky, we might be able to get Grigori back.”

  “Where do you plan to start?”

  Gabriel unzipped the side compartment of his overnight bag and withdrew an enlarged photograph of a Mercedes sedan with two people in the backseat. Shamron slipped on a pair of battered half-moon reading glasses and examined the image. Then Gabriel placed another photograph before him: the photo that had been attached to the letter in Oxford. Grigori and Irina in happier times . . .

  “I suppose we know how they got him into the car so quietly,” Shamron said. “Did you share this with your British friends?”

  “It might have slipped my mind while I was fleeing the country one step ahead of a Russian hit squad.”
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  “Accompanied by Graham Seymour’s defector.” Shamron spent a moment scrutinizing the photograph. “Tell me what you have in mind, my son.”

  “I made a promise to Grigori the night he saved my life. I intend to keep that promise.”

  “Grigori Bulganov has a British passport. That makes him a British problem.”

  “Graham Seymour made one thing abundantly clear to me in London, Ari. As far as the British are concerned, Grigori is my defector, not theirs. And if I don’t try to get him back, no one will.”

  Shamron tapped the photograph. “And you think she can help you?”

  “She saw their faces. Heard their voices. If we can get to her, she can help us.”

  “And what if she’s not willing to help you? What if she willingly took part in the operation?”

  “I suppose anything is possible . . .”

  “But?”

  “I doubt it very seriously. Based on what Grigori told me, Irina hated the FSB and everything it stood for. It was one of the reasons their marriage came apart.”

  “Were there any other reasons?”

  “She was ashamed of Grigori for taking money from Ivan Kharkov. She called it blood money. She wouldn’t touch it.”

  “Perhaps Irina had a change of heart. Russians can be very persuasive, Gabriel. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that everyone has a price.”

  “You might be right, Ari. But we won’t know for sure until we ask her.”

  “A conversation? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What makes you think they haven’t killed her?”

  “I called her office this morning. She answered the phone.”

  Shamron drank some of his coffee and pondered the implications of Gabriel’s statement. “Let me make one thing clear from the outset. Under no circumstances are you or anyone else from the original operation against Ivan going back to Moscow. Ever.”

  “I have no intention of going back.”

  “So how are you going to arrange a meeting with her?”

  Gabriel gave the rough outlines of his plan. Shamron twirled his lighter between his fingertips while he listened: two turns to the right, two turns to the left.

  “It has one flaw. You’re assuming she’ll cooperate.”

  “I’m assuming nothing.”

  “She’ll have to be handled carefully until you’re certain of her true loyalties.”

  “And after that as well.”

  “I suppose you’d like to use your old team.”

  “It saves time having to get acquainted.”

  “How much money is this going to cost me?”

  Gabriel added coffee to Shamron’s cup and smiled. The Old Man had worked for the Office during a time when it counted every shekel, and he still acted as if operational funds came directly from his own pocket.

  “A hundred thousand should cover it.”

  “A hundred thousand!”

  “I was going to ask for two.”

  “I’ll transfer the funds into your account in Zurich tomorrow morning. As soon as you’ve established a base of operations, I’ll dispatch the team.”

  “What are you going to tell Amos?”

  “As little as possible.”

  “And the British?”

  “Leave that to me. I’ll brief them about your plans and make it clear we’ll share whatever information you discover.” Shamron paused. “You will share nicely, won’t you, Gabriel?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “To be honest, I’m sure they’ll be relieved we’re handling it. The last thing Downing Street wants is another confrontation with the Russians—not with the British economy on life support. They’re more interested in making sure that Russian money continues to flow into the banks of London.”

  “That leaves one problem.”

  “Just one?”

  “Olga.”

  “I’ll return her to the British tomorrow and fall on my sword on your behalf. I’ve brought along a little present for them, some chatter we’ve been picking up in Lebanon about a possible terror plot in London.”

  “You can tell them about the chatter in Lebanon, Ari, but I’m afraid Olga isn’t going back to Britain anytime soon.”

  “You can’t leave her here in Paris.”

  “I don’t intend to. I’m taking her with me. She’s really rather good, you know.”

  “Something tells me my stay in London isn’t going to be a pleasant one.” Shamron sipped his coffee. “You’d better have a word with Uzi. Whatever you do, don’t mention our conversation about your taking control of the Office. He’s not going to be thrilled about the prospect of working for you.”

  “I never said I would take the job, Ari. I said I would consider it.”

  “I heard you the first time. But I know you wouldn’t be leading me on, not over something as important as this.”

  “I need you to do me one other favor while you’re in London.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I had to leave Olga’s cat with Julian Isherwood.”

  Shamron began turning his lighter again. “I hate cats. And the only thing I hate worse than cats is being lied to.”

  23

  LAKE COMO, ITALY

  LAKE COMO lies in the northeastern corner of the region of Lombardy, just a few miles from the Swiss border. Shaped like an inverted Y, it is surrounded by soaring Alpine peaks and dotted with picturesque towns and villages. One of Europe’s deepest lakes, it is also, sadly, among its most polluted. In fact, a recent study by an Italian environmental group found that bacteria levels had reached sixty-eight times the limit for safe human bathing. The culprits were antiquated lakeside sewage systems, runoff from nearby farms and vineyards, and a reduction in rainfall and mountain snowpack attributed, rightly or wrongly, to global warming. Under pressure from the local tourism industry, the government had promised dramatic action to prevent the lake from slipping past the point of no return. Most Italians weren’t holding their breath. Their government was rather like a charming rogue—good at making promises, not so good at keeping them.

  To stand on the terraces of Villa Teresa, however, was to forget that the magnificent waters of Lake Como had been spoiled in any way. Indeed, at certain times of the day and under proper light and weather conditions, one could imagine there was no such thing as global warming, no wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, no worldwide financial crisis, and no possible threat looming anywhere over the ring of protective mountains. Built by a wealthy Milanese trader in the eighteenth century, the villa stood on its own small peninsula. It was three floors in height, tawny orange in color, and accessible only by boat—a fact that Herr Heinrich Kiever, chief operating officer of Matrix Technologies of Zug, Switzerland, found highly appealing.

  Herr Kiever, it seemed, was looking for a private retreat where his employees could complete work on a major project free from distractions and in a setting that would inspire greatness. After a brief tour, he declared Villa Teresa perfection itself. The contracts were signed over coffee in the town of Laglio, home of an American movie star whose highly publicized presence in Como was, in the opinion of many longtime habitués, the worst thing to happen to the lake since the invention of the gasoline-powered engine. Herr Kiever paid the entire lease with a certified check drawn on his bank in Zurich. He then informed the rental agent he required complete privacy, meaning no maid service, no cooks, and no follow-up calls from the agency. If there were any problems, he explained, the agent would be the first to know.

  Herr Kiever took up residence in the villa that same afternoon along with two women. One was a striking brunette with a face like a Russian icon; the other, an attractive Italian accompanied by a pair of matching bodyguards. Unbeknownst to the rental agency, Herr Kiever and the bodyguards had a brief but heated argument before conducting a meticulous sweep of the property for hidden microphones or other eavesdropping equipment. Satisfied the estate was se
cure, they settled into their rooms and awaited the arrival of the remaining guests. There were six in all, four men and two women, and they came not from Zug but from an anonymous-looking office block on King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv. They had traveled to Europe separately under false names and with false passports in their pockets. Three landed in Rome and made the drive north; three landed in Zurich and drove south. By some miracle, they arrived at the villa’s private landing just five minutes apart. Herr Kiever, who was waiting to greet them, declared it a good omen. The six men and women withheld judgment. They had sailed under Herr Kiever’s star before and knew calm waters often gave way to storm-tossed seas with little or no warning.

  So, too, did the newest addition to this illustrious band of operatives: Olga Sukhova. They knew her by name and reputation, of course, but none had ever actually met the famed Russian journalist. Gabriel saw to the introductions with a studied evasive-ness only a veteran of the secret world could summon. He provided Olga with first names but made no mention of current positions or past professional exploits. As far as Gabriel was concerned, the six individuals were blank slates, tools that had been lent to him by a higher power.

  They approached her in pairs and carefully shook her hand. The women, Rimona and Dina, came first. Rimona was in her mid-thirties and had shoulder-length hair the color of Jerusalem limestone. A major in the IDF, she had worked for several years as an analyst for AMAN before transferring to the Office, where she was now part of a special Iran task force. Dina, petite and dark-haired, was an Office terrorism specialist who had personally experienced its horrors. In October 1994 she was standing in Tel Aviv’s Dizengoff Square when a Hamas terrorist detonated his suicide belt aboard a No. 5 bus. Twenty-one people were murdered that day, including Dina’s mother and two of her sisters. Dina herself had suffered a serious leg wound and still walked with a slight limp.