by Daniel Silva
“It was on a quiet road not far from the airport, next to a pond or reservoir of some sort. The driver got out of the car and did something to the front and back of the car.”
“Could he have been changing the license plates?”
“I couldn’t say. It was dark by then. Anatoly acted as though nothing was happening.”
“Do you happen to recall the time?”
“No, but afterward we headed straight into central London. We were driving along the edge of Hyde Park when Anatoly’s telephone rang. He spoke a few words in Russian, then looked at me and smiled. He said it was safe to go see Grigori.”
“What happened next?”
“Things moved very quickly. I put on some lipstick and checked my hair. Then I saw something from the corner of my eye. A movement.” She paused. “There was a gun in Anatoly’s hand. It was pointed at my heart. He said if I made a sound, he would kill me.”
She lapsed into silence, as if unwilling to go on. Then, with a gentle nudge from Lavon, she began speaking again.
“The car stopped very suddenly, and Anatoly opened the door with his other hand. I saw Grigori standing on the sidewalk. I saw my husband.”
“Anatoly spoke to him?”
She nodded, blinking away tears.
“Do you remember what he said?”
“I will never forget his words. He told Grigori to get in the car or I was dead. Grigori obeyed, of course. He had no choice.”
Lavon gave her a moment to compose herself.
“Did Grigori say anything after he got in?”
“He said he would do whatever they wanted. That there was no need to harm or threaten me in any way.” Another pause. “Anatoly told Grigori to shut his mouth. Otherwise, he was going to splatter my brains all over the inside of the car.”
“Did Grigori ever speak to you?”
“Just once. He told me he was very sorry.”
“And after that?”
“He didn’t say a word. He barely looked at me.”
“How long were you together?”
“Just a few minutes. We drove to a parking garage somewhere close. They put Grigori into the back of a van with markings on the side. A cleaning service of some sort.”
“Where did you go?”
“Anatoly took me into an adjacent building through an underground passage, and we rode an elevator to the street. A car was waiting nearby. A woman was behind the wheel. Anatoly told me to follow her instructions carefully. He said if I ever spoke to anyone about this, I would be killed. And then my mother would be killed. And then my two brothers would be killed, along with their children.”
A heavy silence fell over the dining room of the villa. Irina treated herself to another cigarette; then, emotionally exhausted, she recounted the remaining details of her ordeal in a detached voice. The long drive to the seacoast town of Harwich. The sleepless night in the Hotel Continental. The stormy crossing to Hoek van Holland aboard the Stena Britannica car ferry. And the trip home aboard Aeroflot Flight 418, operated by KLM Royal Dutch Airlines, departing Amsterdam at 8:40 p.m., arriving Sheremetyevo at 2 a.m. the following morning.
“Did you and the woman travel together or separately?”
“Together.”
“Did she ever give you a name?”
“No, but I heard the flight attendant call her Ms. Gromova.”
“And when you arrived in Moscow?”
“A car and driver took me to my apartment. The next morning, I returned to work as if nothing had happened.”
“Was there any other contact?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you have the impression you were under surveillance?”
“If I was, I couldn’t see them.”
“And when you received the invitation to attend the conference in Italy, they made no effort to prevent you from attending?”
She shook her head.
“Were you at all reluctant after what you had just been through?”
“The invitation seemed very real. Just like Anatoly’s.” A silence, then, “I don’t suppose there really is a conference, is there?”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Who are you?” she asked again.
“We truly are friends of your husband. And we’re going to do everything we can to get him back for you.”
“What happens now?”
“The same as before. You return to your job at Galaxy Travel and pretend this never happened. After you attend the third annual seminar and showcase of the Northern Italian Travel Association, of course.”
“But you just said it wasn’t real.”
“Reality is a state of mind, Irina. Reality can be whatever you want it to be.”
29
LAKE COMO • LONDON
FOR THE next three days, they put her gently through her paces. They described the sumptuous meals she would not eat, the boozy cocktail parties she would not attend, and the deeply boring seminars that mercifully she would be spared. They took her on a frigid cruise of the lake and a long drive through the mountains. They filled her suitcases with gifts and brochures for her colleagues. And they anxiously awaited the hour of her departure. There was not one among them who doubted her authenticity—and not one who wanted to send her back to Russia. When it came time to leave, she marched onto her plane the way she had come off it three days earlier, with her chin up and at a parade-ground clip. That night, they huddled around the secure communications link, waiting for the flash from Moscow that she had arrived safely. It came, much to their relief, a few minutes after midnight. Shmuel Peled followed her home and pronounced her tail clean as a whistle. The following morning, from her desk at Galaxy Travel, Irina sent an e-mail to Veronica Ricci of NITA, thanking her for the wonderful trip. Signora Ricci asked Ms. Bulganova to stay in touch.
Gabriel was not present in Como to witness the successful end of the operation. Accompanied by Olga Sukhova, he flew to London the morning after the interrogation and was immediately whisked to a safe flat in Victoria. Graham Seymour was waiting and subjected Gabriel to a ten-minute tirade before finally permitting him to speak. After first insisting that the microphones be switched off, Gabriel described the remarkable debriefing they had just conducted on the shores of Lake Como. Seymour immediately placed a secure call to Thames House and posed a single question: Did a woman bearing a Russian passport in the name of Natalia Primakova arrive at Heathrow Airport aboard Aeroflot Flight 247 on the afternoon of January the tenth? Thames House called back within minutes. The answer was yes.
“I’d like to schedule a meeting with the prime minister and my director-general right away. If you’re willing, I think you should be the one to brief them. After all, you proved us all wrong, Gabriel. That gives you the right to rub our noses in it.”
“I have no intention of rubbing your noses in anything. And the last thing I want you to do is mention any of this to your prime minister or director-general.”
“Grigori Bulganov is a British subject and, as such, is owed all the protections offered by the British Crown. We have no choice but to present our evidence to the Russians and insist that they return him at once.”
“Ivan Kharkov went to a great deal of trouble to get Grigori, in all likelihood with the blessing of the FSB and the Kremlin itself. Do you really think he’s going to hand him over because the British prime minister insists on it? We have to play the game by the same rules as Ivan.”
“Meaning?”
“We have to steal him back.”
Graham Seymour made one more phone call, then pulled on his overcoat.
“Heathrow security is getting us pictures. You and Olga stay here. And do try to keep the gunfire to a minimum. I have enough problems at the moment.”
BUT GABRIEL did not remain in the safe flat for long. Indeed, he slipped out a few minutes after Seymour’s departure and headed directly to Cheyne Walk in Chelsea. Once a quiet riverside promenade, this historic London street now overlooked the busy Chelsea
Embankment. On some of the grand houses were brass plaques commemorating famous occupants of the past. Turner had lived secretly at No. 119, Rossetti at No. 19. Henry James had spent his final days at No. 21; George Eliot had done the same at No. 4. These days, few artists and writers could afford to live in Cheyne Walk. It had become the preserve of wealthy foreigners, pop stars, and moneymen from the City. It also happened to be the London address of one Viktor Orlov, exiled Russian oligarch and Kremlin critic, who resided at the five-story mansion at No. 43. The same Viktor Orlov who was now the target of a clandestine investigation being conducted by a team of burrowers at King Saul Boulevard.
Gabriel entered the small park across the street and sat down on a bench. Orlov’s house was tall and narrow and covered in wisteria. Like the rest of the residences along the graceful terrace, it was set several meters back from the street behind a wrought-iron fence. An armored Bentley limousine stood outside, a chauffeur at the wheel. Directly behind the Bentley was a black Range Rover, occupied by four members of Orlov’s security detail, all former members of Britain’s elite Special Air Service, the SAS. King Saul Boulevard had discovered that the bodyguards were supplied by Exton Executive Security Services Ltd, of Hill Street, Mayfair. Exton was regarded as the finest private security company in London, no small accomplishment in a city filled with many rich people worried about their safety.
Gabriel was about to leave when he saw three bodyguards emerge from the Range Rover. One took up a post at the gate of No. 43, while the other two blocked the sidewalk in either direction. With the perimeter security in place, the front door of the house swung open, and Viktor Orlov stepped outside, flanked by two more bodyguards. Gabriel managed to see little of the famous Russian billionaire other than a head of spiky gray hair and the flash of a pink necktie bound by an enormous Windsor knot. Orlov ducked into the back of the Bentley, and the doors quickly closed. A few seconds later, the motorcade was speeding along Royal Hospital Road. Gabriel sat on his bench for ten more minutes, then got to his feet and headed back to Victoria.
IT TOOK less than an hour for Heathrow security to produce the first batch of photographs of the man known only as Anatoly. Unfortunately, none were terribly helpful. Gabriel was not surprised. Everything about Anatoly suggested he was a professional. And like any good professional, he knew how to move through an airport without getting his picture taken. The fedora had done much to shield his face, but he had done a good deal of the work himself with subtle turns and movements. Still, the cameras made a valiant effort: here a glimpse of a sturdy chin, here a partial profile, here a shot of a tight, uncompromising mouth. Flipping through the printouts in the Victoria safe house, Gabriel had a sinking feeling. Anatoly was a pro’s pro. And he was playing the game with Ivan’s money.
Both British services ran the photos through their databases of known Russian intelligence officers, but neither held out much hope for a match. Between them, they produced six possible candidates, all of whom were dismissed by Gabriel late that same night. At which point Seymour decided it was probably time to bring the dreaded Americans into the picture. Gabriel volunteered to make the trip himself. There was someone in America he was anxious to see. He hadn’t spoken to her in months. She had written him a letter once. And he had painted her a painting.
30
CIA HEADQUARTERS, VIRGINIA
INTELLIGENCE AGENCIES refer to their spies in different ways. The Office calls them gathering officers, and the department for which they work is referred to as Collections. Spies for the CIA are known as case officers and are employed by the National Clandestine Service. Adrian Carter’s tenure as chief of the NCS began when it was still known by its old name: the Directorate of Operations. Regarded as one of the Agency’s most accomplished secret warriors, Carter had left his fingerprints on every major American covert operation of the last two generations. He had tinkered with the odd election, toppled the odd democratically elected government, and turned a blind eye to more executions and murders than he cared to remember. “I did the Lord’s work in Poland and propped up the devil’s regime in El Salvador in the span of a single year,” he once confessed to Gabriel in a moment of interagency candor. “And for an encore, I gave weapons to the Muslim holy warriors in Afghanistan, even though I knew that one day they would rain fire and death on me.”
Since the morning of September 11, 2001, Adrian Carter had been focused on primarily one thing: preventing another attack on the American homeland by the forces of global Islamic extremism. To accomplish that end he had used tactics and methods even a battle-hardened covert warrior such as himself sometimes found objectionable. The black prisons, the renditions, the use of coercive interrogation techniques: it had all been made public, much to Carter’s detriment. Well-meaning editorialists and politicians on Capitol Hill had been baying for Carter’s blood for years. He should have been on the short list to become the CIA’s next director. Instead, he lived in fear that one day he would be prosecuted for his actions in the global war against terrorism. Adrian Carter had kept America safe from its enemies. And for that, he would languish in the fires of hell for all eternity.
He was waiting for Gabriel the following afternoon in a conference room on the seventh floor of CIA Headquarters, the Valhalla of America’s sprawling and often dysfunctional intelligence establishment. The antithesis of Graham Seymour in appearance, Carter had tousled thinning hair and a prominent mustache that had gone out of fashion with disco music, Crock-Pots, and the nuclear freeze. Dressed as he was now, in flannel trousers and a burgundy cardigan, he had the air of a professor from a minor university, the sort who championed noble causes and was a constant thorn in the side of his dean. He peered at Gabriel over his reading glasses, as if mildly surprised to see him, and offered his hand. It was cool as marble and dry to the touch.
Gabriel had contacted Carter the previous day before leaving London via a secure cable sent from the CIA station at the American Embassy. The cable had given Carter only the broadest outlines of the affair. Now Gabriel filled in the details. At the conclusion of the briefing, Carter picked through the physical evidence, beginning with the letter Grigori had left in Oxford and ending with the Heathrow Airport surveillance photos of the man known only as Anatoly.
“In all honesty,” said Carter, “we never put much stock in the story that Grigori had a change of heart and redefected to the motherland. As you might recall, I actually had a chance to spend some time with him the night you came out of Russia.”
Gabriel did recall, of course. In a logistical feat only the Agency could manage, Carter had put a squadron of Gulfstream executive jets on the ground in Kiev, just a few hours after the car bearing Gabriel and his trio of Russian defectors had crossed the Ukrainian border. Gabriel had returned to Israel, while Grigori and Olga had flown into exile in Britain. Carter had personally brought Elena Kharkov to the United States, where she was granted defector status. Her current circumstances were so closely held that even Gabriel had no idea where the CIA had hidden her.
“We sent a team to debrief Grigori within twenty-four hours of his arrival in England,” Carter resumed. “No one who took part ever voiced any skepticism about Grigori’s authenticity. After his disappearance, I ordered a review of the tapes and transcripts to see if we’d missed something.”
“And?”
“Grigori was as good as gold. Needless to say, we were rather surprised when the British thought otherwise. As far as Langley is concerned, it seemed a rather transparent attempt to foist some of the blame for his disappearance onto you. They have no one to blame but themselves. He should have never been allowed to get mixed up with opposition types floating around London. It was only a matter of time before Ivan got to him.”
“Is Ivan still a target of NSA surveillance?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did you know he just sold several thousand antitank missiles and RPGs to Hezbollah?”
“We’ve heard rumors to that effect. But for the moment, k
eeping track of Ivan’s business activities is low on our list of priorities. Our main concern is keeping his former wife and children safe from harm.”
“Has he ever made any formal effort to reclaim them?”
“A couple of months ago, the Russian ambassador raised the issue during a routine meeting with the secretary of state. The secretary acted somewhat surprised and said she would look into the matter. She’s a good poker player, the secretary. Would have made an excellent case officer. A week later, she told the ambassador that Elena Kharkov and her children were not currently residing in the United States, nor had they ever resided here at any time in the past. The ambassador thanked the secretary profusely for her efforts and never raised the matter again.”
“Ivan must know they’re here, Adrian.”
“Of course he knows. But there’s nothing he and his friends in the Kremlin can do about it. That operation you ran in Saint-Tropez last summer was a thing of beauty. You plucked the children from Ivan cleanly and with a veneer of legality. Furthermore, when Ivan divorced Elena in a Russian court, he effectively gave up all legal claim to them. The only way he can get them now is to steal them. And that’s not going to happen. We take better care of our defectors than the British do.”
“She’s somewhere safe, I hope.”
“Very safe. But will you allow me to give you a piece of advice, as one friend to another? Take Grigori’s words to heart. Forget about that promise you made that night in Russia. Besides, I suspect Ivan has already put a bullet in the back of his head. Knowing Ivan, I imagine he did the deed himself. Go home to your wife, and let the British clean up their mess.”
“I like to keep promises. I used to think you did, too, Adrian.”
Carter steepled his fingertips and pressed them to his chin. “I think your characterization is a tad unfair. But since you put it that way, how can Langley be of service?”
“Give those photos of Anatoly to the Counterintelligence Center. See if they can put a name and a résumé to that face.”