The Defector

by Daniel Silva

  “I’ll ask the chief to handle it personally.” Carter gathered up the photos. “How long are you planning to stay in town?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “One of our officers is about to leave on an overseas assignment. She was wondering if you might be free for dinner.”

  Gabriel didn’t bother to ask the officer’s name.

  “Where’s she going, Adrian?”

  “That’s classified.”

  “I don’t suppose I have to remind you that she was involved in the operation against Ivan?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “So why are you letting her leave the country?”

  “Your concern over her safety is touching but completely unnecessary. What should I tell her about dinner?”

  Gabriel hesitated. “I’ll take a rain check, Adrian. It’s complicated.”

  “Why? Because she’s dating one of your team?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She and Mikhail are seeing each other. I’m surprised no one told you.”

  “How long has it been going on?”

  “It started shortly after the Saint-Tropez operation. Since Mikhail is an employee of a foreign intelligence service, she was required to report the relationship to the Office of Personnel. Personnel wasn’t pleased about it, but I intervened on their behalf.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Adrian. Actually, I will have dinner with her.”

  Carter jotted the time and place on a slip of paper. “Just be nice to her, Gabriel. I think she’s happy. It’s been a long time since Sarah has been happy.”

  31

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  1789 RESTAURANT , a Georgetown landmark, is regarded as one of the finest in Washington and is one of the few that still requires gentlemen to wear a jacket. With that admonition, Carter sent Gabriel to Brooks Brothers, where in the span of ten minutes he picked out gabardine trousers, an oxford-cloth shirt, and the requisite blue blazer. He drew the line at a necktie, though. Like most Israelis, he wore them only under duress or for the purposes of cover. Besides, if he wore a tie, Sarah might get the wrong impression. The blazer was going to cause him enough problems.

  He arrived a few minutes early and was informed by the hostess that his dinner companion was already seated. He wasn’t surprised; he had personally overseen Sarah Bancroft’s training and regarded her as one of the finest natural operatives he had ever encountered. Multilingual, well-traveled, and extremely well-educated, she had been working as an assistant curator at the Phillips Collection in Washington when Gabriel recruited her to find a terrorist mastermind lurking in the entourage of Saudi billionaire Zizi al-Bakari. After the operation, Sarah joined the CIA on a full-time basis and was assigned to the Counterterrorism Center. Gabriel had borrowed her again the previous summer and, with the help of a forged painting, had placed her alongside Elena Kharkov. Mikhail had posed as Sarah’s Russian-American boyfriend during the operation, and they had spent several nights together in a five-star Saint-Tropez hotel. Gabriel reckoned the attraction had started then.

  He was not happy about it for a number of reasons, not least of which because it violated his ban on sexual relationships between members of his team. But his anger went only so far. He knew the unique combination of stress and boredom could sometimes lead to romantic entanglements in the field. In fact, he could speak from experience. Twenty years earlier, while preparing for a major assassination in Tunis, he had an affair with his female escort officer that nearly destroyed his marriage to Leah.

  The hostess escorted him through the intimate dining room to a corner table near the fireplace. Sarah was seated along the banquette with her shoulders turned in a way that allowed her to discreetly survey the entire space. She was wearing a black sleeveless dress and a double strand of pearls. Her pale hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and her wide blue eyes shone with the warm light of the candles. One hand was resting on the stem of a martini glass. The other was placed lightly against her teardrop chin. Her cheek, when kissed, smelled of lilac.

  “Can I get you one of these?” she asked, tapping a manicured nail on the base of the glass.

  “I’d rather drink your nail polish remover.”

  “Would you like that with a twist or just on the rocks?” She looked up at the hostess. “A glass of champagne, please. Something nice. He’s had a long day.”

  The hostess withdrew. Sarah smiled and raised the martini to her lips.

  “They say it’s bad to drink the night before you fly, Sarah.”

  “If I can survive one of your operations, I think I can survive a transatlantic flight with a bit of gin in my bloodstream.”

  “So it’s Europe? Is that where Carter is sending you?”

  “Adrian warned me to be on my toes around you. You’re not going to get it out of me.”

  “I think I have a right to know.”

  “Really?” She set down her glass and leaned forward over the table. “You might find this difficult to believe, Gabriel, but I don’t actually work for the Office. I am employed by the National Clandestine Service of the Central Intelligence Agency, which means Adrian Carter, not you, makes my assignments.”

  “Would you like to say that a little louder? I’m not sure the cooks and the dishwashers heard you.”

  “Weren’t you the one who told me that nearly every important professional conversation you’d ever had was conducted in public places?”

  It was true. Safe rooms were only safe if they hadn’t been bugged.

  “At least rule out a couple of places for me. I’ll sleep easier knowing that Langley, in its infinite wisdom, hasn’t decided to send you to Saudi Arabia or Moscow.”

  “You may sleep in peace because Langley has decided nothing of the sort.”

  “So it is Europe?”

  “Gabriel, really.”

  “What kind of work will you be doing?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “It’s related to my government’s continuing efforts to combat global terrorism.”

  “How gallant. And to think that four years ago you were putting together an exhibition called Impressionists in Winter.”

  “I hope that was meant as a compliment.”

  “It was.”

  “You obviously don’t approve of my going into the field without you.”

  “I’ve stated my concerns. But Adrian is your boss, not me. And if Adrian thinks it’s appropriate, then who am I to question his judgment?”

  “You’re Gabriel Allon, that’s who you are.”

  The waiter appeared. He gave them menus and a detailed briefing on the evening’s specials. When he was gone, Gabriel perused the entrées and, with as much detachment as he could manage, asked whether Mikhail was aware of Sarah’s travel plans. Greeted by silence, he looked up and saw Sarah staring at him, her alabaster cheeks flushed.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t act like that when you were around Zizi and Ivan,” Gabriel said.

  “Did Mikhail tell you?”

  “Actually, the chief of the National Clandestine Service let it slip in conversation.”

  Sarah made no response.

  “So it’s true, then? You’re actually dating a member of my team?”

  “Are you jealous or angry?”

  “Why on earth would I be jealous, Sarah?”

  “I couldn’t carry a torch for you forever. I had to move on.”

  “And you couldn’t find anyone else other than someone who works for me?”

  “Funny how that worked out. I guess there was something about Mikhail that I found familiar.”

  “Dating a man who’s employed by the intelligence service of a foreign country isn’t exactly a wise career move, Sarah.”

  “Langley is having trouble retaining bright young talent. They’re willing to bend some of the old rules.”

  “Maybe I should have a quiet word with Personnel. They might have second thoughts.”

  “You wouldn’t dar
e, Gabriel. You also have no right to interfere in my private life.”

  Sarah’s private life, Gabriel knew, had been largely in ruins since 9:03 on the morning of September 11, 2001, when United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. On board the doomed aircraft was a young Harvard-trained lawyer named Ben Callahan. Ben had been able to make one call during the final moments of his life, and it had been to Sarah. Since that time, she had permitted herself to have feelings for only one other man. Unfortunately, that man had been Gabriel.

  “You should think long and hard before you get involved with a man who kills people for a living. Mikhail’s done a lot of terrible things for the sake of his country.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Things that might make him difficult to be around sometimes.”

  “Sounds like someone I know.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Sarah. This is your life. Besides, Israeli men are notoriously unreliable. Just ask your average Israeli woman.”

  “The Israeli men I know are quite wonderful, actually.”

  “That’s because we’re the best of the best.”

  “Mikhail included?”

  “He wouldn’t be on my team if he wasn’t. How much time have you spent with him?”

  “He’s come here a few times, and we met in Paris once.”

  “It’s not safe for you to be in Paris alone.”

  “I’m not alone. I’m with Mikhail.” A silence, then, “It’s almost like being with you.”

  Her words hung between them for a moment. “Is that what this is about, Sarah?”

  “Gabriel, please.”

  “Because I’d feel bad if Mikhail got hurt in any way.”

  “I’m sure I’m the only one who’ll get hurt.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  She smiled for the first time since Mikhail’s name had come up. “I was going to tell you tonight. We were just waiting until we knew it was . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Until it was what?”

  “Real.”

  “And is it?”

  She held his hand. “Don’t be upset, Gabriel. I was hoping this could be a celebration.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  She looked at his champagne glass. He hadn’t touched it.

  “Do you want something else?”

  “Nail polish remover. On the rocks, with a twist.”

  SINCE GABRIEL had come to Washington with the full knowledge of the CIA, Housekeeping had assigned him a not-so-safe flat on Tunlaw Road north of Georgetown. In a somewhat curious twist of fate, the apartment overlooked the rear entrance of the Russian Embassy. As Gabriel was crossing the lobby, his secure mobile vibrated in his coat pocket. It was Adrian Carter.

  “Where are you?”

  Gabriel told him.

  “I have something you need to see right away. We’ll pick you up.”

  The connection went dead. Fifteen minutes later, Gabriel was climbing into the back of Carter’s black sedan on New Mexico Avenue. Carter handed him a single sheet of paper: a transcript of a National Security Agency communications intercept, dated the previous evening Moscow time. The target was Ivan Kharkov. He had been speaking to someone inside FSB Headquarters at Lubyanka Square. Though most of the conversation was conducted in coded colloquial Russian, it was clear Ivan had given something to the FSB and now he wanted it back. That something was Grigori Bulganov.

  “You were right, Gabriel. Ivan handed Grigori over to the FSB so they could settle accounts, too. Apparently, the FSB interrogation is going too slowly for Ivan’s taste. He spent a great deal of money getting his hands on Grigori, and he’s tired of waiting. But the good news is Grigori’s alive.”

  “Is there any way you can prevail upon the FSB to keep him that way?”

  “Not a chance. Our relations with the Russian services are getting worse by the day. There’s no way they would tolerate our meddling in a strictly internal matter. And, frankly, if the roles were reversed, neither would we. From their point of view, Grigori is a defector and a traitor. You can be sure they want to kill him just as much as Ivan does.”

  “Does the CIC have anything for me?”

  “Not yet. Who knows? Maybe your friend Anatoly is a ghost.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts, Adrian. If there’s one thing we know about Ivan, he wouldn’t have entrusted Grigori’s kidnapping to someone he didn’t know.”

  “That’s Ivan’s way. Everything is personal.”

  “So it’s possible someone who’s spent a considerable amount of time around Ivan might have encountered this man at some point.” Gabriel paused. “Who knows, Adrian? She might even know his real name.”

  Carter told the driver to head back to the safe flat, then looked at Gabriel.

  “A car will pick you up at six o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m afraid we’ll have to play this one rather close to the vest. You won’t know where you’re going until you’re airborne.”

  “How should I dress?”

  Carter smiled.

  “Warmly. Very warmly.”

  32

  UPSTATE NEW YORK

  THE ADIRONDACK PARK, a vast wilderness area sprawling over six million acres in northeastern New York, is the largest public land preserve in the contiguous United States. Roughly the size of Vermont, it is larger than seven other American states—so large, in fact, the national parks of Yellowstone, Yosemite, Glacier, the Grand Canyon, and the Great Smoky Mountains could all fit neatly within its boundaries. Gabriel had not known these facts until one hour after takeoff, when his pilot, a veteran of the CIA’s rendition program, had finally revealed their destination. The forecast was rather grim: clear skies with a high temperature of perhaps zero. Gabriel assumed the pilot had converted the temperature from Fahrenheit to centigrade for the benefit of his foreign-born passenger. He hadn’t.

  It was a few minutes after ten when the plane touched down at the Adirondack Regional Airport outside Saranac Lake. Adrian Carter had arranged for a Ford Explorer to be left in the parking lot. By some miracle, the engine managed to start on the first attempt. Gabriel switched the heater to high and spent several deplorable minutes scraping ice from the windows. Climbing behind the wheel again, he could no longer feel his face. The temperature gauge of the Explorer indicated minus eight. Not possible, he thought. Surely it had to be instrument malfunction.

  Carter, a cautious soul if ever there was one, had decreed no one could approach the site with anything that transmitted or received a signal, including GPS navigation systems. Gabriel followed a set of typewritten instructions he had been given on board the plane. Leaving the airport, he turned right and followed Route 186 to Lake Clear. He made another right at Route 30 and headed toward Upper St. Regis Lake. Spitfire Lake came next, then Lower St. Regis, then the small college town of Paul Smiths. A few yards beyond the entrance of the college was Keese Mills Road, a winding lane that ran eastward into one of the more remote corners of the preserve. Somewhere in this part of the Adirondacks, the Rockefellers had kept an immense summer retreat, complete with its own rail station to accommodate the private family train. Gabriel’s destination, though far smaller than the Rockefeller estate, was scarcely less secluded. The entrance was on the left side of the road and, as Carter had warned, it was easy to miss. Gabriel sped past it the first time and had to continue driving another quarter mile before finding a suitable place to execute a U-turn on the icy road.

  A narrow track ran straight into the thick woods for approximately a hundred yards before encountering a metal security gate. No other fencing or barriers were visible, but Gabriel knew the grounds were littered with cameras, heat sensors, and motion detectors. Something had taken note of his approach because the gate slid open even before he brought the SUV to a stop. On the other side, he saw a Jeep Grand Cherokee speeding toward him across a clearing. Behind the wheel was a man in his mid-fifties with the bearing of a soldier. His name was Ed Fielding. A former officer in the CIA’s Spe
cial Operations Group, Fielding was in charge of security.

  “We told you the entrance was hard to find,” Fielding said through his open window.

  “You were watching?”

  Fielding only smiled. “You remembered to leave your cell phone at home?”

  “I remembered.”

  “What about your BlackBerry?”

  “Can’t stand the things.”

  “No secret pens or X-ray glasses?”

  “The only thing electronic in my possession is my wristwatch, and I’d be happy to pitch it into a nearby lake if that would make you more comfortable.”

  “As long as it isn’t some secret Israeli device that transmits and receives a signal, you can keep it. Besides, all the lakes are frozen.” Fielding revved his engine. “We have a bit of driving to do. Stay close. Otherwise, you might get shot by the snipers.”

  Fielding accelerated hard across the clearing. By the time they reached the next line of trees, Gabriel had closed the gap. After a half mile, the road turned up a steep hill. Though plowed and sanded earlier that morning, the surface was already frozen solid. Fielding scaled it without incident, but Gabriel struggled to maintain traction. He switched the four-wheel-drive setting from high to low and made a second attempt. This time, the tires bit into the ice, and the SUV muscled its way slowly toward the crest. In the ten seconds it had taken to make the adjustment, Fielding had slipped away. Gabriel found him a moment later, paused at a fork in the road. They headed left and drove another two miles, until they reached a clearing at the highest point of the estate.

  A large, traditional Adirondack lodge stood in the center, its soaring roof and sweeping porches facing southeast, toward the faint warmth of the midday sun and the frozen lakes of St. Regis. A second lodge stood nearer the edge of the forest, smaller than the main house but still grand in its own right. Between the two structures was a meadow where two heavily bundled children were hard at work on a snowman, watched over by a tall, dark-haired woman in a shearling coat. Hearing the sound of approaching vehicles, she turned with an animal alertness, then, a few seconds later, lifted her hand dramatically into the air.