“That’s not true,” said Jonathan. “I only found out Emma was in London last night.”
“Come on,” said Graves, suddenly assuming a comradely manner. “Stop lying to us. Surely you knew about it. You were helping her at every turn. Did you smuggle in the explosives? Swipe some plastique from your rebel buddies in Africa? Was that your part of the job? Later you can tell us how you managed to sneak it past our boys. Right now we’re more interested in why you and your wife wanted to blow up the Russian interior minister. Who exactly are you working for, Dr. Ransom?”
Jonathan recalled the white, red, and blue flag flying from the car’s antenna. The interior minister could count himself lucky to be alive. Emma didn’t fail often. “I don’t know anything about the Russian or about the bomb. I was invited to London to give a speech at a medical conference. I’m not working for anyone.”
“Then what were you doing at the exact location where the attack took place?”
“I already told you. I was trying to stop her.”
“Stop a dead woman from carrying out an attack you didn’t know was going to take place?” Graves continued relentlessly. “Please, Dr. Ransom, listen to yourself. Don’t insult our intelligence.”
Just then Jonathan heard a boom far in the distance and its echo drifting over the countryside. He was familiar with the sound of heavy artillery. He fingered the rough wool blanket. They had him tucked away at an army base. He was outside the system, and he knew all too well the kinds of things that happened there. If he ever wanted to get out of here, he was going to have to cooperate. Emma had been right. He must tell them everything.
“Emma worked for the U.S. government,” he said. “She was an operative for an organization called Division. It’s part of the Defense Department, but don’t bother looking it up. It doesn’t exist. At least, not officially. Something happened in Switzerland last February. A mission that went wrong … Actually, Emma made it go wrong. Several of Division’s men were killed, including its leader. It was better that we pretended she was dead.”
“Why’s that?” asked Graves.
“Emma knew that Division would come after her. She had to hide. I only found out that she was in London last night. I was at a reception in my hotel for the conference and Emma sent someone to tell me she was here. She arranged for us to meet at an apartment on Edgware Road.”
Kate Ford asked for the address, then shared a look with Graves. “And why did she wish to see you?”
“To say goodbye. She wanted to let me know that it was getting too dangerous for her. She couldn’t risk making contact with me in the future. She came to my hotel at four this morning. She got a call before she left my room. I sensed something wasn’t right. You know, that she was up to something. I asked her why she was really here and she told me to mind my own business. I didn’t know it was an operation, or that it had anything to do with any Russians. I thought it was something to do with her keeping safe. Staying one step ahead of them. Anyway, it didn’t matter one way or the other. All I cared about was that she was leaving. I couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing her again. When she left the room this morning, I followed her. She went to a house in Hampstead and picked up the car there.”
“Do you have an address?” asked Ford.
“No, but if you take me there, I can probably find the place.”
Graves shot Ford a disbelieving glance. “Go on,” he said.
“After that I followed her to Storey’s Gate. She stayed in the car for a while, and that confused me. But as soon as I saw the motorcade I knew. With Emma there aren’t any maybes. That’s why I was shouting at her. I didn’t want her to go through with it.”
“So it’s your word that you didn’t know anything about her plan to assassinate Igor Ivanov until you reached Storey’s Gate?” Ford pressed.
“Of course I didn’t know,” said Jonathan more confidently, now that the truth was in the open.
“I think I’ve heard enough,” said Graves, snorting as if he wasn’t having any of it. “The Americans have never heard of your wife. We checked with Langley first thing. We wanted to give them a chance to ’fess up, as it were. You being an American. They denied it absolutely. Never heard of Emma Ransom. Don’t know a thing about a plot to kill Ivanov. Shocked. Angered. Offered their help, and I believe them. They’d never even consider carrying out that kind of an attack on our soil. I’ve got contacts at the FBI, too. Your wife’s name drew a blank again. The only vaguely truthful thing you’ve told us so far is that she was in Switzerland last February, but you want to know something? The British passport she was traveling on was a phony. And now you want me to believe that she worked for some secret spy shop you called …” Graves prompted Jonathan for the name.
“Division,” said Jonathan.
“Division,” repeated Graves, “that either is or isn’t a part of the United States Department of Defense. And that she was some sort of operative traipsing around Europe and pulling jobs. I’m sorry, Dr. Ransom, but we have a word over here for that kind of story. Bollocks.”
“Believe what you want,” said Jonathan. “I’m sick of this.”
Graves shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know why I shouldn’t throw you to the wolves.”
Jonathan sat up, ignoring his pounding head. “Because I am not involved. Can you get that through your thick head?”
Graves stepped closer to the bed. “We put that shirt you were wearing through one of our fancy machines. It said that there was enough explosives residue on it to set off a dozen scanners. At some point in the past twenty-four hours you’ve been in direct contact with plastic explosives.”
“That’s impossible.” But even as Jonathan said the words he knew that it was possible—that somehow it was Emma’s doing.
Graves went on. “As it stands, you’re an accomplice to murder and guilty of conspiracy to commit a terrorist act. You’ve admitted that it was your wife we saw on the tape. We have pictures of you at the scene moments before the attack. Add to that the explosives residue on your shirt and you won’t last a morning at the Old Bailey. The only pity is that we don’t execute scum like you anymore. We just let them rot in prison. Now tell us where we can find your wife.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“I don’t know any more than you.”
Jonathan sank back onto the bed. It was over. He was going to jail for a very long time.
The policemen came back into the room an hour later. It was evident from the start that their demeanor had changed. Not the woman. She was as stiff and upright as ever. But Graves appeared more relaxed, determined as ever, but looser, as if he’d come upon a new and guaranteed way to make Jonathan talk.
“Listen closely,” said the man from MI5. “I’m not saying I believe one word of what you told us. However, I made it a point to speak with a man you might know. Actually, he’s an old friend of mine. Marcus von Daniken, from the Swiss Service of Analysis and Prevention. I see the name rings a bell. Anyhow, seeing as how he and I both do more or less the same job, I gave him a shout and asked if he knew anything about your wife. Told him she was involved in today’s business and that I had you in custody. He might have let slip a few things that I’m fairly certain others wouldn’t want to get out. I’m not saying I know anything about an attack on an El Al jetliner or an organization called Division. For the record, I don’t, and that will never change. But von Daniken did tell me one thing. Do you know what that is?”
Jonathan shook his head.
“He told me that you were a tenacious SOB. And that you moved hell and high water to discover what your wife was up to. Given those facts, and given some other complexities that we are not at liberty to reveal, I’m going to ask you to do something for us.”
“What’s that?”
Graves sat down on the edge of the bed and took his time crossing his arms and getting comfortable. “There’s a reason that we’re out here in the country at He
reford instead of downtown at Scotland Yard,” he said. “Once you’re named as a suspect, I can’t come within a mile of you. A criminal act has taken place. Innocent people are dead. Someone has to pay, and you were involved. It’s an enforcement matter, pure and simple. Even as we speak, my friends over at SO15 are baying for your blood. But I’ve talked to my boss, and he’s talked to theirs, and all things considered, we’ve decided it’s best that this part of the investigation remain under my purview a little longer. For now, there are to be no charges filed against you. Technically, you’re a free man.”
Jonathan stared into Graves’s eyes. He was capable and smart and more than a little ruthless. Jonathan knew better than to trust him. “So what is it exactly that you want?”
“You’re going to lead us to her,” said Graves with a valedictory smile. “You’re going to help us find your wife.”
21
His name was Sergei Shvets and he was chairman of the Russian Federal Security Service, or FSB, the successor to the much vaunted and feared KGB. Seated in the copilot’s seat of the Kamov helicopter, he watched with impatience as the calm waters of the Black Sea whisked below him. He was a sturdy man with dark, sunken eyes, a bulldog’s jowls, and a spray of silver hair. He was fifty years old. In Russia, he looked his age. In Paris, New York, or London, people thought him sixty. Though it was cool inside the cockpit, beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip.
“How much longer?” he asked the pilot.
“Five minutes.”
“Good,” said Shvets, checking his watch. For some meetings, it was wise not to arrive late.
Ahead, sprawled across a 150-kilometer crescent of shoreline, lay the city of Sochi, and behind it, rising out of a pink mist, the snowcapped spine of the Caucasus Mountains. Sochi had long been the chosen summer resort of Russia’s Communist leaders. Like those leaders, the town was staid and orthodox, almost ashamed of its bourgeois subtropical climate. In the past few years, however, the city had undergone a spate of development. The country’s newly minted elite arrived in loud, bejeweled masses to revel in Sochi’s abundant sunshine and outdoor cafés. Luxury villas had sprung up along the seafront, each more grandiose than the next. Roads meant for ZILs and Ladas were clogged with Mercedeses and Range Rovers. Sochi was christened Russia’s Saint-Tropez.
But of late the president had given his countrymen a new reason to flock to Sochi. In 2014 the Black Sea resort would host the XXII Winter Olympic Games.
Shvets counted the number of cranes on the skyline and stopped at fourteen. It was the same number as the last time he had visited. As the helicopter swooped low over the city, he observed that several of the building sites appeared deserted, or in some cases abandoned altogether. Sochi, like the Rodina, lived and died according to the price of oil. He had little time to consider this. By then he’d spotted his destination and was pulling himself upright in his seat, wiping his brow, and tightening his necktie.
Bocharov Ruchei, the president’s summer palace built in the 1950s, was situated on a wide swatch of lakefront several kilometers south of the city. The helicopter landed in a grass field adjacent to the palace’s office wing. A waiting shuttle delivered Shvets to the rear of the president’s quarters. As he walked toward the entrance, he noticed a shadow above him. He glanced up. Snipers from the Interior Ministry were positioned on every rooftop of the complex. The president was frightened. This was a new development.
Once inside, Shvets was led to an elevator and ushered two floors belowground to the president’s shooting range. An aide offered him noise suppressors. Shvets placed them over his ears before passing through the glass doors that led into the range itself. Back to the wall, he watched the president fire round after round into the blackened silhouette of a United States Marine.
Finally the president turned and motioned for Shvets to approach. “Well?” asked the president.
“Ivanov is alive, but in intensive care. I have no word yet about his prognosis. Ambassador Orlov is dead, along with several of his staff. The police have no one in custody. Details are still sketchy, but it’s clear that this was no homegrown operation. The attack required expert planning, execution, and intelligence.”
The president struggled with the pistol’s safety. He possessed none of his predecessor’s facility with weapons, nor his love of violence. By nature he was weak but cunning. A weasel, with a weasel’s razor-sharp teeth. He was also smart. He knew that Russia demanded its leader to be a strong man and he was determined not to disappoint.
“Orlov was a good man,” he said. “I know his family. We will make sure he receives a state funeral.” He finally snapped the safety into place and gazed up at his visitor. “Did we not have any indication that something was in the air?”
“None,” responded Shvets. “Given Ivanov’s history, it’s difficult to know the motive. If ever there was a man with an abundance of enemies, it is Igor Ivanovich.”
“True, but I am certain this is not about Igor Ivanov.”
“Oh?”
“If Ivanov’s enemies wished to kill him, they could find a way to do it in Moscow with far less trouble.” The president dropped the clip from his pistol, and Shvets saw that it was the antique 1911 Tokarev custom built for Czar Nicholas II, rumored to be the very weapon that had killed him and his family. Even from several steps away, he could see the jeweled Romanov eagle embedded in the pistol’s pearl handle.
“No, this was not an attack on Ivanov,” the president went on. “This was an attack on our country. An attempt to strike while we are weak.”
Shvets thought of the abandoned worksites he’d viewed flying in, the buildings left half finished. He did not refute the comment. The country was in a lamentable condition, and everyone knew it.
For the past ten years the Russian economy had expanded at an average annual rate of 7 percent. Growth was due entirely to the exploitation of its vast natural resources: timber, gold, diamonds, natural gas, and most of all oil. Proven reserves stood at 80 billion barrels—seventh largest in the world—with experts certain that another 100 billion barrels remained to be discovered. Production had increased from 6 million barrels a day in 2001 to 10 million barrels a day in the past year. This increase, along with the stratospheric rise in oil prices over the same time, had resulted in a bonanza of cash. At its peak, Russia was earning well over $1 billion a day from oil exports alone, or over 65 percent of the country’s gross domestic product.
Since then the price of oil had utterly collapsed, and it showed no signs of rebounding. The stock market had shed 80 percent of its value, and foreign direct investment had dried up entirely. Worse still, the ruble was down by half against the dollar in the past three months alone.
The country was in free fall.
“Do you know why I sent Igor Ivanovich to London?” the president asked.
Shvets admitted that he did not.
“I sent him to meet with a consortium of European petroleum companies in the hopes of winning back their confidence so that they might consider investing with us once again. In the past we were arrogant. We did not keep our promises to our business partners. Our demeanor was predatory. We wanted everything for ourselves. It’s no wonder that they fled. I’ll admit it was my fault, but what’s done is done. It was Ivanov who showed me that I was wrong. Without help from the West, we will never be able to bring back oil production to its former level, let alone increase it. With my blessing, he extended an olive branch to the major petroleum producers. It was not a popular decision.”
“Oh?”
“The men who run our domestic oil operations aren’t anxious to cede even one ruble to others. They’ve grown fat and lazy. They’ve lost the ability to separate their own well-being from that of the motherland’s.”
Shvets knew them well.
Before moving into the private sector, all had spent their careers with the KGB. One had served an assignment as station chief in Mozambique. Another had been second secretary at the United Natio
ns. A third had acted as a double agent nestled inside the Russian embassy in Madrid, pretending to be America’s greatest source. And Shvets had headed Directorate S of the KGB, in charge of clandestine operations, everything from running covert agents abroad to conducting industrial espionage on Russia’s behalf to planning and executing acts of terror on foreign soil.
They were a brotherhood of spies.
And as such, none was to be trusted.
Shvets knew why the president had posted snipers around his compound.
“Do you believe that one of them had something to do with the attack on Ivanov?” he asked.
“I said no such thing.” But the president’s sour expression conveyed a different message. “Igor Ivanovich is a friend. He is also a patriot, which is more than I can say for the others. You will bring the state’s fullest resources to tracking down and punishing his attackers.”
The president hugged Shvets and kissed his cheeks three times, as was their custom. “And Sergei,” he said, holding the spy at arm’s length. “If, by God, they are Russian, I shall carry out the sentence myself.”
22
In London, Interior Minister Igor Ivanov lay sleeping in his bed in the intensive care unit of St. Catharine’s Hospital. One IV delivered a glucose drip to his arm. Another administered hourly doses of pentobarbital to keep him in an induced coma. A cuff monitored his blood pressure. Clamps on his fingers measured his blood oxygen. His face—or what was visible of it beneath his bandages—was colored a violent, multihued purple. Gashes on his forehead and cheek had required a total of ninety-nine stitches. He was not a handsome man to begin with. He would be less so upon his discharge, should he survive.
“Do you know who he is?” asked the nurse in charge, a soft-spoken brunette named Anna.
Dr. Andrew Howe, chief of neurology, finished entering the patient’s vital signs on his chart. “Ivanov? Some sort of diplomat, isn’t he?”
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