Gabriel Allon: Prince of Fire, the Messenger, the Secret Servant

by Daniel Silva

  “I suppose you don’t look too bad for someone who survived Lubyanka. How was it?”

  “The rooms were on the small side, but the furnishings were quite lovely.”

  “Perhaps it would have been better if you’d found some other way of dealing with those Chechens besides killing them.”

  “I considered shooting the guns out of their hands, Ari, but that sort of thing really only works in the movies.”

  “I’m glad to see you emerged from your ordeal with your fatalistic sense of humor intact. A team of debriefers is waiting for you at King Saul Boulevard. I’m afraid you have a long night ahead of you.”

  “I’d rather go back to Lubyanka than face the debriefers tonight.”

  Shamron gave Gabriel a paternalistic pat on the shoulder.

  “I’ll take you home, Gabriel. We’ll talk on the way.”

  21

  JERUSALEM

  They still had much ground to cover when they arrived at Gabriel’s apartment in Narkiss Street. Despite the fact it was after midnight, Shamron invited himself upstairs for coffee. Gabriel hesitated before inserting his key into the lock.

  “Go ahead,” Shamron said calmly. “We’ve already swept it.”

  “I think I like fighting Arab terrorists better than Russians.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t always have the luxury of choosing our enemies.”

  Gabriel entered the apartment first and switched on the lights. Everything was exactly as he had left it a week earlier, including the half-drunk cup of coffee he had left in the kitchen sink on the way out the door. He poured the now-moldy remnants down the drain, then spooned coffee into the French press and placed a kettle of water on the stove to boil. When he went into the sitting room, he found Shamron with a cigarette between his lips and a cocked lighter poised before it. “You don’t get to take up smoking again just because I got thrown into Lubyanka. Besides, if Chiara smells smoke in here when she comes home I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “So you’ll blame it on me.”

  “I blame everything on you. The impact has been diluted by overuse. ”

  Shamron extinguished the lighter and laid the cigarette on the coffee table, where it would be easily accessible for a sneak attack at a moment when Gabriel’s back was turned.

  “I should have left you in Russia,” Shamron muttered.

  “How did you get me out?”

  “When it became clear to our ambassador and Moscow Station chief that the FSB had no intention of respecting your diplomatic passport, we decided to go on offense. Shin Bet regularly monitors the movements of Russian Embassy employees. As it turned out, four of them were drinking heavily in the bar of the Sheraton Hotel.”

  “How surprising.”

  “A mile from the hotel, they were pulled over for what appeared to be a routine traffic stop. It wasn’t, of course.”

  “So you kidnapped four Russian diplomats and held them hostage in order to coerce them into releasing me.”

  “We Israelites invented tit for tat. Besides, they weren’t just diplomats. Two of them were known intelligence officers of the SVR.”

  When the KGB was disbanded and reorganized, the directorate that conducted espionage activities abroad became a separate agency known as the Foreign Intelligence Service, or SVR. Like the FSB, the SVR was merely KGB with a new name and a pretty wrapper.

  “When we received confirmation from the Ukrainians that you’d made it safely across the border, we released them from custody. They’ve been quietly recalled to Moscow for consultations. With a bit of luck, they’ll stay there forever.”

  The teakettle screamed. Gabriel went into the kitchen and removed it from the stove, then switched on the television while he saw to the coffee. It was tuned to the BBC; a gray-haired reporter was standing before the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral bellowing about the possible motives behind the attempt on Olga Sukhova’s life. None of his theories were even remotely close to the truth, but they were delivered with an authority that only a British accent can bestow. Shamron, who was now standing at Gabriel’s shoulder, seemed to find the report vaguely amusing. He viewed the news media only as a source of entertainment or as a weapon to be wielded against his enemies.

  “As you can see, the Russians are being rather circumspect about exactly what transpired inside that apartment building. They’ve acknowledged Olga was the target of an attack, but they’ve released few other details about the incident. Nothing about the identity of the gunmen. Nothing about the man who saved her life.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Back in her apartment, surrounded by private security guards and brave Western reporters like our friend from the BBC. She’s as safe as one can be in Russia, which is to say not terribly safe at all. Eventually, she might want to consider a new life in the West.” His eyes settled on Gabriel. “Is she as good as she appears or is it possible she’s something else entirely?”

  “Are you asking whether she’s been turned by the FSB and was blowing smoke in my face?”

  “That is precisely what I’m asking.”

  “She’s golden, Ari. She’s a gift from the intelligence gods.”

  “I’m just wondering why she asked you to take her home. I’m wondering whether it’s possible she led you into that stairwell to be killed.”

  “Or maybe that wasn’t Olga Sukhova at all. Maybe it was Ivan Kharkov in a clever disguise.”

  “I’m paid to think dark thoughts, Gabriel. And so are you.”

  “I saw her reaction to the shooting. She’s the real thing, Ari. And she agreed to help us at great risk to herself. Remember, I was allowed to leave. Olga is still in Moscow. If the Kremlin wants her dead, they’ll kill her. And there’s nothing those security guards and brave reporters can do to protect her.”

  They sat down at the kitchen table. The BBC had moved on from Russia and was now showing footage of a fatal bomb blast in a Baghdad market. Gabriel aimed the remote at the screen and, frowning, pressed the MUTE button. Shamron fiddled with the French press for a moment before appealing to Gabriel for assistance. He occupied his spare time by restoring antique radios and clocks yet even the most basic kitchen appliances were beyond his capabilities. Coffeemakers, blenders, toasters: these items were a mystery to him. Gilah often joked that her husband, if left to his own devices, would find a way to starve to death in a house filled with food.

  “How much do we have on Ivan Kharkov?” Gabriel asked.

  “Plenty,” said Shamron. “Ivan’s been active in Lebanon for years. He makes regular deliveries to Hezbollah, but he also sells weapons to the more radical Palestinian and Islamist factions operating inside the refugee camps.”

  “What kind of weapons?”

  "The usual. Grenades, mortars, RPGs, AK-47s—and bullets, of course. Lots of bullets. But during our war with Hezbollah, the Kharkov network arranged for a special shipment of armor-piercing antitank weapons. We lost several tank crews because of them. We dispatched the foreign minister to Moscow to protest, all to no avail, of course.”

  “Which means Ivan Kharkov has an established track record of selling weapons directly to terrorist organizations.”

  “Without question. RPGs and AK-47s we can deal with. But our friend Ivan has the connections to lay his hands on the most dangerous weapons in the world. Chemical. Biological. Even nuclear weapons aren’t out of the question. We know that agents of al-Qaeda have been scouring the remnants of the old Soviet Union for years looking for nuclear material or even a fully functioning nuclear device. Maybe they’ve finally found someone willing to sell it to them.”

  Shamron spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred it slowly. “The Americans might have better insight into the situation. They’ve been watching Ivan closely for years.” He gave a sardonic smile. “The Americans love to monitor problems but do nothing about them.”

  “They’ll have to do something about him now.”

  Shamron nodded in agreement. “It’s my recommendatio
n we dump this in their lap as soon as possible and wash our hands of the affair. I want you to go to Washington and see your friend Adrian Carter. Tell him everything you learned in Moscow. Give them Elena Kharkov. Then get on the next plane to Umbria and finish your honeymoon. And don’t ever accuse me of failing to live up to my word again.”

  Gabriel stared at the silent television but made no response.

  “You disagree with my recommendation?” Shamron asked.

  “What do you think Adrian Carter and the Americans are going to do with this information?”

  “I suspect they’ll go cap in hand to the Kremlin and plead with the Russian president to block the sale.”

  “And he’ll tell the Americans that Ivan is a legitimate businessman with no ties to the illegal international arms trade. He’ll dismiss the intelligence as an anti-Russian slur spread by Jewish provocateurs who are conspiring to keep Russia backward and weak.” Gabriel shook his head slowly. “Going to the Russians and appealing for help is the last thing we should be doing. We should regard the Russian president and his intelligence services as adversaries and act accordingly.”

  “So what exactly are you suggesting?”

  “That we have a quiet word with Elena Kharkov and see if she knows more than she told Olga Sukhova.”

  “Just because she trusted Olga Sukhova once doesn’t mean she’ll trust an intelligence service of a foreign country. And remember, two Russian journalists have lost their lives because of her actions. I don’t suspect she’s going to be terribly receptive to an approach.”

  “She spends the majority of her time in London, Ari. We can get to her.”

  “And so can Ivan. She’s surrounded by his security goons night and day. They’re all former members of the Alpha Group and OMON. All her contacts and communications are probably monitored. What do you intend to do? Invite her to tea? Call her on her cell phone? Drop her an e-mail?”

  “I’m working on that part.”

  “Just know Ivan is three steps ahead of you. There’s been a leak from somewhere in his network and he knows it. His private security service is going to be on high alert. Any approach to his wife is going to set off alarm bells. One misstep and you could get her killed.”

  “So we’ll just have to do it quietly.”

  “We?”

  “This isn’t something we can do alone, Ari. We need the assistance of the Americans.”

  Shamron frowned. As a rule, he didn’t like joint operations and was uncomfortable with Gabriel’s close ties to the CIA. His generation had lived by a simple axiom known as kachol lavan, or “blue and white.” They did things for themselves and did not rely on others to help them with their problems. It was an attitude borne from the experience of the Holocaust, when most of the world had stood by silently while the Jews were fed to the fires. It had bred in men like Shamron a reluctance—indeed, a fear—of operating with others.

  “I seem to remember a conversation we had a few days ago during which you berated me for interrupting your honeymoon. Now you want to run an open-ended operation against Ivan Kharkov?”

  “Let’s just say I have a personal stake in the outcome of the case.”

  Shamron sipped his coffee. “Something tells me your new wife isn’t going to be pleased with you.”

  “She’s Office. She’ll understand.”

  “Just don’t let her anywhere near Ivan,” Shamron said. “Ivan likes to break pretty things.”

  22

  JERUSALEM

  Is this some sort of sick fantasy of yours, Gabriel? Watching a stewardess remove her clothing?”

  "I’ve never really been attracted to girls in uniform. And they’re called flight attendants now, Chiara. A woman in your line of work should know that.”

  “You could have at least flirted with me a little bit. All men flirt with flight attendants, don’t they?”

  “I didn’t want to blow your cover. You seemed to be having enough trouble as it was.”

  “I don’t know how they can wear these uniforms. Help me with my zipper.”

  “With pleasure.”

  She turned around and pulled aside her hair. Gabriel lowered the zipper and kissed the nape of her neck.

  “Your beard tickles.”

  “I’ll shave.”

  She turned around and kissed him. “Leave it for now. It makes you look very distinguished.”

  “I think it makes me look like Abraham.” He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Chiara wriggle out of the dress. “This is certainly better than spending another night in Lubyanka.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “You were supposed to be keeping an eye on the Poussin. Please tell me you didn’t leave it unguarded.”

  “Monsignor Donati took it back to the Vatican.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. How long do I have before he gives it to one of the butchers from the Vatican’s restoration department? ”

  “The end of September.” She reached behind her back and loosened the clasp on her brassiere. “Is there any food in this house? I’m famished. ”

  “You didn’t eat anything on the flight?”

  “We were too busy. How was Gilah’s chicken?”

  “Delicious.”

  “It looked a lot better than the food we were serving.”

  “Is that what you were doing?”

  “Was I that bad?”

  “Let’s just say the first-class passengers were less than pleased by the level of service. If that flight had lasted another hour, you would have had an intifada on your hands.”

  “They didn’t give us adequate training to accomplish our mission. Besides, Jewish girls shouldn’t be flight attendants.”

  “Israel is the great equalizer, Chiara. It’s good for Jews to be flight attendants and farmers and garbagemen.”

  “I’ll tell Uzi to keep that in mind the next time he’s handing out field assignments.”

  She gathered up her clothing. “I need to take a shower. I smell like bad food and other people’s cologne.”

  “Welcome to the glamorous world of air travel.”

  She leaned down and kissed him again. “Maybe you should shave after all, Gabriel. I really can’t make love to a man who looks like Abraham.”

  “He fathered Isaac at a very old age.”

  “With help from God. I’m afraid you’re on your own tonight.” She touched the bruise on his cheek. “Did they hurt you?”

  “Not really. We spent most of the night playing gin rummy and swapping stories about the good old days before the Wall came down.”

  “You’re upset about something. I can always tell when you’re upset. You make terrible jokes to cover it up.”

  “I’m upset because it appears a Russian arms trafficker named Ivan Kharkov is planning to sell some very dangerous weapons to al-Qaeda. And because the woman who risked her life to tell us about it is now in very serious danger.” He hesitated, then added, “And because it’s going to be a while before we can resume our honeymoon in Umbria.”

  “You’re not thinking about going back to Russia?”

  “Just Washington.”

  She stroked his beard and said, “Have a nice trip, Abraham.”

  Then she walked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

  She’s Office, he told himself. She’ll understand.

  Eventually.

  23

  GEORGETOWN

  The CIA sent a plane for him, a Gulfstream G500, with leather club chairs, in-flight action movies, and a galley stocked with a vast amount of unwholesome snack food. It touched down at Andrews Air Force Base in the equatorial heat of midday and was met in a secure hangar by a pair of Agency security agents. Gabriel recognized them; they were the same two officers who had dragged him against his will to CIA Headquarters during his last visit to Washington. He feared a return engagement now but was pleasantly surprised when their destination turned out to be a graceful redbrick town house in the 3300 block of N
Street in Georgetown. Waiting in the entrance hall was a man of retirement age, dressed in a navy blue blazer and crumpled gabardine trousers. He had the tousled thinning hair of a university professor and a mustache that had gone out of fashion with disco music, Crock-Pots, and the nuclear freeze. “Gabriel,” said Adrian Carter as he extended his hand. “So good of you to come.”

  “You’re looking well, Adrian.”

  “And you’re still a terrible liar.” He looked at Gabriel’s face and frowned. “I assume that lovely bruise on your cheek is a souvenir of your night in Lubyanka?”

  “I wanted to bring you something, but the gift shop was closed.”

  Carter gave a faint smile and took Gabriel by the elbow. “I thought you might be hungry after your travels. I’ve arranged for some lunch. How was the flight, by the way?”

  “It was very considerate of you to send your plane on such short notice.”

  “That one isn’t mine,” Carter said without elaboration.

  “Air Guantánamo?”

  “And points in between.”

  “So that explains the handcuffs and the hypodermics.”

  “It beats having to listen to them talk. Your average jihadi makes a damn lousy traveling companion.”

  They entered the living room. It was a formal Georgetown salon, rectangular and high-ceilinged, with French doors overlooking a small terrace. The furnishings were costly but in poor taste, the sort of pieces one finds in the hospitality suite of a luxury business hotel. The impression was made complete by the catered buffet-style meal that had been laid upon the sideboard. All that was missing was a pretty young hostess to offer Gabriel a glass of mediocre chardonnay.

  Carter wandered over to the buffet and selected a ham sandwich and a ginger ale. Gabriel drew a cup of black coffee from a silver pump-action thermos and sat in a wing chair next to the French doors. Carter sat down next to him and balanced his plate on his knees.

  “Shamron tells me Ivan has been a bad boy again. Give me everything you’ve got. And don’t spare me any of the details.” He cracked open his soft drink. “I happen to love stories about Ivan. They serve as helpful reminders that there are some people in this world who will do absolutely anything for money.”