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

by Daniel Silva

  “This is my very good friend, Michael Danilov. Michael and I work in the same office in Washington. If any of our colleagues found out we were here together, there would be a terrible scandal.”

  “So we share another secret? Just like the hiding place for the key to the nursery?” She was still clinging to Mikhail’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Michael.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Kharkov. I’ve been an admirer of your husband’s success for some time. When Sarah told me that she’d met you, I was extremely envious.”

  Hearing Mikhail’s accent, Elena’s face took on an expression of surprise. It was contrived, Sarah thought, just as her smile had been a moment earlier. “You’re a Russian,” she said, not as a question but as a statement of fact.

  “Actually, I’m an American citizen now, but, yes, I was born in Moscow. My family moved to the States not long after the fall of communism. ”

  “How fascinating.” Elena looked at Sarah. “You never told me you had a Russian boyfriend.”

  “It’s not exactly the sort of personal information one reveals during a business transaction. Besides, Michael is my secret Russian boyfriend. Michael doesn’t really exist.”

  “I love conspiracies,” Elena said. “Please, you must join me for lunch.”

  “Are you sure it’s not an imposition?”

  “Are you sure you want to have lunch with my children?”

  “We would love to have lunch with your children.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  Elena summoned Jean-Luc with an imperious wave of her hand and, in French, asked him to add another table to the banquette so her friends could join her. There followed much frowning and pouting of lips, then a lengthy explanation of how the tables were too closely aligned already for him to possibly add another. The only solution, he ventured cautiously, was for Mrs. Kharkov’s two friends to trade places with two of Mrs. Kharkov’s entourage. This time it was Oleg, the chief of her detail, who was summoned. Like Jean-Luc before him, he offered resistance. It was overcome by a few tense words that, had they not been spoken in colloquial Russian, would have scandalized the entire room.

  The exchange of places was swiftly carried out. Two of the bodyguards were soon sulking at the far end of the table, one with a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Sarah tried not to think about whom he was calling. Instead, she kept her gaze focused on the children. They were miniature versions of their parents: Nikolai, fair and compact; Anna, lanky and dark. “You should see photographs of Ivan and me when we were their age,” Elena said, as if reading Sarah’s thoughts. “It’s even more shocking.”

  “It’s as if you produced exact duplicates.”

  “We did, right down to the shape of their toes.”

  “And their dispositions?”

  “Anna is much more independent than I was as a child. I was always clinging to my mother’s apron. Anna lives in her own world. My Anna likes time to herself.”

  “And Nikolai?”

  Elena was silent for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer the question with evasion or honesty. She chose the latter. “My precious Nikolai is much sweeter than his father. Ivan accuses me of babying him too much. Ivan’s father was distant and authoritarian, and I’m afraid Ivan is as well. Russian men don’t always make the best fathers. Unfortunately, it is a cultural trait they pass on to their sons.” She looked at Mikhail and, in Russian, asked: “Wouldn’t you agree, Michael?”

  “My father was a mathematician,” he replied, also in Russian. “His head was too filled with numbers to think much about his son. But he was gentle as a lamb, and he never touched alcohol.”

  “Then you should consider yourself extremely lucky. A weakness for alcohol is another trait our men tend to pass on to their sons.” She raised her wineglass and spoke in English again. “Although I must confess I have a certain weakness for cold rosé on a warm summer day, especially the rosé that comes from the vineyards around Saint-Tropez. ”

  “A weakness I share myself,” Sarah said, raising her glass.

  “Are you staying here in Saint-Tropez?”

  “Just outside,” said Sarah. “At the Château de la Messardière.”

  “I hear it’s very popular with Russians.”

  “Let’s just say that no one expressed any surprise at my accent there,” Mikhail replied.

  “I hope our countrymen are behaving themselves.”

  “For the most part. But I’m afraid there was one minor incident at the pool involving a middle-aged Moscow businessman and his extremely young girlfriend.”

  “What sort of incident?”

  Mikhail made a show of thought. “I suppose uncontrolled lust would be the best way to describe it in polite company.”

  “I hear there’s a great deal of that going around,” Elena said. “We Russians love it here in France, but I’m not so sure the French love us in return. Some of my countrymen don’t know how to conduct themselves in polite company yet. They like to drink vodka instead of wine. And they like to flaunt their pretty young mistresses.”

  “The French like anyone with money and power,” said Mikhail. “And, at the moment, the Russians have both.”

  “Now, if we could only learn some manners.” Elena turned her gaze from Mikhail to Sarah. “By the way, the answer to your question is yes.”

  Sarah was momentarily confused. Elena tapped the postcard with her fingertip. “The Cassatt,” she said. “I am enjoying it. In fact, I’m enjoying it a great deal. I’m not sure whether you know this, Sarah, but I own six other paintings by Madame Cassatt. I know her work extremely well. I think this one might actually be my favorite.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way. It takes away some of the sting of losing it.”

  “Has it been hard for you?”

  “The first night was hard. And the first morning was even worse.”

  “Then you must come see it again. It’s here, you know.”

  “We wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I insist that you come tomorrow. You’ll have lunch and a swim.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added: “And you can see the painting, of course.”

  A waiter appeared and placed a plate of steak haché avec pomme frites in front of each child. Elena instructed Sarah and Mikhail to have a look at the menu and was opening her own when her mobile phone began to chime. She drew it from her handbag and looked at the display screen before lifting the cover. The conversation that followed was brief and conducted in Russian. When it was over, she closed the phone with a snap and placed it carefully on the table before her. Then she looked at Sarah and treated her to another smile filled with false light.

  “Ivan was planning to take his yacht out to sea this afternoon but he’s decided to join us for lunch instead. He’s just over in the harbor. He’ll be here in a minute or two.”

  “How lovely,” said Sarah.

  Elena closed her menu and shot a glance at the bodyguards. “Yes,” she said. “Ivan can be very thoughtful when he wants to be.”

  38

  SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

  The "arrival,"” as it would become known in the lexicon of the operation, took place precisely forty-seven seconds after Elena laid her mobile phone upon the white tablecloth. Though Ivan had been standing just three hundred yards away at the moment he placed the call, he came by armored Mercedes rather than on foot, lest one of his enemies was lurking amid the sea of humanity shuffling listlessly along the quays of the Old Port. The car roared into the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville at high speed and stopped abruptly a few feet from Grand Joseph’s entrance. Ivan waited in the backseat another fifteen seconds, long enough to ignite a murmur of intense speculation inside the restaurant as to his identity, nationality, and profession. Then he emerged in an aggressive blur, like a prizefighter charging from his corner to finish off a hapless opponent. Once inside the restaurant, he paused again in the entranceway, this time to survey the room and to allow the room to
survey him in return. He wore loose-fitting trousers of black linen and a shirt of luminous white cotton. His iron hair shone with a fresh coat of oil, and around his thick left wrist was a gold watch the size of a sundial. It glittered like plundered treasure as he strode over to the table.

  He did not sit down immediately; instead, he stood for a moment at Elena’s back and placed his huge hands proprietarily around the base of her neck. The faces of Nikolai and Anna brightened with the unexpected appearance of their father, and Ivan’s face softened momentarily in response. He said something to them in Russian that made the children both burst into laughter and caused Mikhail to smile. Ivan appeared to make a mental note of this. Then his gaze flashed over the table like a searchlight over an open field, before coming to rest on Sarah. The last time Ivan had seen her, she had been cloaked in Gabriel’s dowdy clothing. Now she wore a thin peach-colored sundress that hung from her body in a way that created the impression of veiled nudity. Ivan admired her unabashedly, as though he were contemplating adding her to his collection. Sarah extended her hand, more as a defense mechanism than a sign of friendship, but Ivan ignored it and kissed her cheek instead. His sandpaper skin smelled of coconut butter and another woman.

  “Saint-Tropez obviously agrees with you, Sarah. Is this your first time here?”

  “Actually, I’ve been coming to Saint-Tropez since I was a little girl.”

  “You have an uncle here, too?”

  “Ivan!” snapped Elena.

  “No uncles.” Sarah smiled. “Just a longtime love affair with the South of France.”

  Ivan frowned. He didn’t like to be reminded of the fact that anyone, especially a young Western woman, had ever been anywhere or done anything before him.

  “Why didn’t you mention you were coming here last month? We could have made arrangements to get together.”

  “I didn’t realize you spent time here.”

  “Really? It was in all the papers. My home used to be owned by a member of the British royal family. When I acquired it, the London papers went into something of a frenzy.”

  “I somehow missed it.”

  Once again, Sarah was struck by the flat quality of Ivan’s English. It was like being addressed by an announcer on the English-language service of Radio Moscow. He glanced at Mikhail, then looked at Sarah again.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” he asked.

  Mikhail rose and held out his hand. “My name is Michael Danilov. Sarah and I work together in Washington.”

  Ivan took the proffered hand and gave it a bone-crushing squeeze. “Michael? What kind of name is that for a Russian?”

  “The kind that makes me sound less like a boy from Moscow and more like an American.”

  “To hell with the Americans,” Ivan declared.

  “I’m afraid you’re in the presence of one.”

  “Perhaps we can do something to change that. I assume your real name is Mikhail?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then Mikhail you shall be, at least for the remainder of the afternoon. ” He seized the arm of a passing waiter. “More wine for the women, please. And a bottle of vodka for me and my new friend, Mikhail.”

  He enthroned himself on the luminous white banquette, with Sarah to his right and Mikhail directly opposite. With his left hand, he was pouring icy vodka into Mikhail’s glass as though it were truth serum. His right arm was flung along the back of the banquette. The fine cotton of his shirt was brushing against Sarah’s bare shoulders.

  “So you and Sarah are friends?” he asked Mikhail.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “What kind of friends?”

  Once again Elena objected to Ivan’s forwardness and once again Ivan ignored her. Mikhail stoically drained his glass of vodka and, with a sly Russian nod of the head, implied that he and Sarah were very good friends indeed.

  “You came to Saint-Tropez together?” Ivan asked, refilling the empty glass.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re staying together?”

  “We are,” Mikhail answered. Then Elena added helpfully: “At the Château de la Messardière.”

  “You like it there? The staff is looking after you?”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “You should come stay with us at Villa Soleil. We have a guesthouse. Actually, we have three guesthouses, but who’s counting?”

  You’re counting, Sarah thought, but she said politely: “That’s very kind of you to make such a generous offer, Mr. Kharkov, but we really couldn’t impose. Besides, we paid for our room in advance.”

  “It’s only money,” Ivan said with the dismissive tone of a man who has far too much of it. He tried to pour more vodka into Mikhail’s glass, but Mikhail covered it with his hand.

  “I’ve had quite enough, thanks. Two’s my limit.”

  Ivan acted as though he had not heard him and doled out a third. The interrogation resumed.

  “I assume you live in Washington, too?”

  “A few blocks from the Capitol.”

  “Do you and Sarah live together?”

  “Ivan!”

  “No, Mr. Kharkov. We only work together.”

  “And where is that?”

  “At the Dillard Center for Democracy. It’s a nonprofit group that attempts to promote democracy around the world. Sarah runs our sub-Saharan Africa initiative. I do the computers.”

  “I believe I’ve heard of this organization. You poked your nose into the affairs of Russia a few years ago.”

  “We have a very active program in Eastern Europe,” Sarah said. “But our Russia initiative was closed down by your president. He wasn’t terribly fond of us.”

  “He was right to close you down. Why is it you Americans feel the need to push democracy down the throats of the rest of the world?”

  “You don’t believe in democracy, Mr. Kharkov?”

  “Democracy is fine for those who wish to be democratic, Sarah. But there are some countries that simply don’t want democracy. And there are others where the ground has not been sufficiently fertilized for democracy to take root. Iraq is a fine example. You went into Iraq in the name of establishing a democracy in the heart of the Muslim world, a noble goal, but the people were not ready for it.”

  “And Russia?” she asked.

  “We are a democracy, Sarah. Our parliament is elected. So is our president.”

  “Your system allows for no viable opposition, and, without a viable opposition, there can be no democracy.”

  “Perhaps not your kind of democracy. But it is a democracy that works for Russia. And Russia must be allowed to manage its own affairs without the rest of the world looking over our shoulder and criticizing our every move. Would you rather we return to the chaos of the nineties, when Yeltsin placed our future in the hands of American economic and political advisers? Is this what you and your friends wish to inflict on us?”

  Elena cautiously suggested a change of subject. “Ivan has many friends in the Russian government,” she explained. “He takes it rather personally when they’re criticized.”

  “I meant no disrespect, Mr. Kharkov. And I think you raise interesting points.”

  “But not valid ones?”

  “It is my hope, and the hope of the Dillard Center, that Russia should one day be a true democracy rather than a managed one.”

  “The day of Russian democracy has already arrived, Sarah. But my wife is correct, as usual. We should change the subject.” He looked at Mikhail. “Why did your family leave Russia?”

  “My father felt we would have more opportunities in America than Moscow.”

  “Your father was a dissident?”

  “Actually, he was a member of the Party. He was a teacher.”

  “And did he find his opportunities?”

  “He taught high school mathematics in New York. That’s where I grew up.”

  “A schoolteacher? He went all the way to America to become a schoolteacher? What kind of man forsak
es his own country to teach school in another? You should undo your father’s folly by coming back to Russia. You wouldn’t recognize Moscow. We need talented people like you to help build our country’s future. Perhaps I could find a position for you in my own organization.”

  “I’m quite happy where I am, but thank you for the offer.”

  “But you haven’t heard it yet.”

  Ivan smiled. It was as pleasant as a sudden crack in a frozen lake. Once again, Elena offered apologia.

  “You’ll have to forgive my husband’s reaction. He isn’t used to people saying no to him.” Then to Ivan: “You can try again tomorrow, darling. Sarah and Michael are coming to the villa for the afternoon.”

  “Wonderful,” he said. “I’ll send a car to collect you from your hotel.”

  “We have a car,” Mikhail countered. “I’m sure we can find our way.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll send a proper car to collect you.”

  Ivan opened his menu and insisted everyone else do the same. Then he leaned close to Sarah, so that his chest was pressing against her bare shoulder.

  “Have the lobster-and-mango spring rolls to start,” he said. “I promise, your life will never be the same again.”

  39

  GASSIN, FRANCE

  At the old stone villa outside Gassin, dinner that evening had been a hasty affair: baguettes and cheese, a green salad, roasted chickens from the local charcuterie. Their ransacked bones lay scattered over the outdoor table like carrion, along with a heel of bread and three empty bottles of mineral water. At one end of the table lay a tourist brochure advertising deep-sea fishing trips in a sea now empty of fish. It might have looked like ordinary refuse were it not for the brief message, hastily scribbled over a photograph of a young boy holding a tuna twice his size. It had been written by Mikhail and passed to Yaakov, in a classic maneuver, in the Place Carnot. Gabriel was gazing at it now as if trying to rewrite it through the sheer force of his will. Eli Lavon was gazing at Gabriel, his chin resting in his palm, like a grandmaster pleading with a lesser opponent to either move or capitulate.