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

by Daniel Silva

  “Maybe it’s the travel arrangements that bother me most,” Lavon said finally in an attempt to prod Gabriel into action. “Maybe I’m not comfortable with the fact that Ivan won’t let them come in their own car.”

  “Maybe he’s just a control freak.” Gabriel’s tone was ambivalent, as if he were expressing a possible explanation rather than a firmly held opinion. “Maybe he doesn’t want strange cars on his property. Strange cars can contain strange electronic equipment. Sometimes, strange cars can even contain bombs.”

  “Or maybe he wants to take them on a surveillance detection run before he lets them onto the property. Or maybe he’ll just skip the professional niceties and kill them immediately instead.”

  “He’s not going to kill them, Eli.”

  “Of course not,” said Lavon sarcastically. “Ivan wouldn’t lay a finger on them. After all, it’s not as if he didn’t kill a meddlesome reporter in broad daylight in St. Peter’s Basilica.” He held up a single sheet of paper, a printout of an NSA intercept. “Five minutes after Ivan left that restaurant, he was on the phone to Arkady Medvedev, the chief of his private security service, telling him to run a background check on Mikhail’s father and the Dillard Center.”

  “And when he does, he’ll find that Mikhail’s father was indeed a teacher who immigrated to America in the early nineties. And he’ll find that the Dillard Center occupies a small suite of offices on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington.”

  “Ivan knows about cover stories, and he certainly knows about CIA front organizations. The KGB was far better at it than Langley ever was. The Russians had a network of fronts all around the globe, some of them run by Ivan’s father, no doubt. Ivan drank KGB tradecraft with his mother’s milk. It’s in his DNA.”

  “If Ivan had qualms about Sarah and Mikhail, he wouldn’t let them come close to him. He’d push them away. And he’d make it clear to Elena that they were strictly off-limits.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. Ivan’s KGB. If he suspected Sarah and Mikhail weren’t kosher, he’d play it exactly like this. He’d put a team of watcherson them. He’d slip a bug in their hotel room to make sure they’re really who they say they are. And he’d invite them to lunch to try to find out how much they know about his network.”

  Gabriel, with his silence, conceded the point.

  “Cancel lunch,” said Lavon. “Arrange another bump.”

  “If we cancel, Ivan will know something’s not right. And there’s no way he’ll believe that another chance encounter is only a coincidence. We’ve flirted long enough. Elena’s clearly interested. It’s time to start talking about consummating the relationship. And the only way we can talk is by going to lunch at Ivan’s house.”

  Lavon picked up a chicken bone and searched it for a scrap of meat. “Do I need to remind you whom Sarah works for? And do I also need to remind you that Adrian Carter might not agree with your decision to send her in there tomorrow?”

  “Sarah might work for Langley, but she belongs to us. And as for a decision about what to do, I haven’t made one yet.”

  “What are you going to do, Gabriel?”

  “I’m going to sit here for a while and think about it.”

  Lavon tossed the bone onto the pile and placed his chin in his palm.

  “I’ll help.”

  40

  SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

  Next day, the heat arrived. It came from the south on a scalding wind, fierce, dry, and filled with grit. The pedestrians who ventured into the centre ville clung to the false cool of the shadows, while on the coastline, from the Baie de Pampelonne down to Cap Cartaya, beachgoers huddled motionless beneath their parasols or sat simmering in the shallows. A few deranged souls stretched themselves prostrate upon the broiling sands; by late morning, they looked like casualties of a desert battle. At noon, the local radio reported that it was officially the hottest day ever recorded in Saint-Tropez. All agreed the Americans were to blame.

  Villa Soleil, Ivan Kharkov’s estate on the Baie de Cavalaire, seemed to have been spared the full force of the heat’s fury. Immediately behind its twelve-foot walls lay a vast circular drive where nymphs frolicked in splashing fountains and flowers erupted in gardens groomed to hotel brochure perfection. The villa itself stood hard against the rocky coastline, imposing its own beauty upon the remarkable landscape. It was more palace than home, an endless series of loggias, marble corridors, statuary halls, and cavernous sitting rooms where white curtains billowed and snapped like mainsails in the constant breeze. Each wing of the house seemed to have its own unique view of the sea. And each view, thought Sarah, was more breathtaking than the last.

  They finally came upon Elena at the end of a long, cool colonnade with a checkerboard marble floor. She wore a strapless top and a floor-length wrap that shimmered with each breath of wind. Ivan stood next to her, a glass of wine sweating in his grasp. Once again, he was wearing black and white, as if to illustrate the fact that he was a man of contradictions. This time, however, the colors of his outfit were reversed: black shirt, white trousers. As they greeted each other with the casualness of an old friendship renewed, his enormous wristwatch caught the rays of the sun and reflected them into Sarah’s eyes. Before treating her to a damp kiss and a blast of his rich aftershave, he placed his wineglass carelessly on the plinth of a statue. It was female, nude, and Greek. For the moment, Sarah thought spitefully, it was the world’s most expensive coaster.

  It was immediately clear that Elena’s invitation to a quiet lunch and swim had been transformed by Ivan into a more extravagant affair. On the terrace below the colonnade, a table had been set for twenty-four. Several pretty young girls were already cavorting in a pool the size of a small bay, watched over by a dozen middle-aged Russians lounging about on chaises and divans. Ivan introduced his guests as if they were simply more of his possessions. There was a man who did something with nickel, another who traded in timber, and one, with a face like a fox, who ran a personal and corporate security firm in Geneva. The girls in the pool he introduced collectively, as though they had no names, only a purpose. One of them was Yekatarina, Ivan’s supermodel mistress, a gaunt, pouty child of nineteen, all arms, legs, and breasts, colored to caramel perfection. She gazed hard at Sarah, as though she were a potential rival, then leapt into the pool like a dolphin and disappeared beneath the surface.

  Sarah and Mikhail settled themselves between the wife of the nickel magnate, who looked deeply bored, and the timber trader, who was genial but dull. Ivan and Elena returned to the colonnade, where more guests were arriving in boisterous packs. They came down the steps in waves, like revolutionaries storming the Winter Palace, and with each new group the volume and intensity of the party seemed to rise a notch. Several frosted bottles of vodka appeared; dance music pulsated from invisible speakers. On the terrace, a second table was set for lunch, then a third. The vast pool soon took on the appearance of just another of Ivan’s fountains, as nubile nymphs were groped and tossed about by fat millionaires and muscled bodyguards. Elena moved effortlessly from group to group, kissing cheeks and refreshing drinks, but Ivan remained aloof, gazing upon the merriment as though it were a performance arranged for his own private amusement.

  It was nearly three o’clock by the time he summoned them all to lunch. By Sarah’s count, the guests now numbered seventy in all, but from Ivan’s kitchens miraculously emerged more than enough food to feed a party twice as large. She sat next to Mikhail at Ivan’s end of the table, where they were well within his sphere of influence and the scent of his cologne. It was a gluttonous affair; Ivan ate heavily but without pleasure, stabbing punitively at his food, his thoughts remote. At the end of the meal, his mood improved when Anna and Nikolai appeared, along with Sonia, their Russian nanny. The children sat together on his lap, imprisoned in his massive arms. “These two are my world,” he said directly to Sarah. “If anything ever happened to them . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he were suddenly at a loss for words. Then he added menacingly: “God
help the man who ever harms my children.”

  It was an oddly gloomy note on which to end lunch, though the rest of Ivan’s guests seemed to think nothing of it as they rose from the table and filed down the steps to the pool for a final swim. Ivan released his grip on the children and seized Mikhail’s wrist as he stood. “Don’t go so quickly,” he said. “You promised to give me a chance to convince you to come home to Russia and work for me.”

  “I’m not sure I remember that promise.”

  “But I remember it quite clearly and that’s all that matters.” He stood and smiled charmingly at Sarah. “I can be rather persuasive. If I were you, I would begin planning a move to Moscow.”

  He guided Mikhail to a distant corner of the terrace and sat with him in the shade of a cupola. Sarah looked at Elena. The children were now seated on her lap, in a pose as tender as Ivan’s was fierce.

  “You look like a painting by Mary Cassatt.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Elena kissed Anna’s cheek and whispered something to the child that caused her to smile and nod. Then she whispered something to Nikolai, with the same result.

  “Are you saying naughty things about me?” Sarah asked playfully.

  “The children think you’re very pretty.”

  “Please tell the children I think they’re very pretty as well.”

  “They were also wondering whether you would like to see their room. It contains a new painting, and they’re very anxious for you to see it.”

  “Please tell the children that I would like nothing more.”

  "Come, then,” said Elena. “The children will show us the way.”

  They flitted in and out of the colonnade like starlings and hop-scotched along the checkerboard marble floor. Ascending the sweeping main staircase, Nikolai pretended to be a ferocious Russian bear and Sarah pretended to be terribly afraid in return. At the top of the stairs, Anna took hold of Sarah’s hand and pulled her down a glorious corridor filled with buttery light. It ended at the children’s room, which was not a room at all but an elaborate suite. Two Children on a Beach hung in the entrance foyer, next to a similarly sized portrait of a young dancer by Degas. Elena Kharkov, student of art history and former employee of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad, slipped effortlessly into tour guide mode.

  “They knew each other well quite well, Cassatt and Degas. In fact, Degas had a profound influence on her work. I thought it was appropriate they be together.” She looked at Sarah and gave a faint smile. “Until two weeks ago, I was certain the Degas was actually painted by Degas. Now I’m not so sure.”

  Elena sent the children off to play. In their absence, a heavy silence fell over the foyer. The two women stood several feet apart, Elena before the Degas, Sarah before the Cassatt. Overhead, a camera peered down at them like a gargoyle.

  “Who are you?” Elena asked, her eyes straight ahead. “And why are you in my home?”

  Sarah glanced up at the camera.

  “Don’t be frightened,” said Elena. “Ivan is watching but not listening. I told him long ago I would never live in a house filled with microphones. And he swore to me he would never install them.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “On this matter, yes. Remember, microphones would pick up everyone’s voice, including Ivan’s. And their signals can also be intercepted by law enforcement agencies and intelligence services.” She paused. “I would have thought you would be aware of that. Who are you? And who do you work for?”

  Sarah stared straight ahead at Gabriel’s immaculate brushstrokes. Under no circumstances are you to tell her your real name or occupation when you’re on hostile territory, he had said. Your cover is everything. Wear it like body armor, especially when you’re on Ivan’s turf.

  “My name is Sarah Crawford. I work for the Dillard Center for Democracy in Washington. We met for the first time in the Cotswolds, when you purchased this painting by Mary Cassatt from my uncle.”

  “Quickly, Sarah. We haven’t much time.”

  “I’m a friend, Elena. A very good friend. I’m here to help you finish what you started. You have something you want to tell us about your husband. I’m here to listen.”

  Elena was silent for a moment. “He’s quite fond of you, Sarah. Was it always your intention to seduce my husband?”

  “I assure you, Elena, your husband has absolutely no interest in me.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because he’s brought his mistress into your house.”

  Elena’s head turned sharply toward Sarah. “Who is she?”

  “Yekatarina.”

  “It’s not possible. She’s a child.”

  “That child is staying in a suite at the Carlton Hotel. Ivan is paying her bills.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “We know, Elena. We know everything.”

  “You’re lying to me. You’re trying to—”

  “We’re not trying to do anything but help you. And the only lies we tell are the ones necessary to deceive Ivan. We haven’t lied to you, Elena, and we never will.”

  “How do you know he’s seeing her?”

  “Because we follow him. And we listen to him. Did you see those pearls she was wearing today?”

  Elena gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “He gave those pearls to her in June when he went to Paris. You remember his trip to Paris, don’t you, Elena? You were in Moscow. Ivan said he needed to go for business. It was a lie, of course. He went there to see Yekatarina. He called you three times while he was in her apartment.You took the third call while you were having lunch with friends at Café Pushkin. We have a photograph if you’d like to see it.”

  Elena was forced to absorb this news of her husband’s treachery with a tranquil smile—Ivan’s cameras were watching. Sarah was tempted to spare her the rest. She didn’t, more out of loathing for Ivan than any other reason.

  “Yekatarina thinks she’s the only one, but she’s not. There’s a flight attendant called Tatyana. And there was a girl in London named Ludmila. I’m afraid Ivan treated her very badly. Eventually, he treats them all badly.”

  Elena’s eyes filled with tears.

  “You mustn’t cry, Elena. Ivan might be watching us. You have to smile while I tell you these awful things.”

  Elena went to Sarah’s side, and their shoulders touched. Sarah could feel her trembling. Whether it was with grief or fear, she could not tell.

  “How long have you been watching me?”

  “It’s not important, Elena. It’s only important that you finish what you started.”

  Elena laughed softly to herself, as though she found Sarah’s remark mildly amusing. Her gaze swept over the surface of the painting while her fingertips explored the texture of the faux craquelure.

  “You had no right to pry into my private life.”

  “We had no choice.”

  Elena lapsed into silence. Sarah, for the moment, was listening to another voice.

  Place the sales contract carefully before her and lay the pen next to it. But don’t pressure her into signing. She has to reach the decision on her own. Otherwise, she’s no use to us.

  “He wasn’t always like this,” Elena said finally. “Even when he worked for the KGB. You might find this hard to believe, Sarah, but Ivan was really quite charming when I first met him.”

  “I don’t find it hard to believe at all. He’s still quite charming.”

  “When he wants to be.” She was still touching the craquelure. “When I first met Ivan, he told me he worked in some dreary Soviet agricultural office. A few weeks later, after we’d fallen in love, he told me the truth. I almost didn’t believe him. I couldn’t imagine this considerate, somewhat shy young man was actually locking dissidents away in mental hospitals and the gulag.”

  “What happened?”

  “The money happened. The money changed everything. It’s changed Russia, too. Money is the new KGB in Russia. Money contr
ols our lives. And the pursuit of money prevents us from questioning the actions of our so-called democratic government.”

  Elena reached toward the face of one of the children, the little boy, and stroked the cracks on his cheek.

  “Whoever did this is quite good,” she said. “I assume you know him?”

  “Very well, actually.” A silence, then: “Would you like to meet him?”

  “Who is he?”

  “It’s not important. It’s only important that you agree to see him. He’s trying to save innocent lives. He needs your help.”

  Elena’s finger moved to the face of the other child. “How will we do it? Ivan sees everything.”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to need to tell a small lie.”

  “What kind of small lie?”

  “I want you to spend the rest of the afternoon flirting with Mikhail,” Sarah said. “Mikhail will tell you everything you need to know.”

  Sarah’s BlackBerry had one feature not available on over-the-counter models: the ability to encode and "squirt” data messages to a nearby receiver in less than a thousandth of a second. The message she transmitted early that evening was greeted with much celebration at the villa in Gassin. Gabriel immediately sent word to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard and the Global Ops Center at CIA Headquarters in Langley. Then he gathered his team and began putting the final touches on the next phase of the operation. The small lie they were going to tell Ivan. The small lie to cover the much bigger one.

  41

  SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

  The storms had come down from the Maritime Alps after midnight and laid siege to Ivan Kharkov’s fortress on the Baie de Cavalaire. Elena Kharkov had not been awakened by the violent weather. Having endured two sleepless nights already, she had taken twice her normal dose of sedative. Now, she woke grudgingly and in stages, like a diver rising to the surface from a great depth. She lay motionless for some time, eyes closed, head throbbing, unable to recall her dreams. Finally, she reached blindly toward Ivan’s side of the bed and her hand caressed the warm supple form of a young girl. For an instant, she feared Ivan had been so audacious as to bring Yekatarina into their bed. Then she opened her eyes and saw it was only Anna. The child was wearing Ivan’s gold reading glasses and was scribbling with Ivan’s gold fountain pen on the back of some important business documents. Elena smiled in spite of her headache.