by Daniel Silva
“Tell Maria to bring me a café au lait. A very large café au lait.”
“I’m very busy. I’m working, just like Papa.”
“Get me a coffee, Anna, or I’ll beat you severely.”
“But you never beat me, Mama.”
“It’s never too late to start.”
Anna scribbled stubbornly away.
“Please, Anna, I’m begging. Mama’s not feeling well.”
The child exhaled heavily; then, in a gesture that mimicked her father to perfection, she flung the papers and pen onto the nightstand in mock anger and threw aside the blanket. As she started to climb out of bed, Elena reached out suddenly and drew her tightly to her body.
“I thought you wanted coffee.”
“I do. But I want to hold you for a minute first.”
“What’s wrong, Mama? You seem sad.”
“I just love you very much.”
“Does that make you sad?”
“Sometimes.” Elena kissed Anna’s cheek. “Go, now. And don’t come back without coffee.”
She closed her eyes again and listened to the patter of Anna’s bare feet receding. A gust of cool wind moved in the curtains and made shadows dance and play for her on the walls of the bedroom. Like all the rooms of the house, it was far too large for familial or marital intimacy, and now, alone in the cavernous space, Elena felt a prisoner to its vastness. She pulled the blankets tightly to her chin, creating a small space for herself, and thought of Leningrad before the fall. As a child of a senior Communist Party official, she had lived a life of Soviet privilege—a life of special stores, plentiful food and clothing, and trips abroad to other Warsaw Pact countries. Yet nothing in her charmed upbringing could have prepared her for the extravagance of life with Ivan. Homes such as this did not exist, she had been told as a child, not only by the Soviet system but by an orthodox father who kept faith with communism even when it was clear the emperor truly had no clothes. Elena realized now that she had been lied to her entire life, first by her father and now by her husband. Ivan liked to pretend this grand palace by the sea was a reward for his capitalist ingenuity and hard work. In truth, it had been acquired through corruption and connectionsto the old order. And it was awash in blood. Some nights, in her dreams, she saw the blood. It flowed in rivers along the endless marble corridors and spilled like waterfalls down the grand staircases. The blood shed by men wielding Ivan’s weapons. The blood of children forced to fight in Ivan’s wars.
Anna reappeared, a breakfast tray balanced precariously in her hands. She placed it on the bed next to Elena and took great pleasure in pointing out its contents: a bowl of café au lait, two slices of toasted baguette, butter, fresh strawberry preserves, copies of the Financial Times and the Herald Tribune. Then she kissed Elena’s cheek and departed. Elena quickly drank half the coffee, hoping the caffeine would act as an antidote to her headache, and devoured the first slice of the toast. For some reason, she was unusually hungry. A glance at the clock on her bedside table told her why. It was nearly noon.
She slowly finished the rest of the coffee while her headache gradually receded. With its departure, she was granted a sudden clarity of vision. She thought of the woman she knew as Sarah Crawford. And of Mikhail. And of the man who had painted such a beautiful forgery of Two Children on a Beach by Mary Cassatt. She did not know precisely who they were; she only knew that she had no choice but to join them. For the innocent who might die, she told herself now. For Russia. For herself.
For the children . . .
Another gust of wind stirred the long curtains. This time, it brought the sound of Ivan’s voice. Elena wrapped herself in a silk robe and walked onto the terrace overlooking the swimming pool and the sea. Ivan was supervising the cleanup of the storm damage, barking orders at the groundskeepers like the foreman of a chain gang. Elena slipped back inside before he could see her and quickly entered the large sunlit chamber he used as his informal upstairs office. Though the rules of their marriage were largely unspoken, this room, like all of Ivan’s offices, was a forbidden zone for both Elena and the children. He had been there already that morning; it was evident in the stench of cologne that hung on the air and the morning headlines from Moscow scrolling across the screen of the computer. Two identical mobile phones lay on the leather blotter, power lights winking. In violation of all marital decrees, spoken and unspoken, she picked up one of the phones and clicked to the directory of the ten most recently dialed numbers. One number appeared three times: 3064006. With another click of a button, she dialed it again now. Ten seconds later, a female voice in French answered: “Good morning. Carlton Hotel. How may I direct your call?”
“Yekatarina Mazurov.”
“One moment, please.”
Then, two rings later, another female voice: younger than the first, Russian instead of French.
“Ivan, darling, is that you? I thought you would never call. Can I come with you on the trip, or is Elena going to be with you? Ivan . . . What’s wrong . . . Answer me, Ivan . . .”
Elena calmly terminated the call. Then, from behind her, came another voice: Russian, male, taut with quiet rage.
“What are you doing in here?”
She spun round, telephone still in her hand, and saw Ivan standing in the doorway.
“I told my mother I would call her this morning.”
He walked over and removed the phone from her grasp, then reached into the pocket of his trousers and handed her another. “Use this one,” he ordered without explanation.
“What difference does it make which phone I use?”
Ignoring her question, he inspected the surface of the desk to see if anything else had been disturbed. “You slept late,” he said, as if pointing out something Elena hadn’t considered. “I don’t know how you managed to sleep through all that thunder and lightning.”
“I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You look well this morning.”
“I’m a bit better, thank you.”
“Aren’t you going to call her?”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
Ivan was a veteran of such games and far too quick for her. Elena felt a sudden need for time and space. She slipped past him and carried the phone back to bed.
“What are you doing?”
She held up the phone. “Calling my mother.”
“But you should be getting dressed. Everyone’s meeting us in the Old Port at twelve-thirty.”
“For what?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“We’re spending the afternoon on the boat. I told you yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, Ivan. It must have slipped my mind.”
“So what are you doing back in bed? We have to leave in a few minutes.”
“Who have you invited?”
He rattled off a few names, all Russian, all male.
“I’m not sure I’m up to it, Ivan. If it’s all right with you, I’ll stay with the children. Besides, you and your friends will have more fun if I’m not there.”
He didn’t bother to protest. Instead, he consulted his gold wristwatch, as if checking to see if there was still time to reach Yekatarina. Elena resisted the impulse to inform him that she was eagerly awaiting his call.
“What are you going to do with yourself all day?” he inquired casually, as if her answer didn’t much concern him.
“I’m going to lie in bed and read the newspapers. Then, if I’m feeling well enough, I’ll take the children into town. It’s market day, Ivan. You know how much the children love the market.”
The market: Ivan’s vision of hell on earth. He made one final indifferent attempt to change her mind before retiring to his private bathroom suite to shave and shower. Ten minutes later, freshly clothed and scented, he headed downstairs. Elena, still in bed, switched on the television and scrolled through the channels to the closed-circuit shot from the security cameras at the front gate. Ivan must have been anticipating a dangerous day on the waters off the C�
�te d’Azur because he was carrying his full package of security: a driver and two bodyguards in his own car, plus a second car filled with four other men. Elena glimpsed him one final time as he climbed into the back of his car. He was talking on his mobile phone and wearing the smile he reserved for Yekatarina.
She switched off the television and, using her last perfidious vision as motivation, swung her feet to the floor. Don’t stop now, she told herself. If you stop, you’ll never find the courage to start again. And whatever you do, don’t look back. You’re never alone. Those final words were not her own. They had been spoken by the man she knew as Mikhail. The man who would soon become her lover.
Elena heard his instructions now, soft but assured, as she took the final banal steps toward betrayal. She bathed in her swimming pool- sized Jacuzzi tub, singing softly to herself, something she normally did not do. She took great care applying her makeup and appeared to struggle finding a hairstyle she deemed suitable. Her wardrobe seemed to be the source of similar vacillation, for she tried on and discarded a half-dozen outfits before settling on a simple cream-colored Dior dress that Ivan had purchased out of guilt during his last trip to Paris. The rejects she flung onto the bed, just as Michael had instructed. Evidence of romantic indecision, he had called it. Visible proof of her desire to look attractive for her lover.
Finally, at one o’clock, Elena informed Sonia and the children that she would be going to town for a few hours. Then she ordered Oleg to prepare a car and security detail. The traffic on the way into Saint-Tropez was deplorable as usual; she occupied her time by telephoning her mother in Moscow. Oleg, who was seated next to her in the backseat, made no attempt to conceal the fact he was eavesdropping, and Elena made no effort to modulate the volume of her voice. When the call was over, she switched off the phone and dropped it into her handbag. As she climbed out of the car on the Avenue du Marechal, she hung the bag over her left shoulder, just as she had been told to do. Right shoulder meant that she’d had a change of heart. Left shoulder meant she was ready to join them.
She entered the Place Carnot at the southeast corner and, with Oleg and Gennady trailing a few paces behind, started into the crowded outdoor market. In the clothing section, she bought matching cashmere sweaters for Ivan and Nikolai and a pair of sandals for Anna to replace the ones she had left behind during their last visit to Pampelonne Beach. She gave the parcels to Oleg to carry, then headed toward the food stalls in the center of the square, where she paused to watch a man with a grizzled face preparing ratatouille in the largest pan she had ever seen. A young woman with dark hair materialized briefly at her side; she murmured a few words in English, then melted once more into the crowds.
Elena purchased a half kilo of the ratatouille and handed the container to Gennady, then continued diagonally across the square, toward the Boulevard Louis Blanc. An Audi convertible, bright red, was parked on the corner. Michael was behind the wheel, face tilted toward the sun, dreadful American music blaring from the stereo. Elena tossed her handbag onto the passenger seat and quickly climbed inside. As the car shot forward, she kept her eyes straight ahead. Had she looked over her shoulder, she would have seen Oleg, red-faced, screaming into his cell phone. And Gennady, the younger of the two, chasing after them on foot, the ratatouille still in his hand.
42
SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
Who are you?”
"Michael Danilov. Sarah’s friend from Washington. Your husband calls me Mikhail. You can call me Mikhail, too.”
"I want to know your real name.”
“It is my real name.”
“Where do you work?”
“You already know where I work. I work with Sarah, at the Dillard Center for Democracy.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere we can be alone.”
“We don’t have much time. You can be sure Ivan is already looking for us.”
“Try not to think about Ivan. For now, there’s no one but us.”
“The bodyguards saw you. They’re going to tell Ivan it was you and Ivan won’t rest until you’re dead.”
“Your husband isn’t going to kill me, Elena.”
“You don’t know my husband. He kills people all the time.”
"I know your husband very well. And he never kills for love. Only money.”
43
THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE
They headed inland, up a winding road, into the highlands of the Massif des Maures. He drove very fast but without anxiety or visible exertion. His left hand lay lightly atop the steering wheel while his right worked the stick shift with liquid smoothness. He was no computer technician, Elena thought. She had spent enough time in the company of elite soldiers to realize when she was in the presence of a fellow traveler. She took comfort in this. She realized she had simply traded one set of bodyguards for another.
The terrain grew more rugged with each passing mile. To their right lay a dense forest of pine and eucalyptus; to their left, a bottomless green gorge. They flashed through villages with names she did not recognize. And she thought how terrible it was she had never been here until now. And she vowed that one day, when this was over, she would bring the children here without their bodyguards for a picnic.
The children . . .
It had been a mistake to think of them now. She wanted to phone Sonia and make certain they were safe. She wanted to scream at this strange man called Mikhail to turn the car around. Instead, she focused on the wind in her hair and the warm sunlight on her skin. A married woman who is about to give herself to a another man does not destroy the ache of sexual anticipation by telephoning her children. She thinks only of the moment, and to hell with the consequences.
They entered another village with a single street shaded by plane trees. A Rubenesque girl sat astride a burgundy motor scooter outside a tabac, her face shielded by a helmet and dark visor. She flicked her headlamp twice as they approached and entered the road ahead of them. They followed her for another mile, then turned together into a dirt track lined with twisted Van Gogh olive trees, their silver-green leaves shimmering like coins in the gentle breeze. At the end of the track was an open wooden gate and, beyond the gate, the courtyard of a tiny stucco villa. Mikhail switched off the engine.
“Remember how it looks, Elena. It’s important you’re able to recall small details. Ivan will expect that when he questions you.”
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere in the mountains. You’re not exactly sure. We were attracted to one another from the moment we met at Grand Joseph. Ivan didn’t notice because he was thinking about Yekatarina. You were vulnerable; I could see that. I just had to think of some way to get you alone. I knew a hotel wouldn’t do, so I took the liberty of renting this place from a local estate agent for the week.”
He removed the keys from the ignition.
“You did everything the way we asked? You dialed Yekatarina’s room at the Carlton? You left clothes all over your room for Ivan and the housekeepers to see?”
“I did everything.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. You’ll tell Ivan that you’ve suspected he was being unfaithful for years. You’ll tell him you’ve had suspicions about Yekatarina for a long time and that these suspicions were confirmed by the numbers you found on his mobile phone. You’ll tell him I made a pass at you the afternoon we came to the villa. That you were so angry and hurt that you were unable to resist. You’ll tell him you wanted to punish him and that the only way was to give your body to another man. He’s going to be furious, of course, but he’ll have no reason to doubt the veracity of your story since he knows he is guilty of the sins you accuse him of committing. Sleeping with me was a crime of passion and anger, something Ivan understands all too well. In due time, he’ll forgive you.”
“He might forgive me but not you.”
“I’m none of your concern. In fact, you will soon hate me for the trouble I’ve caused you. As far as you’re concerne
d, I can look after myself.”
“Can you?”
“Quite well, actually.” He opened the door. “Time to go inside, Elena. There’s someone inside who’s very anxious to meet you.”
It was the antithesis of Villa Soleil, a small, tidy space of whitewashed walls, terra-cotta floors, and rustic Provençal furniture. Seated at a rough-hewn wood table was a man of indeterminate age and nationality, with a long nose that looked as though it had been carved with a chisel and the greenest eyes Elena had ever seen. He rose slowly to his feet as she approached and extended his hand without speaking. Mikhail handled the introductions.
“Meet the man who painted your Cassatt, Elena. I am about to commit the grave professional sin of telling you his real name, which is Gabriel Allon. He wants you to know it, because he admires you deeply and does not wish to lie to you. You are in the presence of royalty, Elena—at least as far as the inhabitants of our world are concerned. I’ll leave you to your business.”
Mikhail withdrew. Gabriel looked at Elena in silence for a moment, then, with a glance, invited her to sit. He retook his seat on the opposite side of the table and folded his hands before him. They were dark and smooth, with slender, articulate fingers. The hands of a musician, thought Elena. The hands of an artist.
“I would like to begin by thanking you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For having the courage to come forward.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’re here because of you, Elena. We’re here because you summoned us.”
“But I didn’t summon you. I didn’t summon anyone.”
“Of course you did. You summoned us with Olga Sukhova. And with Aleksandr Lubin. And with Boris Ostrovsky. Whether you realized it or not, Elena, you sent them to us. But you only gave them a part of the story. Now you have to tell us the rest.”