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

by Daniel Silva

  “What are you going to do? Cut me into little pieces?”

  Bulganov placed the Makarov on top of the car. “Shut up and get out.”

  Gabriel did as he was told. Bulganov spun him around, so that he was facing the car, and took hold of the handcuffs. Gabriel heard a single snap and his hands were free.

  “Would you like to tell me what’s going on, Sergei?”

  “I told you, Allon—it’s Grigori. Colonel Grigori Bulganov.” He held out the Makarov toward Gabriel. “I assume you know how to use one of these things?”

  Gabriel took hold of the gun. “Any chance of getting these cuffs off my wrists?”

  “Not without the key. Besides, you’ll need to be wearing them when we walk back into that warehouse. It’s the only way we’ll be able to get Elena out of there alive.” Bulganov treated Gabriel to one of his clever smiles. “You didn’t think I was actually going to let those monsters kill her, did you, Allon?”

  “Of course not, Sergei. Why would I think a thing like that?”

  “I’m sure you have a few questions.”

  “A couple thousand, actually.”

  “We’ll have time for that later. Get back in the car and pretend your hands are still cuffed.”

  67

  KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA

  Gabriel peered out the car window at the dachas in the trees. He did not see them. Instead, he saw a man who looked like Lenin, seated behind an interrogation table at Lubyanka. It was possible Bulganov was playing some sort of game. Possible, thought Gabriel, but not likely. The colonel had just freed his hands and given him a loaded gun—a gun he could use, if he were so inclined, to splatter the colonel’s brains across the windshield.

  “What were you and Arkady talking about in Russian?”

  “He told me he wanted information from you.”

  “Did he tell you what it was?”

  “No, he wanted me to take you into the woods and put a gun to your head. I was supposed to give you one more chance to talk before killing you.”

  “And you agreed to this?”

  “It’s a long story. The point is, we can use it to our advantage. We’ll walk in the same door we just walked out. I’ll tell Arkady you’ve had a change of heart. That you’re willing to tell him anything he wants to know. Then, when we’re close enough, I’ll shoot him.”

  "Arkady?”

  “Yes, I’ll take care of Arkady. That leaves the two other gorillas. They’re both ex-special forces. They know how to handle guns. I’m just an FSB counterintelligence officer. I watch spies.”

  Bulganov glanced into the rearview mirror.

  “You can’t walk into the building with the gun in your hand, Allon. You’ll have to hide it somewhere you can get to it quickly. I hear you’re not bad with a gun. Do you think you can get that Makarov out in time to keep those goons from killing us?”

  Gabriel inserted the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers and concealed it with his coat. “Keep your gun pointed at me until you’re ready. When I see it move toward Arkady, I’ll take that as my cue.”

  “That leaves the three boys outside.”

  “They won’t stay outside for long—not when they hear the sound of gunfire inside the warehouse. Whatever you do, don’t offer them a chance to lay down their weapons and surrender. It doesn’t work that way in the real world. Just turn around and start shooting. And don’t miss. We won’t have time to reload.”

  “You’ve only got eight rounds in that magazine.”

  “If I have to use more than five, we’re in trouble.”

  “Can you see well enough?”

  “I can see just fine.”

  “I have to admit something to you, Allon.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never shot anyone before.”

  “Just remember to pull the trigger, Grigori. The gun works much better when you pull the trigger.”

  The three security guards were still milling about the entrance of the warehouse when Gabriel and Bulganov returned. Someone must have found where Ivan kept the beer because all three were drinking from enormous bottles of Baltika. As Gabriel walked toward the guards, he held his right wrist in his left hand to create the illusion his hands were still cuffed. Bulganov walked a half step behind, Makarov pointed at the center of Gabriel’s back. The guards seemed only moderately interested in their reappearance. Obviously, they were used to seeing condemned men being led around at the point of a gun.

  It was precisely forty-two paces from the open loading door to the spot where Elena Kharkov sat chained to her metal chair. Gabriel knew this because he counted the steps in his head as he covered the distance now, with Colonel Grigori Bulganov at his side. Colonel Bulganov, who two months earlier had ordered Gabriel to be thrown down two flights of steps in Lubyanka. Colonel Bulganov, who had called himself Sergei that night and said he would kill Gabriel if he ever returned to Russia. Colonel Bulganov, who had never fired a gun in anger before and in whose hands Gabriel’s life now resided.

  Arkady Medvedev was standing before Elena in his shirtsleeves and screaming obscenities into her face. As Bulganov and Gabriel approached, he turned to face them, hands on his hips, Stechkin shoved down the front of his trousers. Luka Osipov and the bald giant were standing directly behind Elena, each to one side. It was hardly optimal, Gabriel thought, but because Elena was still handcuffed to the chair, there was no chance of her getting into his line of fire. Bulganov spoke in Russian to Medvedev as they moved into point-blank range. Medvedev smiled and looked at Gabriel.

  “So, you’ve come to your senses.”

  “Yes, Arkady. I’ve come to my senses.”

  “Tell me then. Where are Ivan’s children?”

  “What children?”

  Medvedev frowned and looked at Bulganov. Bulganov frowned in return and pointed his gun at Medvedev’s heart. Gabriel took a step to his right while simultaneously reaching beneath his coat for the Makarov. They fired their first shots simultaneously, Bulganov into Medvedev’s chest, Gabriel into the flat forehead of the bald giant. Luka Osipov responded with a futile attempt to draw his weapon. Gabriel’s shot caught him just beneath the chin and exited at the base of his skull.

  At that instant, Gabriel heard the sound of shattering glass: the sound of three men simultaneously dropping three bottles of Baltika beer. They came in through the doorway neatly spaced, like little floating ducklings in an arcade shooting gallery. Gabriel took them down in order: head shot, head shot, torso shot.

  He spun round and looked at Elena. She was desperately trying to pull her wrists through her handcuffs, her mouth wide in a silent scream. Gabriel wanted to comfort her but could not; Arkady Medvedev was still alive and was struggling to get the Stechkin out of the front of his trousers. Gabriel kicked the gun out of Medvedev’s hands and stood over him. The Russian began to pant, pink blood frothing at the side of his mouth.

  “I’d like you to give Ivan a message,” Gabriel said. “Will you do that for me, Arkady?”

  Medvedev nodded, his breathing rapid and shallow. Gabriel raised the Makarov and fired his last three shots into the Russian’s face. Message delivered.

  Gabriel held Elena tightly while Bulganov searched the bodies for a key to the handcuffs. He found one, a universal, on Luka Osipov. He freed Elena’s hands first, then removed the cuffs from Gabriel’s hands.

  “Take her out to the car,” Gabriel said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Be quick about it.”

  “Just go.”

  As Bulganov led Elena toward the door, Gabriel searched the corpse of Arkady Medvedev. He found keys, passports, and a wallet filled with cash. He ignored the money and removed a single item: a plastic card embossed with the image of a large apartment house on the banks of the Moscow River.

  Bulganov had the Volga’s engine running by the time Gabriel stepped outside. He climbed into the back next to Elena, whose screams were no longer silent. Gabriel held her tightly to his chest
as Bulganov drove away.

  Her wailing had ceased by the time they saw the sign. It stood at the intersection of two dreadful roads, rusted, crooked, and pierced by bullet holes. Two arrows pointed in opposite directions. To the left was MOCKBA, the Cyrillic spelling of Moscow. Bulganov explained what lay to the right.

  “Ukraine.”

  “How long?”

  “We can be over the border before dawn.”

  “We?”

  “I just helped an Israeli agent kill Arkady Medvedev and five of his security men. How long do you think I’ll live if I stay in Moscow? A week, if I’m lucky. I’m coming with you.”

  “Another defector? That’s all we need.”

  “I suspect you’ll find I’m worth my weight in gold. You see, I’ve been privately investigating the ties between men like Ivan Kharkov and the FSB for years. I also know a great deal about Ivan’s little arms-trafficking network. Much more than you, I suspect. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to come with you, Allon?”

  “We’d love the company, Colonel. Besides, it’s a long drive and I don’t have a clue how to get out of here.”

  Bulganov let his foot off the brake and started to turn to the right. Gabriel told him to stop.

  “What’s the problem?” Bulganov asked.

  “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “We’re going to Ukraine. And Ukraine is to the right. Look at the sign.”

  “We have a couple of errands to run before we leave.”

  “Where?”

  Gabriel pointed to the left.

  MOCKBA ...

  68

  MOSCOW

  On the outskirts of Moscow was a supermarket that never closed. If it was not the world’s largest supermarket, thought Gabriel, then it was surely a close second: two acres of frozen foods, a mile of cookies and crackers, another mile of American soft drinks, one nightmarish wall hung with thousands of pork sausages. And that was just the food. At the far end of the market was a section called Home and Garden, where one could buy everything from clothing to motorcycles to lawn tractors. Who in Moscow needed a lawn tractor? thought Gabriel. Who in Moscow even had a lawn? “They’re for the dachas, ” Elena explained. “Now that Russians have money, they don’t like to dig with their hands anymore.” She shrugged. “But what’s the point of having a dacha if you don’t get your hands dirty?”

  Why the market remained open all night was a mystery because at 2 A.M. it was deserted. They walked the endless prospekts of consumer goods, quickly pulling items from the shelves: clean clothing, bandages and antiseptic, a pair of large sunglasses, enough snack food and cola to fuel an early-morning road trip. When they wheeled their cart up to the checkout stand, the drowsy female clerk looked at Gabriel’s eye and winced. Elena contemptuously explained that her “husband” had crashed his car in a ditch—drunk out of his mind on vodka, of course. The checkout woman shook her head sadly as she rang up the items. “Russian men,” she muttered. “They never change.”

  Gabriel carried the bags out to the car and climbed into the back again with Elena. Bulganov, alone in the front, told them a story as he drove toward central Moscow. It was the story of a young KGB officer who never truly believed the lies of Lenin and Stalin and who had quietly raised a glass of vodka when the empire of deception finally fell. This young officer had tried to resign after the collapse of communism but had been convinced by his mentor to stay on and help turn the KGB into a truly professional service. He had reluctantly agreed and had quickly risen through the ranks of the KGB’s domestic successor, the FSB, only to see it deteriorate into something worse than the KGB had been. This young man, at great personal risk, had then joined forces with a group of officers who hoped to reform the FSB. Quietly, said Bulganov. From the inside. But they soon realized that the top brass and their masters in the Kremlin were not interested in reform. So the group went underground. And started building a dossier.

  “Our dossier does not paint a pretty picture. FSB involvement in murder for hire, prostitution, and narcotics. FSB involvement in the operations of shady oligarchs. And worse. Who do you think planned and carried out those apartment house bombings that our president used to justify going back into Chechnya? My service is a criminal enterprise from top to bottom. And it is running Russia.”

  “How did I end up on your plate that night in Lubyanka?”

  “Ironically, it was all by the book. We were watching you from the moment you hit the ground in St. Petersburg. And I must admit, you were quite good. We had no suspicions, even after you initiated contact with Olga Sukhova. We thought you were Natan Golani of the Israeli Ministry of Culture.”

  “So you didn’t know Arkady and Ivan were going to have us killed that night?”

  “No, not at all. At first, I thought you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But when you survived the attack and saved Olga, that caused Ivan a serious problem. I almost lost you during your detention in Lubyanka. Ivan Kharkov himself was on the phone to the chief. He knew your real name and your real job. He wanted you taken out into a field and shot. The top floor ordered me to do just that. I pretended to go along and started stalling for time. Then, thankfully, your service made such a stink, you became too hot, even for the likes of Ivan Kharkov.”

  “How did you convince them not to kill me?”

  “I told them that it would be a public-relations disaster if you died in FSB custody. I told them I didn’t care what Ivan did to you once you left the country, but they couldn’t lay a hand on you while you were on Russian soil. Ivan wasn’t happy, but the top floor finally came around to my way of thinking. I put you in the van and got you to the border before they could change their minds. You came very close to dying that night, Allon—closer than you’ll ever realize.”

  “Where’s the dossier now?”

  “Most of it’s up here,” he said, tapping the side of his forehead. “Whatever documentation we could copy was scanned and stored in e-mail accounts outside the country.”

  “How did you end up in that warehouse tonight?”

  “I’ve been plying my trade on both sides of the street.”

  “You’re on Ivan’s payroll?”

  Bulganov nodded. “It made it much easier to gather information about the FSB’s shady dealings if I actually took part in some myself. It also gave me protection. The real rotten elements thought I was one of them. I know a great deal about Ivan’s operation. Who knows? Maybe we know enough together to track down those missiles—without going back into the House on the Embankment. Even I get the creeps going into the place. It’s haunted, you know. They say Stalin roams the halls at night knocking on doors.”

  “I’m not leaving Russia without Ivan’s disks.”

  “You don’t know if there’s anything on them. You also don’t know if they’re even still in the apartment.”

  Elena intervened. “I saw Arkady put my handbag in the vault before we left.”

  “That was a long time ago. Ivan could have ordered someone to move them.”

  “He couldn’t have. Only three people in the world can access that vault: Ivan, Arkady, and me. Logically, the disks have to be there.”

  “But getting them is going to cost valuable time. It also might mean another dead body. There’s going to be a new guard in the apartment. He might even have a helper or two. In the old days, the neighbors were used to the sound of a little late-night gunfire, but not now. If we have to do any shooting, it could get ugly quickly.”

  “You’re still a colonel in the FSB, Grigori. And FSB colonels take shit from no one.”

  “I don’t want to be an FSB colonel anymore. I want to be one of the good guys.”

  “You will be,” Gabriel said. “The moment you present yourself at the Ukrainian border and declare your desire to defect.”

  Bulganov lowered his eyes from the mirror and stared straight down the Leninsky Prospekt. “I already am a good guy,” he said quietly. “I just play for a very bad team.”

&n
bsp; 69

  BOLOTNAYA SQUARE, MOSCOW

  The Russian president frowned in disapproval as Gabriel, Elena, and Grigori Bulganov hurried across the street toward the House on the Embankment. Bulganov placed his FSB identification on the reception desk and quietly threatened to cut off the porter’s hand if he touched the telephone.

  “We were never here. Do you understand me?”

  The terrified porter nodded. Bulganov returned his ID to his coat pocket and walked over to the private elevator, where Gabriel and Elena had already boarded a car. As the doors closed, the two men drew their Makarovs and chambered their first rounds.

  The elevator was old and slow; the journey to the ninth floor seemed to last an eternity. When the doors finally opened, Elena was pressed into one corner, with Gabriel and Bulganov, guns leveled in firing positions, shielding her body. Their precaution proved unnecessary, however, because the vestibule, like the entrance hall of the apartment, was empty. It seemed Arkady Medvedev’s highly trained security guard had fallen asleep on the couch in the living room while watching a bit of pornography on Ivan’s large-screen television. Gabriel woke the guard by inserting the barrel of the Makarov into his ear.

  “If you are a good dog, you will live to see the sunrise. If you are a bad dog, I’m going to make a terrible mess on Ivan’s couch. Which is it going to be? Good dog or bad dog?”

  “Good,” said the guard.

  “Wise choice. Let’s go.”

  Gabriel marched the guard into Ivan’s fortified office, where Elena was already in the process of opening the interior vault. Her handbag was where Medvedev had left it. The disks were still inside. Bulganov ordered the guard into the vault and closed the steel door. Elena pressed the button behind volume 2 of Anna Karenina and the bookshelves slid shut. Inside, the guard began shouting in Russian, his muffled voice barely audible.

  “Maybe we should give him some water,” Bulganov said.

  “He’ll be fine for a few hours.” Gabriel looked at Elena. “Is there anything else you need?”