The Defector

by Daniel Silva

  “At least no one is getting killed.”

  “That’s true. Poor Boris was the last to die.”

  She gave Gabriel’s arm a melancholy squeeze. “I did notice a story about Ivan on the Gazeta’s website last month. He was attending the opening-night party for a new restaurant in Moscow. His new wife, Yekaterina, was ravishing as usual. Ivan looked quite well himself. In fact, he was sporting a suntan.” She furrowed her brow into an affected frown. “Where do you suppose Ivan was able to get a suntan in Russia in the middle of winter? In one of those tanning beds? No, I don’t think so. Ivan’s not the sort to radiate his skin with lights. Ivan used to get his tan in Saint-Tropez. Perhaps he slipped into Courchevel with a false passport for a bit of skiing at Christmastime. Or perhaps he paid a visit to one of his old haunts in Africa.”

  “We’ve been picking up reports that he’s rebuilding his old networks.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Have you heard similar things?”

  “To be honest, I try not to think about Ivan. I have a blog. It’s quite popular here in Britain as well as Moscow. The FSB has launched repeated cyberattacks against it.” She gave a fleeting smile. “It gives me inordinate pleasure to know I can annoy the Kremlin, even from a cottage in Cowley.”

  “Perhaps it would be wiser for you to—”

  “To what?” she interrupted. “To keep quiet? The people of Russia have been silent for too long. The regime has used that silence as justification for crushing any semblance of democracy and imposing a form of soft totalitarianism. Someone has to speak up. If it has to be me, then so be it. I’ve done it before.”

  They had reached the other side of Magdalen Bridge: the side of spires and limestone and great thoughts. Olga stopped in the High Street and pretended to read the notice board.

  “I must confess I wasn’t surprised when Graham Seymour called last night to tell me you were coming. I assume this concerns Grigori. He’s missing, isn’t he?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “I was afraid of that when he didn’t return my call. He’s never done that before.” She paused, then asked, “How did you travel from London to Oxford?”

  “The train from Paddington.”

  “Did the British follow you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as one can be.”

  “And what about Russians? Were you followed by Russians?”

  “Thus far, they seem unaware of my presence here.”

  “I doubt they will be for long.” She looked across the street toward the entrance of the Oxford Botanic Gardens. “Let’s talk there, shall we? I’ve always enjoyed gardens in winter.”

  17

  OXFORD

  MY GOD,”she whispered. “When will it end? When will it ever end?”

  “Is it possible, Olga? Is there any way Grigori would go home on his own?”

  She brushed away tears and looked around the gardens. “Have you been here before?”

  It seemed an odd question, given what he had just told her. But he knew Olga well enough to understand it was not without purpose.

  “This is my first visit.”

  “A hundred and fifty years ago, a mathematician from Christ Church used to come here with a young girl and her two sisters. The mathematician was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. The girl was Alice Liddell. Their visits served as the inspiration for a book Dodgson would write under the pen name Lewis Carroll—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, of course. Fitting, don’t you think?”

  “How so?”

  “Because the British theory about Grigori is a tale worthy of Lewis Carroll. His hatred of the regime and his old service was real. The idea he would willingly return to Russia is absurd.”

  They sat on a wooden bench in the center of the garden next to a fountain. Gabriel did not tell Olga he had reached the same conclusion or that he had photographic evidence to support it.

  “You were working with him on his book.”

  “I was.”

  “You spent time with him?”

  “More than the British probably realized.”

  “How often did you see him?”

  Olga searched the sky for an answer. “Every couple of weeks.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Usually, here in Oxford. I went to London two or three times when I needed a change of scenery.”

  “How did you arrange the meetings?”

  “By telephone.”

  “You spoke openly on the phone?”

  “We used a rather crude code. Grigori said the eavesdropping capability of the Russian services wasn’t what it once was but still good enough to warrant reasonable precautions.”

  “How did Grigori travel here?”

  “Like you. The train from Paddington.”

  “He was careful?”

  “So he said.”

  “Did he come to your house?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And others?”

  “We would meet for lunch in the city center. Or for coffee.” She pointed toward the spire of Magdalen College. “There’s a lovely coffeehouse across the street called the Queen’s Lane. Grigori was quite fond of it.”

  Gabriel knew it. The Queen’s Lane was the oldest coffeehouse in Oxford. For the moment, though, his thoughts were elsewhere. Two women of late middle age had just entered the garden. One was wrestling with a brochure in the wind; the other was tying a scarf beneath her chin. Gabriel scrutinized them for a moment, then resumed his questioning.

  “And in London?”

  “A dreadful little sandwich shop near the Notting Hill Gate tube stop. He liked it because it was close to the Russian Embassy. He took a perverse pleasure walking by it from time to time, just for fun.”

  The Russian Embassy, a white wedding-cake structure surrounded by a high-security fence, stood at the northern end of Kensington Palace Gardens. Gabriel had walked past it himself the previous afternoon while killing time before his meeting with Graham Seymour.

  “Did you ever go to his place?”

  “No, but his description made me a bit jealous. Too bad I wasn’t a thug from the FSB. I would have liked a nice London house along with my new British passport.”

  “How long did Grigori usually stay when he came here?”

  “Two or three hours, sometimes a bit longer.”

  “Did he ever spend the night?”

  “Are you asking if we were lovers?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “No, he never spent the night.”

  “And were you lovers?”

  “No, we were not lovers. I could never make love to a man who looked so much like Lenin.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “He was FSB once. Those bastards turned a blind eye while many of my friends were murdered. Besides, Grigori wasn’t interested in me. He was still in love with his wife.”

  “Irina? To hear Grigori tell it, they nearly killed each other before they finally got a divorce.”

  “His views must have changed with a bit of time and space. He said he’d been a fool. That he’d been too wrapped up in his work. She was seeing another man but hadn’t agreed to marry him yet. Grigori thought he could pry her away and bring her to England. He wanted Irina to know what an important person he’d become. He thought she would fall in love with him all over again if she could see him in his new element and in his smart new London mews house.”

  “Was he in contact with her?”

  Olga nodded.

  “Did she respond to his overtures?”

  “Apparently so, but Grigori never went into the details.”

  “If I remember correctly, she’s a travel agent.”

  “She works for a company called Galaxy Travel on Tverskaya Street in Moscow. She arranges flights and accommodations for Russians traveling to Western Europe. Galaxy caters to a high-end clientele. New Russians,” she added with a distinct note of disdain. “The kind of Russian who l
ikes to spend winters in Courchevel and summers in Saint-Tropez.”

  Olga dug a pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket. “I suspect business is rather slow at the moment for Galaxy Travel. The global recession has hit Russia extremely hard.” She made no attempt to conceal her pleasure at this development. “But that was predictable. Economies that depend on natural resources are always vulnerable to the inevitable cycle of boom and bust. One wonders how the regime will react to this new paradigm.”

  Olga removed a cigarette from the pack and slipped it between her lips. When Gabriel reminded her that smoking was not permitted in the garden, she responded by lighting the cigarette anyway.

  “I might have a British passport now, but I’m still a Russian. No Smoking signs mean nothing to us.”

  “And you wonder why Russians die when they’re fifty-eight.”

  “Only the men. We women live much longer.”

  Olga exhaled a cloud of smoke, which the wind carried directly into Gabriel’s face. She apologized and switched places with him.

  “I remember the night we all left together—the four of us crammed into that little Volga, pounding over the godforsaken roads of Russia. Grigori and I were smoking like fiends. You were leaning against the window with that bandage over your eye, begging us to stop. We couldn’t stop. We were terrified. But we were also thrilled about what lay ahead. We had such high hopes, Grigori and I. We were going to change Russia. Elena’s hopes were more modest. She just wanted to see her children again.” She blew smoke over her shoulder and looked at him. “Have you seen her?”

  “Elena?” He shook his head.

  “Spoken to her?”

  “Not a word.”

  “No contact at all?”

  “She wrote me a letter. I painted her a painting.”

  Gabriel appealed to her to put out the cigarette. As she buried the butt in the gravel at her feet, he watched a group of four tourists enter the garden.

  “What did you think when Grigori became the celebrity defector and dissident?”

  “I admired his courage. But I thought he was a fool for leading such a public life. I told him to lower his profile. I warned him that he was going to get into trouble. He wouldn’t listen. He was under Viktor’s spell.”

  “Viktor?”

  “Viktor Orlov.”

  Gabriel recognized the name, of course. Viktor Orlov was one of the original Russian oligarchs, the small band of capitalist daredevils who gobbled up the valuable assets of the old Soviet state and made billions in the process. While ordinary Russians were struggling for survival, Viktor earned a king’s ransom in oil and steel. Eventually, he ran afoul of the post-Yeltsin regime and fled to Britain one step ahead of an arrest warrant. He was now one of the regime’s most vocal, if unreliable, critics. Orlov rarely allowed trivial things like facts to get in the way of the salacious charges he leveled regularly against the Russian president and his cronies in the Kremlin.

  “Ever had any dealings with him?” Gabriel asked.

  “Viktor?” Olga gave a guarded smile. “Once, a hundred years ago, in Moscow. It was just after Yeltsin left office. The new masters of the Kremlin wanted Viktor to voluntarily sell his businesses back to the state—at bargain-basement prices, of course. For understandable reasons, Viktor wasn’t interested. It got nasty—but then it always does. The Kremlin started talking about raids and seizures. That’s what the Kremlin does when it wants something. It brings to bear the power of the state.”

  “And Viktor thought you could help?”

  “He asked me to lunch. He said he had an exclusive for me: a man whose job was to procure young women for the president’s personal entertainment. Very young women, Gabriel. When I told him that I wouldn’t touch the story, he got angry. A month later, he fled the country. Officially, the Russians want him back to face tax and fraud charges.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “The Kremlin wants Viktor to surrender his majority stake in Ruzoil, the giant Siberian energy company. It’s worth many billions of dollars.”

  “What did Viktor want with Grigori?”

  “Viktor’s motives for opposing the Kremlin were hopelessly transparent and hardly noble. Grigori gave him something he never had before.”

  “Respectability.”

  “Correct. What’s more, Grigori knew some of the regime’s darkest secrets. Secrets Viktor could wield as a weapon. Grigori was the answer to Viktor’s prayers and Viktor took advantage of him. That’s what Viktor does. He uses people. And when they’re of no value to him, he throws them to the wolves.”

  “Did you say any of this to Grigori?”

  “Of course. But it didn’t go over terribly well. Grigori thought he could take care of himself and didn’t like being told by a journalist to watch his step. He was like an older man in love with a pretty girl. He wasn’t thinking straight. He liked being around Viktor, the cars, the parties, the houses, the expensive wine. It was like a drug. Grigori was hooked.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Two weeks ago. He was very excited. Apparently, Irina was thinking seriously about coming to London. But he was also nervous.”

  “About Irina?”

  “No, his security. He was convinced he was being watched.”

  “By whom?”

  “He didn’t go into specifics. He gave me the newest pages of his manuscript. Then he gave me a letter for safekeeping. He told me that if anything ever happened to him, a friend would look for him. He was confident this man would eventually make his way to Oxford to see me. Grigori liked this man and respected him very much. Apparently, they made some sort of pact during a long drive through the Russian countryside.” She slipped the letter into Gabriel’s hand and lit another cigarette. “I have to admit, I don’t remember hearing it. I must have been asleep at the time.”

  18

  OXFORD

  YOU’VE NEVER READ IT?” Gabriel asked.

  “No, never.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you were once the most famous investigative reporter in Russia.”

  “And?”

  “Investigative reporters are natural snoops.”

  “Like spies?”

  “Yes, like spies.”

  “I don’t read other people’s mail. It’s unseemly.”

  They were seated in the Queen’s Lane Coffee House against a latticed window. Gabriel was facing the street; Olga, the busy interior. She was holding the letter in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

  “I think it puts to rest the debate over whether Grigori redefected or was abducted.”

  “Rather conclusively.”

  Coincidentally, the letter was five sentences in length, though unlike the forged letter announcing Grigori’s redefection, it had been produced on a word processor, not written by hand. It bore no salutation, for a salutation would have been insecure. Gabriel took it back from Olga and read it again:

  IF THIS IS IN YOUR POSSESSION, IVAN HAS TAKEN ME. I HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT MYSELF, SO PLEASE DO NOT FEEL OBLIGATED TO KEEP THE PROMISE YOU MADE THAT NIGHT IN RUSSIA. I DO HAVE ONE FAVOR TO ASK; I AM AFRAID MY DESIRE TO REUNITE WITH MY FORMER WIFE MAY HAVE PLACED HER IN DANGER. IF YOUR OFFICERS IN MOSCOW WOULD CHECK IN ON HER FROM TIME TO TIME, I WOULD BE GRATEFUL. FINALLY, IF I MAY OFFER ONE PIECE OF ADVICE FROM THE GRAVE, IT IS THIS: TREAD CAREFULLY.

  Attached to the letter with a paper clip was a three-by-five photo. It showed Grigori and his former wife seated before a vodka-laden table in happier times. Irina Bulganova was an attractive woman with short blond hair and a compact body that suggested an athletic youth. Gabriel had never seen her before. Still, he found something remotely familiar in her face.

  “Do you believe it?” Olga asked.

  “Which part?”

  “The part about Ivan. Could he really have pulled off an operation as complex as this?”

  “Ivan is KGB to the bone. His arms-trafficking
network was the most sophisticated the world had ever seen. It employed dozens of former and current intelligence officers, including Grigori himself. Grigori took Ivan’s money. And then he betrayed him. In Russia, the price of betrayal is still the same.”

  “Vyshaya mera,” Olga said softly.

  “The highest measure of punishment.”

  “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “It’s possible.” Gabriel paused, then said, “But I doubt it.”

  “But he disappeared a week ago.”

  “It might sound like a long time, but it isn’t. Ivan will want information, everything Grigori told the British and the Americans about his network. Then I suspect the boys from Lubyanka will want a crack at him. The Russians are very patient when it comes to hostile interrogations. They refer to it as sucking a source dry.”

  “How charming.”

  “These are the successors of Dzerzhinsky, Yezhov, and Beria. They’re not a charming lot, especially when it comes to someone who spilled family secrets to the British and the Americans.”

  “I take it you’ve done this sort of thing yourself ?”

  “Interrogations?” Gabriel shook his head. “To be honest, they were never my specialty.”

  “How long does it take to do it right?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether the subject is cooperating or not. Even if he is, it can take weeks or months to make sure he’s told the interrogators everything they want to know. Just ask the detainees at Guantánamo Bay. Some of them have been interrogated relentlessly for years.”

  “Poor Grigori. Poor foolish Grigori.”

  “He was foolish. He should have never lived so openly. He also should have kept his mouth shut. He was just asking for trouble.”

  “Is there any possible way to get him back?”

  “It’s not out of the question. But for now my concern is you.”

  Gabriel looked out the window. The sun had slipped below the tops of the colleges and the High Street was now in shadow. An Oxford city bus rumbled past, followed by a procession of students on bicycles.

  “You were in contact with him, Olga. He knows everything about you. Your cover name. Your address. We have to assume Ivan now knows that, too.”