by Daniel Silva
Shamron displayed an admirable restraint within the walls of the safe house, but for an hour each day, on the wooden bench atop Parliament Hill, he would privately share with Gabriel his fears about the operation that lay ahead. He began their final meeting by expressing his concerns about Gabriel’s leading man.
“Your entire operation hinges on Mikhail making one key decision. Can he get into Martin’s office cleanly and stay there for an hour and fifteen minutes without anyone noticing his absence? If he makes the wrong decision, it’s going to be a party to remember.”
“You’re concerned he might be too aggressive?”
“Not necessarily. Mikhail was a mess when he came home from Russia. Almost as bad as you and Chiara. After what he went through in that birch forest, he might not take the risks necessary to pull off his assignment.”
“He’s been trained by the Sayeret and the Office, Ari. When he walks through the door of Villa Elma tomorrow night, he won’t be Mikhail Abramov. He’ll be Mikhail Danilov, Russian millionaire and consort of Zoe Reed.”
“Was it really necessary to give a hundred thousand euros of my money to Martin’s foundation?”
“Mr. Danilov insisted.”
“Did he?”
“Mr. Danilov wanted to make a good first impression. He’s also not the sort of man who likes to come across as a freeloader. Mr. Danilov is quite well off. And he always pays his own way.”
“Let’s just hope Mr. Danilov makes the right choice about whether to go after the computer. Not only for his sake but for Zoe’s, not to mention your friend Uzi Navot.” Shamron ignited a cigarette. “I hear he’s already won many friends and admirers at Thames House and Vauxhall Cross.”
“And you?”
“I will admit to being impressed by Uzi’s debut on the international stage. If this operation proves to be a success, it will go down as one of the greatest triumphs in the history of the Office. And to think Uzi actually tried to kill it before it could even take flight.” Shamron glanced at Gabriel. “Maybe next time he won’t let his ego get in the way when you try to tell him something.”
Gabriel made no reply.
“I see you didn’t include your wife on the team for Geneva,” Shamron said. “I assume it wasn’t an oversight.”
“She’s not happy about it, but I want her to stay here with you and Uzi.”
“Maybe you should consider doing the same.” Shamron smoked in silence for a moment. “I suppose I don’t have to remind you that you operated in Switzerland quite recently or that there was a great deal of bloodshed involved. It’s possible the Swiss are aware of your recent visits to the country. Which means that if anything goes wrong tomorrow evening, it might be a long time before I can get you out again.”
“I’m not going to let anyone else run the show in Geneva, Ari.”
“I assumed that would be your answer. Just make sure you abide by the Eleventh Commandment. Don’t get caught.”
“Do you have any other helpful advice?”
“Bring Zoe Reed home alive.” Shamron dropped his cigarette to the ground. “I wouldn’t want Uzi’s London debut to close after its opening night.”
IF THERE WAS a chink in the armor of the Office, it was the problem of passports. In most cases, undercover Israeli agents could not carry Israeli passports since Israeli citizens were not allowed to enter target countries or, as in the case of Switzerland, were regarded with suspicion by local authorities. Therefore, after a round of intense negotiations, it was decided that all eight members of the Geneva team would travel on false American or Commonwealth passports. It was a magnanimous but necessary gesture that guaranteed the operation would not crumble at the gates of passport control. Even so, Gabriel took the routine Office precaution of sending his team into Geneva on three different flights and by three different routes. There were some traditions that died hard, even in a multilateral world.
His own flight was KLM 1022, departing London Heathrow at 5:05 p.m., arriving Geneva International at ten after a brief stopover in Amsterdam, which Gabriel found fitting. He had an American passport that identified him as Jonathan Albright and a stack of business cards that said he worked for a hedge fund based in Greenwich, Connecticut. He carried clothing that didn’t belong to him and performance charts he didn’t understand. In fact, as Gabriel slipped out of the Highgate safe house that afternoon for the final time, everything about him was a lie. Everything but the beautiful woman with riotous dark hair watching from the window on the second floor. And the list of names and account numbers tucked safely into the zippered compartment of his briefcase.
60
GENEVA
The first trucks appeared at the gates of Villa Elma at the stroke of nine the following morning. Thereafter, they arrived in an unbroken stream, disgorging their contents into Martin Landesmann’s graceful forecourt like the spoils of a distant war. There were crates of wine and spirits and ice chests filled with fresh crab flown in specially from Alaska. There were trolleys stacked with tables and chairs and polished wooden boxes filled with china, crystal, and silver. There were music stands for a full orchestra, a fifty-foot fir tree to adorn the front entrance hall, and enough lights to illuminate a midsize city. There was a team of audiovisual technicians bearing a theater-quality projection system, and, curiously, a pair of women dressed in khaki who arrived in late afternoon accompanied by a dozen wild animals. The animals turned out to be highly endangered species that Saint Martin was allegedly spending a small fortune attempting to save. As for the projection system, Martin planned to bore his guests with an hour-long documentary he had produced on the perils of global warming. The timing was somewhat ironic since Europe was shivering through the coldest winter in living memory.
The intensity of the preparations at Villa Elma stood in stark contrast to the tranquil mood at the Grand Hotel Kempinski, located approximately a mile down the lakeshore, on the Quai de Mont-Blanc. In the ornate lobby, the atmosphere was one of permanent evening. Beneath a low ceiling studded with a galaxy of tiny lights, bellmen and valets spoke in hushed tones as if concerned about waking sleeping children. A decorative gas fire burned listlessly in the empty lounge; gold watches and pearl necklaces glowed seductively from the display cases of empty boutiques. Even at three p.m., a time when the lobby normally bustled with activity, the silence was oppressive. Privately, management was blaming the recent slump in business on the weather and on the collapse of the real estate market in a certain Gulf emirate known for its excess. To make matters worse, Swiss voters had recently offended many of the Kempinski’s most reliably free-spending patrons by approving a nationwide ban on the construction of minarets. Like nearly everyone else in Geneva, management was beginning to wonder whether the usually sure-footed business enterprise sometimes referred to as Switzerland had finally lost a step.
As a result, management was overjoyed when Zoe Reed, the British journalist who was a fixture on hotel television screens around the world, entered the Kempinski’s lobby at 3:15, accompanied by a gold-plated Russian named Mikhail Danilov. After checking into separate rooms, Mr. Danilov sent a shirt and tuxedo down to the laundry for pressing, then proceeded to the fitness room for what witnesses would later describe as a terrifying work-out. For her part, Ms. Reed spent a few minutes browsing the shops in the lobby, then headed to the salon to have her hair and makeup professionally done for the affair at Villa Elma. Two other female attendees were also in the salon, along with a woman who had been present in the Highgate safe house. Seated in the waiting area was the tweedy Englishman whom Zoe knew as David. He was leafing through a copy of Vogue magazine with an expression of spousal boredom and grumbling to himself about the quality of the maid service.
It was approaching five when Zoe left the salon and headed upstairs to her room to begin dressing for the party. Her escort, Mikhail Danilov, was staying in the adjacent room, while three doors down was a man who had checked into the hotel under the name Jonathan Albright, executive vice president
of something called Markham Capital Advisers of Greenwich, Connecticut. His real name was Gabriel Allon, of course, and he was not alone. Seated on the opposite side of the small desk was Eli Lavon. Like Gabriel, he was wearing a pair of headphones and staring intently into a laptop computer. Lavon’s was receiving a stream from the compromised phone of Zoe Reed while Gabriel’s was taking in the feed from Martin Landesmann’s. Zoe was watching the hourly news bulletin on the BBC. Martin was discussing security arrangements for the party with Jonas Brunner, his personal bodyguard.
The meeting concluded at 5:03. Martin conferred briefly with his chief party planner, then headed upstairs to the room located in the southeast corner of Villa Elma, 1,238 feet above sea level. Gabriel heard the now-familiar eight atonal beeps as Martin entered the security code into the keyless lock—eight digits that would soon be standing between Mikhail and Martin’s most closely guarded secrets. A few seconds later came the sound of the office door opening and closing, followed by the clatter of Martin’s fingers over the keyboard of his computer. It seemed Martin had a bit of work to do before the party. So did Gabriel. He handed his headphones to Eli Lavon and stepped into the corridor.
A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the latch. Gabriel knocked twice, paused, then knocked twice again. Zoe opened the door a few seconds later and peered at him over the security bar.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, feigning irritation.
“You can let me in, Zoe. We swept your room while you were gone. You’re clean.”
Zoe unlocked the door and stepped aside. She was barefoot and wearing only a white hotel bathrobe.
“Is that what you’re planning to wear tonight?” asked Gabriel.
“I prefer it to that dress Martin bought me.”
“He might be disappointed if you don’t wear it.”
“So will every other man in the room.”
Gabriel walked over to the desk. Zoe’s phone was lying on the blotter. He picked it up, pressed the power button, and held it until the screen turned to black.
“Is there something you need to tell me about my phone?” Zoe asked.
“It’s just a precaution.”
“Yes,” she said, her tone sardonic. “And I came all the way to Geneva to bask in the glow of Martin Landesmann for a few hours.”
Gabriel placed the phone on the desk again but said nothing.
“Just make sure you switch it off when this is over.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “You never told me what you call it.”
“What’s that?”
“The procedure we carried out on Martin’s phone and computer.”
“I was born in the late seventeenth century, Zoe. Even I don’t know the proper name for it.”
“And the slang?”
“Some techs refer to it as backdooring, rooting, or popping. We like to call it owning.”
“Meaning?”
“If we can get our hands on the target’s phone, we own it. If we can get inside his bank accounts, we own them. If we can get to his home security system, we can own that, too. And if Mikhail can get inside Martin’s office tonight…”
“Then we can find the centrifuges?”
Gabriel was struck by Zoe’s use of the pronoun we. “Yes,” he said with a nod of his head. “If we’re lucky, we might be able to find the centrifuges.”
“What are the odds?”
“Hard to say.”
“I assume this isn’t the first time your service has done something like this.”
Gabriel hesitated, then answered. “There’s been a not-so-secret war going on here in Europe for some time, Zoe. It involves the Iranians and European high-tech firms. And the computers of the bad guys are one of our greatest weapons.”
“For example?”
“I’m not going to give you an example.”
“How about a hypothetical?”
“All right. Let’s say a hypothetical Iranian nuclear scientist goes to a hypothetical conference in Berlin. And let’s say our hypothetical scientist has notes on his hypothetical computer on how to build a nuclear warhead.”
“Then it might be difficult to keep a straight face when the Iranian president declares his program is strictly peaceful.”
“That’s correct.”
“And are they building a warhead?”
“Without question,” Gabriel said. “And they’re getting closer every day. But to be an effective nuclear power, they need a steady supply of highly enriched uranium. And for that, they need centrifuges. Good ones. Centrifuges that don’t break down. Centrifuges that spin at a reliable speed. Centrifuges that aren’t contaminated.”
“Martin’s centrifuges,” Zoe said softly.
Gabriel was silent. Zoe glanced at the clock on the nightstand.
“Unless you intend to help me get dressed, I think I’ll have to ask you to leave now.”
“In a minute.” Gabriel sat. “Remember, Zoe, when Mikhail makes his move, it’s important you not appear to be alone or in any way unattached. Latch onto someone. Strike up a conversation. The worst thing you can do is be quiet or look nervous. Be the opposite of nervous. Be the life of the party. Do you understand?”
“I think I can manage that.”
Gabriel smiled briefly, then his expression turned serious. “Now tell me again what happens if Mikhail gets caught.”
“I’m to disown him. I’m to say he deceived me into bringing him. And then I’m to leave the party as quickly as possible.”
“Even if it means leaving Mikhail behind.”
She was silent for a moment. “Please don’t make me say it.”
“Say it, Zoe.”
“Even if it means leaving Mikhail behind.”
“Don’t hesitate, Zoe. And don’t look back. If one of Martin’s guards tries to grab you, make a scene so everyone in the party knows there’s a problem. Martin will have no choice but to let you leave.” Gabriel paused, then asked, “Do you understand, Zoe?”
She nodded.
“Say it.”
“I’ll make a bloody scene. And I’ll leave Mikhail behind.”
“Very good. Any questions?”
Zoe shook her head. Gabriel rose and gave her the phone.
“Turn it on when I leave. And keep it close tonight.”
Gabriel started toward the door.
“Actually, I do have one question, Mr. Allon.”
He stopped and turned.
“What happened in that field outside London?”
“There is no field outside London. And there is no safe house in Highgate, either. The mind is like a basin, Zoe. Pull the plug, and the memory drains away.”
Gabriel slipped out the door without another word. Zoe switched on her mobile and began to dress.
AMONG THE MANY logistical challenges faced by the team had been the acquisition of a suitable car to ferry Zoe and Mikhail to the party. An attempt was made to rent a vehicle in Geneva, but that proved impossible because Martin’s other guests had already snatched up every luxury sedan in the canton. That left a hasty purchase as the only option. Gabriel handled the chore himself, choosing a black fully loaded S-Class Mercedes, which he paid for in full with a certified check from one of Navot’s operational accounts in Zurich. When news of the procurement reached Highgate, Shamron flew into a seething rage. Not only had the Office just spent one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for a car but a German car at that.
It eased gracefully into the Kempinski’s circular drive at 6:15 that evening with Yaakov behind the wheel, looking as though he were guiding an oil tanker through treacherous seas. After successful completion of the maneuver, he informed the doorman that he was there to collect Mr. Danilov. The doorman called Mr. Danilov, who in turn called Ms. Reed and Mr. Albright of Markham Capital Advisers. Mr. Albright immediately dispatched a secure message to his superiors in London that read DEPARTURE IMMINENT. Then he looked at his computer screen. A red light was blinking in the southeast corner of Villa Elma, 1,238 feet above
sea level.
61
MAYFAIR, LONDON
The message from Geneva flashed on the screens of the CIA ops center beneath Grosvenor Square. Seated in their usual places in the back row were Graham Seymour, Adrian Carter, and Ari Shamron. In a significant break with tradition, they were joined that evening by two additional members of the Masterpiece team. One was Uzi Navot, the other was Chiara Allon. All five were staring at the message screens like stranded airline passengers waiting for a long-delayed flight. Shamron was already nervously turning over his old Zippo lighter in his fingertips. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left…
“Does anyone know the definition of the word imminent?”
“Ready to take place,” offered Graham Seymour.
“Hanging threateningly over one’s head,” added Adrian Carter.
Shamron frowned heavily and looked at Chiara, who responded by typing a few characters into her laptop computer. A moment later, a new message appeared on the display screens at the front of the room.
DEPARTURE IN PROGRESS…
“What was the problem?” Shamron asked.
“Zoe’s zipper was stuck.”
“Who fixed it?”
“Mr. Albright of Markham Capital Advisers.”
Shamron smiled. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left…
MIKHAIL STOOD outside the elevators on the sixth floor of the Grand Hotel Kempinski and examined his appearance in the decorative smoked-glass mirror. His clothing was simple but elegant: a Brioni tuxedo, a plain-fronted formal shirt, a traditional bow tie. The jacket had been specially fitted to accommodate the two pieces of technical equipment he was carrying at the small of his back. The crisp knot of his bow tie had been a collaborative effort involving three agents of Israeli intelligence and no small amount of preoperational hysteria.
He leaned closer to the mirror, made an adjustment to his blond forelock, and examined his face. Hard to believe he was the same boy from the derelict apartment blocks of Moscow. A boy who had been beaten and spat upon by Russian brethren every day merely for having been cursed with the name of the patriarch. The boy had moved to Israel with his dissident parents and had learned to fight. But tonight he would fight in a different way, against a man who was supplying the mullahs of Iran with the power to fulfill their wildest fantasies. Tonight he was no longer Mikhail Abramov. Tonight he was a real Russian with a proper Russian name and a great deal of money in his Russian pockets.
