by Daniel Silva
The man at the fire rotated slowly around, until he was staring directly into Mikhail’s face. He wore a black woolen sweater and charcoal-gray trousers. His gray-blond hair was cut short; his face was angular and dominated by a small, rather cruel-looking mouth. Mikhail realized instantly he had seen the face before. It was in a photograph of a luncheon that had occurred on the island of Corsica, a few hours before Madeline Hart’s disappearance. Now the face came toward him out of the firelight, with the small mouth formed into something like a smile.
“Have we ever met?” Zhirov asked, grasping Mikhail’s hand.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You look familiar to me.”
“I get that a lot.”
The smile faded, the eyes narrowed. “Did you bring a phone?” Zhirov asked.
“I shower with my phone.”
“Would you mind switching it off, please?”
“Is that really necessary?”
“It is,” he said. “And take out the battery as well. One can never be too careful these days.”
Thirty seconds later the blue light on the tablet computer was extinguished. Gabriel removed his earpiece and frowned.
“What just happened?” asked Keller.
“Mikhail went behind the moon.”
“What does that mean?”
Gabriel explained. Then he drew his mobile phone from his coat pocket and rang Eli Lavon in the safe flat. They spoke for a few seconds in terse operational Hebrew.
“What’s going on?” Keller asked after Gabriel severed the connection.
“A couple of SVR hoods from the Copenhagen rezidentura are searching Mikhail’s room at the d’Angleterre.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“That’s a very good thing.”
“You sure about that?”
“No.”
Gabriel returned the phone to his pocket and stared out the window at the windblown waves lapping against the frozen beach. The waiting, he thought. Always the waiting.
45
ZEALAND, DENMARK
A table had been laid with a sumptuous all-Russian buffet. The origin of the food was unclear, for there was no evidence of anyone else in the house besides the three executives. Mikhail wondered how they had secured the property on such short notice. They hadn’t, he decided. Surely it was an existing Volgatek safe house. Or maybe it was an SVR safe house. Or maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was a distinction without a difference.
For now, the food remained only a decoration. A drink had been placed in Mikhail’s hand—vodka, of course—and he had been deposited in a chair of honor with a fine view of the black sea. Dmitry Bershov, the company athlete, was pacing the edges of the room with the determined slowness of a man about to enter the ring. Pavel Zhirov, keeper of Volgatek’s secrets, kidnapper of Madeline Hart, was staring at the ceiling as though calculating how much rope to use for Mikhail’s hanging. Eventually, Zhirov’s hard gaze settled on Gennady Lazarev, who had claimed the spot by the fire. Lazarev was staring into the flames and pondering a question that Mikhail had posed a moment earlier: “Why am I here?”
“Why are you here?” the Russian replied finally.
“I’m here because you asked me to come.”
“Do you always accept meetings with the enemies of the man who signs your paycheck?” Lazarev turned slowly to listen to Mikhail’s response.
“Is that what this is about?” Mikhail asked after a moment. “Are you recruiting me to spy on Viktor?”
“You seem familiar with the language of espionage, Nicholas.”
“I read books.”
“What kind of books?”
Mikhail set down his drink deliberately. “This is beginning to sound too much like an interrogation,” he said calmly. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go back to my hotel now.”
“That would be a mistake on your part,” Lazarev said.
“Why?”
“Because you haven’t heard my offer yet.”
Smiling, Lazarev collected Mikhail’s untouched drink and carried it over to the trolley for refreshing. Mikhail looked at Pavel Zhirov and returned his lifeless stare. Inwardly, though, he was exchanging Zhirov’s dark woolen clothing for the bright summer costume he had worn to lunch at Les Palmiers restaurant in Calvi. When the drink reappeared, Mikhail wiped the image from his thoughts like chalk from a blackboard and looked only at Lazarev. His brow was furrowed, as though he were struggling over an equation with no possible solution.
“Do you mind if we conduct the rest of this conversation in Russian?” he asked at last.
“I’m afraid my Russian is only good enough for restaurants and taxicabs.”
“I have it on the highest authority that your Russian is rather good. Fluent, actually.”
“Who told you that?”
“A friend from Gazprom,” Lazarev answered truthfully. “He spoke to you briefly in Prague when you were there with Viktor.”
“Word gets around fast.”
“I’m afraid there are no secrets in Moscow, Nicholas.”
“So I hear.”
“Did you study Russian at school?”
“No.”
“That means you must have learned it at home.”
“I must have.”
“Your parents are Russian?”
“And my grandparents, too,” replied Mikhail.
“How did they end up in England?”
“The usual way.”
“What does that mean?”
“They left Russia after the fall of the tsar and settled in Paris. And then they came to London.”
“Your ancestors were bourgeoisie?”
“They weren’t Bolsheviks, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I suppose I am.”
Mikhail appeared to weigh his next words carefully. “My great-grandfather was a moderately successful businessman who didn’t want to live under communism.”
“What was his name?”
“The family name was Avdonin, which he eventually changed to Avedon.”
“So your real name is Nikita Avdonin,” Lazarev pointed out.
“Nicolai,” Mikhail corrected him.
“May I call you Nicolai?”
“If you wish,” answered Mikhail.
When Lazarev spoke next, it was in Russian. “Have you ever been to Moscow?” he asked.
“No,” replied Mikhail in the same language.
“Why not?”
“I’ve never had a reason to.”
“You’re not curious to see where you come from?”
“England is my home,” Mikhail said. “Russia is the land my family fled.”
“Were you an opponent of the Soviet Union?”
“I was too young to be an opponent.”
“And our current government?”
“What about it?”
“Do you share Viktor Orlov’s opinion that our president is an authoritarian kleptocrat?”
“This might surprise you, Mr. Lazarev, but Viktor and I don’t talk about politics.”
“That does surprise me.”
Mikhail said nothing more. Lazarev let it drop. His gaze moved from Bershov to Zhirov before settling once again on Mikhail. When he spoke next, it was in English again.
“I assume you’ve read about the licensing deal we reached with the British government that will allow us to conduct drilling operations in the North Sea.”
“Two newly discovered fields off the Western Isles,” Mikhail said as though reading from a prospectus. “Projected output at maturity of one hundred thousand barrels a day.”
“Very impressive.”
“It’s my business, Mr. Lazarev.”
“Actually, it’s my business.” Lazarev paused, then added, “But I’d like you to run it for me.”
“The Western Isles project?”
Lazarev nodded.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lazarev,” Mikhail said deferentially, “but I’m not a project m
anager.”
“You did similar work in the North Sea for KBS Oil Services.”
“Which is why I don’t want to do it again. Besides, I’m already under contract with Viktor.” Mikhail rose to his feet. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stay for dinner, Mr. Lazarev, but I really should be getting back.”
“But you haven’t heard the rest of my offer yet.”
“If it’s anything like the first part,” Mikhail said tersely, “I’m not interested.”
Lazarev seemed not to hear. “As you know, Nicolai, Volgatek is expanding its operations in Europe and elsewhere. If we are to succeed in this venture, we need talented people like you. People who understand the West and Russia.”
“Was that supposed to be an offer?”
Lazarev took a step forward and placed his hands proprietarily on Mikhail’s shoulders. “The Western Isles are only the beginning,” he said, as though there was no one else in the room. “I want you to help me build an oil company with truly global reach. I’m going to make you rich, Nicolai Avdonin. Rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
“I’m doing quite nicely already.”
“If I know Viktor, he’s giving you a bit of loose change from his pockets.” Lazarev smiled and squeezed Mikhail’s shoulders. “Come to Volgatek, Nicolai. Come home.”
The southern end of Køge Bay is not the sort of place where two men can sit for long in a parked car without being noticed, so Gabriel and Keller drove to the nearest town and took a table in a small, warm restaurant that served an unappetizing mix of Italian and Chinese food. Keller ate enough for the both of them, but Gabriel had only black tea. In his earpiece there was silence, and in his thoughts there were images of Mikhail being marched to his death through a snow-covered forest of birch trees. Twice Gabriel started to rise to his feet out of fear and frustration, and twice Keller told him to sit down and wait it out. “You’ve done your job,” Keller said calmly, a false operational smile affixed to his suntanned face. “Let it play out.”
Finally, one hour and thirty-three minutes after Mikhail entered the house by the sea, Gabriel heard a sharp electronic crackle in his ear, followed by the roaring of the wind—the same wind that rattled the panes of the frosted window a few inches from his face. Then, much to his relief, he heard the sound of Mikhail’s voice, thin with cold.
“I’ll think about it, Gennady. Truly, I will.”
“Don’t think too long, Nicolai, because my offer has a deadline.”
“How long do I have?”
“I’d like an answer in a week. Otherwise, I’m going to have to go in another direction.”
“And if I say yes?”
“We’ll bring you to Moscow for a few days so you can meet the rest of the team. If we both like what we see, we’ll take the next step. If not, you’ll stay with Viktor and pretend this never happened.”
“Why Moscow?”
“Are you afraid to come to Moscow, Nicolai?”
“Of course not.”
“You shouldn’t be. Pavel will take very good care of you.”
The words were the last spoken by either man. After that, a door slammed, a car engine turned over, and the blue light began to move across the screen of the tablet computer. As it approached the coordinates of the café, Gabriel turned his head and saw the big black Mercedes blow past in a cloud of swirling snow. Mikhail had survived reentry. All they had to do now was pluck him from the sea and bring him home.
The return trip to Copenhagen lasted forty-five minutes and was so uneventful it bordered on tedium. Gabriel allowed Keller to handle the driving so he could focus all his considerable powers of concentration on the audio feed streaming live into his ear. There was no sound other than the velvety rumble of a Mercedes engine and a monotonous tapping. At first, Gabriel assumed there was something loose beneath the car. Then he realized it was Mikhail drumming his fingers on the armrest, something he always did when he was on edge.
When he emerged from the car at the Hotel d’Angleterre, however, Mikhail looked like a man without a care in the world. Entering the lobby, he found the Brazilians drinking in the bar and decided to join them for a much-deserved nightcap. Afterward, he headed up to his room, which bore no trace of the highly professional search that had taken place in his absence. Even his laptop computer, which had been subjected to a digital ransacking, was precisely as he had left it. He used it to dash off a priority flash alert to the team, a printout of which Eli Lavon was holding in his hand as Gabriel and Keller returned to the safe flat on the street with an unpronounceable name.
“You did it, Gabriel,” Lavon was saying. “You’ve got him.”
“Who?” asked Gabriel.
“Paul,” replied Lavon, smiling. “Pavel Zhirov of Volgatek Oil and Gas is Paul.”
The quarrel that came next was among the worst in the team’s long history together, yet it was conducted so quietly that Keller scarcely knew it was taking place at all. Uncharacteristically, they split roughly in two, with Yaakov assuming control of the rebel faction. His case was simple and passionately argued. They had undertaken the operation for one reason: to find proof that the Russians had carried out the kidnapping of Madeline Hart as part of a conspiracy to gain access to British oil. Now that proof was sitting in his room at the Imperial Hotel in the form of Pavel Zhirov, Volgatek’s chief of security and a Moscow Center thug if ever there was one. They had no choice but to move against him immediately, Yaakov argued. Otherwise, Zhirov would slip beyond their reach forever.
Unfortunately for Yaakov, the leader of the opposing faction was none other than his future chief, Gabriel Allon, who calmly explained all the reasons why Pavel Zhirov would be leaving Copenhagen in the morning as scheduled. They had no time to plan or rehearse the operation properly, he said. Nor would they be presented with an opportunity to get Zhirov cleanly that matched any existing Office criteria. Crash operations were always risky, said Gabriel. And a crash operation without a plan was a recipe for a disaster the Office could not afford at this time. Pavel Zhirov would be allowed to walk. And, if necessary, the Office would carry his bags for him.
And so it was that, at ten the following morning, Pavel Zhirov, aka Paul, strode from the doorway of the Imperial Hotel, accompanied by Gennady Lazarev and Dmitry Bershov. Together they rode to the Copenhagen airport in a chauffeured limousine and boarded a private plane bound for Moscow. Yossi snapped one final departure photo for a newsletter that did not exist and then boarded a flight for London. By that evening he and the other members of the team were once again gathered around Gabriel in the Grayswood safe house. Nicolai Avdonin was going to the city of heretics for a job interview, he said. And the team was going with him.
46
GRAYSWOOD, SURREY
The summons arrived via the secure link late the following afternoon. Gabriel considered ignoring it, but the message made it clear that a failure to appear would result in the immediate revocation of his operational charter. And so, at six that evening, he reluctantly drove to central London and slipped into the Israeli Embassy through the back door. The station chief, a battle-scarred careerist named Natan, waited tensely in the foyer. He escorted Gabriel downstairs to the Holy of Holies and then quickly fled, as though he feared being injured by flying debris. The room was unoccupied, but resting upon the table was a tray of tea sandwiches and Viennese butter cookies. There was also a bottle of mineral water, which Gabriel locked in a cabinet. He did so out of habit. Office doctrine dictated that the site of a potentially hostile encounter be cleared of any object that could be used as a weapon.
For twenty minutes no one else entered the room. Then, finally, there appeared a man with the thick physique of a wrestler. He wore a dark suit that seemed a size too small and a fashionable high-collared dress shirt that left the impression his head was bolted onto his shoulders. His hair had once been strawberry blond in color; now it was silver gray and cropped short to conceal the fact it was falling out at an alarming rate. He stared at Gabriel for
a moment through a pair of narrow spectacles, as though he were debating whether to shoot him now or at dawn. Then he walked over to the tray of food and shook his head slowly.
“Do you think my enemies know?”
“What’s that, Uzi?”
“That I am incapable of resisting food. Especially these,” Navot added, snatching one of the butter cookies from the tray. “I suppose it’s genetic. My grandfather loved nothing better than a butter cookie and a good cup of Viennese coffee.”
“Better to have a problem with sweets than gambling or women.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Navot replied resentfully. “You’re like Shamron. You don’t have any weaknesses. You’re incorruptible.” He paused, then added, “You’re perfect.”
Gabriel could see where this was headed. He remained silent while Navot stared at the butter cookie in his hand as though it were the source of all his problems.
“I suppose you do have one weakness,” Navot said at last. “You’ve always allowed personal feelings to enter into your decision making. You’ll have to rid yourself of that when you become chief.”
“This isn’t personal, Uzi.”
Navot gave an artificial smile. “So you’re not going to deny that Shamron has talked to you about becoming the next chief?”
“No,” replied Gabriel, “I’m not going to deny it.”
Navot was still smiling, though barely. “You have one other weakness, Gabriel. You’re honest. Far too honest for a spy.”
Navot finally sat down and placed his heavy forearms upon the tabletop. The surface seemed to settle beneath the weight. Watching him, Gabriel recalled an unpleasant afternoon, many years earlier, when he had been paired with Navot for a session of silent-killing training. Gabriel lost count of how many times he died that day.
“How long do I have?” Navot asked.
“Come on, Uzi. Let’s not do this.”
