by Daniel Silva
“I need every scrap of intelligence you have on Ivan’s network. And I mean all of it, Adrian—especially NSA intercepts of Ivan’s telephone communications. And don’t just give me the transcripts. I need to get inside his head. And to get inside his head, I need to hear his voice.”
“You’re talking about a great deal of highly classified material. It can’t be turned over to an officer of a foreign intelligence service on a whim, even you. I have to run it through channels. It could take weeks to get approval, if at all.”
“Those weapons could be heading toward America’s shores as we speak, Adrian.”
“I’ll see what I can do to expedite matters.”
“No, Adrian, you must expedite matters. Otherwise, I’m going to pick up that phone over there and call my friend at the White House. I still have that number you gave me in Copenhagen, the one that rings directly in the Oval Office.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“In a heartbeat.”
“I’ll get the material released to you within twenty-four hours. What else do you need?”
“A Russian speaker.”
“Believe it or not, we’ve still got a few of those.”
“Actually, I have one in mind. I need you to get him into the country right away.”
“Who is it?”
Gabriel told him the name.
“Done,” said Carter. “Where do you intend to set up shop? At your embassy?”
“I’ve never been fond of embassies.” Gabriel looked around the room. “This will do quite nicely. But do me a favor, Adrian. Ask your techs to come over here and remove all the cameras and microphones. I don’t want your bloodhounds watching me while I shower.”
24
GEORGETOWN
It took Adrian Carter the better part of the next morning to secure the authorization necessary to release the Kharkov files into Gabriel’s custody. Then several additional hours elapsed while they were gathered, sorted, and purged of anything remotely embarrassing to the Central Intelligence Agency or the government of the United States. Finally, at seven that evening, the material was delivered to the house on N Street by an unmarked Agency van. Carter stopped by to supervise the load in and to secure Gabriel’s signature on a draconian release form. Hastily drafted by a CIA lawyer, it threatened criminal prosecution and many other forms of punishment if Gabriel shared the documents or their contents with anyone else.
“This document is ridiculous, Adrian. How can I operate without sharing the intelligence?”
“Just sign it,” Carter said. “It doesn’t mean what it says. It’s just the lawyers being lawyers.”
Gabriel scribbled his name in Hebrew across the bottom of the form and handed it to Eli Lavon, who had just arrived from Tel Aviv. Lavon signed it without protest and gave it back to Adrian Carter.
“No one is allowed in or out of the house while this material is on the premises. And that includes you two. Don’t think about trying to sneak out, because I’ve got a team of watchers on N Street and another in the alley.”
When Carter departed, they divided up the files and retreated to separate quarters. Gabriel took several boxes of Agency cables, along with the data assembled by the now-defunct NSC task force, and settled into the library. Eli Lavon took everything from NSA—the transcripts and the original recordings—and set up shop in the drawing room.
For the remainder of the evening, and late into the night, they were treated to the sound of Ivan Kharkov’s voice. Ivan the banker and Ivan the builder. Ivan the real estate mogul and Ivan the international investor. Ivan the very emblem of a Russia resurgent. They listened while he negotiated with the mayor of Moscow over a prime piece of riverfront property where he wished to develop an American-style shopping mall. They listened while he coerced a fellow Russian businessman into surrendering his share of a lucrative Bentley dealership located near the Kremlin walls. They listened while he threatened to castrate the owner of a London moving company over damage to his mansion in Belgravia incurred during the delivery of a Bösendorfer piano. And they listened to a rather tense conversation with an underling called Valery who was having difficulty obtaining the clearance for a large shipment of medical equipment to Sierra Leone. The equipment must have been urgently needed, for, twenty minutes later, NSA intercepted a second call to Valery, during which Ivan said the papers were now in order and that the flight could proceed to Freetown without delay.
When not tending to his far-flung business empire, Ivan juggled his many women. There was Yekatarina, the supermodel whom he kept for personal viewing in an apartment in Paris. There was Tatyana, the Aeroflot flight attendant who saw to his needs each time their paths happened to intersect. And there was poor Ludmila, who had come to London looking for a way out of her dreary Siberian village and had found Ivan instead. She had believed Ivan’s lies and, when cast aside, had threatened to tell Elena everything. Another man might have tried to defuse the situation with expensive gifts or money. But not Ivan. Ivan threatened to have her killed. And then he threatened to kill her parents in Russia as well.
Occasionally, they would be granted a reprieve from Ivan by the voice of Elena. Though not an official target of NSA surveillance, she became ensnared in NSA’s net each time she used one of Ivan’s phones. She was silk to Ivan’s steel, decency to Ivan’s decadence. She had everything money could buy but seemed to want nothing more than a husband with an ounce of integrity. She raised their two children without Ivan’s help and, for the most part, passed her days free of Ivan’s boorish company. Ivan bought her large houses and gave her endless piles of money to fill them with expensive things. In return, she was permitted to ask nothing of his business or personal affairs. With the help of NSA’s satellites, Gabriel and Lavon became privy to Ivan’s many lies. When Ivan told Elena he was in Geneva for a meeting with his Swiss bankers, Gabriel and Lavon knew he was actually in Paris partaking in the delights of Yekatarina. And when Ivan told Elena he was in Düsseldorf meeting with a German industrialist, Gabriel and Lavon knew he was actually in Frankfurt helping Tatyana pass a long layover in an airport hotel room. Lavon’s loathing of him grew with each passing hour. “Lots of women make deals with the Devil,” he said. “But poor Elena was foolish enough to actually marry him.”
An hour before dawn, Gabriel was reading an excruciatingly dull cable by the CIA station chief in Angola when Lavon poked his head in the door.
“I think you need to come and listen to something.”
Gabriel set aside the cable and followed Lavon into the drawing room. The anonymous air of a hotel hospitality suite had been replaced by that of a university common room on the night before a final exam. Lavon sat down before a laptop computer and, with a click of the mouse, played a series of fourteen intercepts, each featuring the voice of Elena Kharkov. None required translation because in each conversation she was speaking fluent English and addressing the same man. The last intercept was only two months old. Gabriel listened to it three times, then looked at Lavon and smiled.
“What do you think?” Lavon asked.
"I think you may have just found a way for us to talk to Ivan’s wife.”
25
DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETOWN
She’s obsessed with Mary Cassatt.” "Is that one of Ivan’s girlfriends?”
“She’s a painter, Adrian. An Impressionist painter. A rather good one, actually.”
“Forgive me, Gabriel. I’ve been somewhat busy since 9/11. I can give you chapter and verse on the one hundred most dangerous terrorists in the world, but I can’t tell you the title of the last movie I saw.”
“You need to get out more, Adrian.”
“Tell that to al-Qaeda.”
They were walking along the dirt-and-gravel towpath at the edge of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. It was early morning, but the sun had yet to burn its way through the layer of gauzy gray cloud that had settled over Washington during the night. On their left, the wide green waters of the Potomac River flowed listl
essly toward Georgetown, while, on their right, warring motorists sped toward the same destination along Canal Road. Gabriel wore faded jeans and a plain white pullover; Carter, a nylon tracksuit and a pair of pristine running shoes.
“I take it Mary Cassatt was French?”
“American, actually. She moved to Paris in 1865 and eventually fell under the spell of the Impressionists. Her specialty was tender portraits of women and children—intriguing, since she was unmarried and childless herself. Her work is a bit too sentimental for my taste, but it’s extremely popular among a certain type of collector.”
“Like Elena Kharkov?”
Gabriel nodded. “Based on what we heard in the NSA intercepts, she owns at least six Cassatts already and is in the market for more. She’s on a first-name basis with every significant dealer in Paris, London, and New York. She’s also got excellent contacts at the big auction houses, including the director of the Impressionist and Modern Art department at Christie’s in London.”
“Know him?”
“In another life.”
“I take it you’re planning to renew your professional relationship?”
“One step at a time, Adrian.”
Carter walked in silence for a moment, with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes cast downward. “I had a chance to peruse her file. Elena’s an interesting woman, to say the least. She’s a Leningrad girl. Did you notice that, Gabriel?”
“Yes, Adrian, I did notice that.”
“Her father was a Party muckety-muck. Worked for Gosplan, the central planning bureaucracy that oversaw the Rube Goldberg contraption once known as the Soviet economy. She went to Leningrad State University and was supposed to be an economist like her father. But apparently she had a change of heart and decided to study languages and art instead. It seems she was working at the Hermitage when she met Ivan. One wonders what she saw in him.”
“They had similar backgrounds. Both were children of the elite.”
“There’s a big difference between Gosplan and the KGB.”
Gabriel heard footfalls and looked up to see a floppy-haired runner bounding toward them with headphones over his ears. He envied those innocent souls who could go out in public deprived of a vital sense. When they were alone again, Carter asked, “How do you intend to play this?”
“After listening to those intercepts, I’m convinced that if a painting by Mary Cassatt were to come quietly onto the market Elena Kharkov would jump at the opportunity to have a look.”
“And you would be standing next to it when she did?”
“Or one of my associates. Someone with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for the paintings of Mary Cassatt. Someone who won’t make Elena’s bodyguards nervous.”
Carter absently patted his right pocket, as if looking for his pipe. “Should I assume this encounter would take place on British soil?”
“You should.”
“That means you’re going to have to bring the British into the picture. Ivan and his entourage are under full-time MI5 surveillance whenever they’re in London. I suspect our British cousins will be more than willing to cooperate. The British have been pressing us to do something about Ivan for years.”
Twenty yards ahead, a young woman was being pulled along the towpath by a panting Siberian husky. Gabriel, whose fear of dogs was legendary in the trade, deftly switched places with Carter and watched with a certain professional satisfaction as the dog pressed its dripping muzzle against the leg of Carter’s tracksuit.
“This agent with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for Mary Cassatt,” Carter said as he wiped away the spittle. “Do you have someone in mind for the job yet?”
“I’m inclined to use a woman. She would have to be able to pass as an American or a Brit. We have several suitable candidates but none with any real expertise when it comes to art. Which means I’d have to start from scratch to get them ready.”
“That’s a shame. After all, the clock is ticking.”
“Yes, Adrian, I realize that.”
“As you may recall, we have someone who might fit the bill. She has a Ph.D. in art history from Harvard and she’s done a job like this before. She’s even operated with your service on a couple of occasions, which means she understands your rather archaic Hebrew-based lexicon.”
“It might be complicated, Adrian.”
“Because she’s secretly in love with you.” Carter glanced at Gabriel to see his reaction but received only a blank stare in return. “She’s a big girl, Gabriel. And thanks to you, she’s a true professional now.”
“Where is she?”
“Still at the Counterterrorism Center at Langley, which means she’s technically under my control. If you want her, she’s yours.”
“Poor choice of words, Adrian.”
“I was speaking in a professional sense, of course.”
Gabriel walked in silence for a moment. “Obviously, she’s perfect for the job. But are you sure she’s ready to go back into the field?”
“She worked with you during the Halton affair.”
“As a liaison only. This operation would require sending her undercover again.”
“I’m given regular updates on her progress. The Agency psychiatrist we assigned to her says she’s coming along nicely. Personnel says she’s had no problems adapting to her new cover identity, and her superiors at the CTC have given her extremely high marks.”
“Not surprising, Adrian. She’s a star. God only knows why your recruiters rejected her in the first place.”
“They thought she was too independent—and maybe a bit too intelligent. We’re not like you, Gabriel. We like our case officers to think inside the box.”
“And you wonder why your most talented operatives are working for private contractors now.”
“Spare me the critique, Gabriel. Do you want to use her or not?”
“I’ll know after I talk to her.”
“She comes on duty in the CTC at noon.”
“Langley?” Gabriel shook his head. “I want to see her somewhere the Agency isn’t listening.”
“That narrows our options considerably.” Carter made a show of careful consideration. “How about Dumbarton Oaks? The gardens, at noon.”
“Just make sure she’s alone.”
Carter smiled sadly. “Thanks to you, Gabriel, she never goes anywhere alone. And she probably never will.”
26
DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETON
The sun managed to burn through the veil of haze by mid-morning, and by the time Gabriel presented himself at the entrance of Dumbarton Oaks it had grown appallingly hot. He purchased an admission ticket from a man in a little booth and was handed a glossy brochure. He consulted it frequently while he strolled past the elaborate arbors, trellises, and ornamental pools. A few minutes after noon, he made his way to a distant corner of the gardens, where he found an attractive woman in her early thirties seated primly on a wooden bench, a paperback book open in her lap, lilies of the valley at her feet. She wore a simple cotton sundress and sandals. Her blond hair had grown out since he had seen her last; her alabaster skin was beginning to turn red from the intense sun. She looked up sharply as Gabriel approached, but her face remained oddly expressionless, as if it had been rendered by the hand of Mary Cassatt.
“Were you able to spot Adrian’s watchers?” asked Sarah Bancroft.
He kissed her cheek and led her toward the shade of a nearby trellis. “A nearsighted probationer fresh out of the academy could have spotted Adrian’s watchers.”
