by Daniel Silva
36
SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
The village of Saint-Tropez lies at the far western end of the Côte d’Azur, at the base of the French département known as the Var. It was nothing but a sleepy fishing port when, in 1956, it was the setting for a film called And God Created Woman, starring Brigitte Bardot. Nearly overnight, Saint-Tropez became one of the most popular resorts in the world, an exclusive playground for the fashionable, the elite, and other assorted euro millionaires. Though it had fallen from grace in the eighties and nineties, it had seen a revival of late. The actors and rock stars had returned, along with the models and the rich playboys who pursued them. Even Bardot herself had started coming back again. Much to the horror of the French and longtime habitués, it had also been discovered by newly rich invaders from the East: the Russians.
The town itself is surprisingly small. Its two primary features are the Old Port, which in summer is filled with luxury yachts instead of fishing boats, and the Place Carnot, a large, dusty esplanade that once each week hosts a bustling outdoor market and where local men still pass summer days playing pétanque and drinking pastis. The streets betweenthe port and the square are little more than medieval passageways. In the height of summer, they are jammed with tourists and pedestrians, which makes driving in the centre ville of Saint-Tropez nearly impossible. Just outside the town center lies a labyrinth of towering hedgerows and narrow lanes, leading to some of the world’s most popular beaches and expensive homes.
In the hills above the coast are a number of villages perchés, where it is almost possible to imagine Saint-Tropez does not exist. One such village is Gassin. Small and quaint, it is known mainly for its ancient windmills—the Moulins de Paillas—and for its stunning views of the distant sea. A mile or so beyond the windmills is an old stone farm-house with pale blue shutters and a large swimming pool. The local rental agency described it as a steal at thirty thousand euros a week; a man with a German passport and money to burn took it for the remainder of the summer. He then informed the agent he wanted no cooks, no maid service, no gardeners, and no interruptions of any kind. He claimed to be a filmmaker at work on an important project. When the agent asked the man what type of film it would be, he mumbled something about a period piece and showed the agent to the door.
The other members of the filmmaker’s “crew” trickled into the villa like scouts returning to base after a long time behind enemy lines. They traveled under false names and with false passports in their pockets, but all had one thing in common. They had sailed under Gabriel’s star before and leapt at the chance to do so again—even if the journey was to take place in August, when most would have preferred to be on holiday with their families.
First came Gabriel’s two Russian speakers, Eli Lavon and Mikhail Abramov. Next it was a man with short black hair and pockmarked cheeks named Yaakov Rossman, a battle-hardened case officer and agent-runner from the Arab Affairs Department of Shin Bet. Then Yossi Gavish, a tall, balding intellectual from the Office’s Research division who had read classics at Oxford and still spoke Hebrew with a pronounced British accent.
Finally, this rather motley, all-male troupe was graced by the presence of two women. The first had sandstone-colored hair and child-bearing hips: Rimona Stern, an army major who served in Israel’s crack military intelligence service and who also happened to be Shamron’s niece by marriage. The second was dark-haired and carried herself with the quiet air of early widowhood: Dina Sarid, a veritable encyclopedia of terrorism from the Office’s History division who could recite the time, place, and casualty count of every act of violence ever committed against the State of Israel. Dina knew the horrors of terrorism personally. She had been standing in Tel Aviv’s Dizengoff Square in October 1994 when a Hamas terrorist detonated his suicide belt aboard a Number 5 bus. Twenty-one people were killed, including Dina’s mother and two of her sisters. Dina herself had been seriously wounded and still walked with a slight limp.
For the next several days, the lives of Gabriel and his team stood in stark contrast to those of the man and woman they were pursuing. While Ivan and Elena Kharkov entertained wildly at their palace on the Baie de Cavalaire, Gabriel and his team rented three cars and several motor scooters of different makes and colors. And while Ivan and Elena Kharkov lunched elegantly in the Old Port, Gabriel and his team took delivery of a large consignment of weaponry, listening devices, cameras, and secure communications gear. And while Elena and Ivan Kharkov cruised the waters of the Golfe de Saint-Tropez aboard October, Ivan’s 263-foot motor yacht, Gabriel and his team hid miniature cameras with secure transmitters near the gates of Villa Soleil. And while Ivan and Elena dined lavishly at Villa Romana, a hedonistic and scandalously expensive restaurant adored by Russians, Gabriel and his team dined at home and plotted a meeting they hoped to conduct at the earliest date.
The first step toward creating the circumstances of that meeting occurred when Mikhail climbed into a red Audi convertible with a new American passport in his pocket and drove to the Côte d’Azur International Airport in Nice. There, he met an attractive young American woman arriving on a flight from London Heathrow: Sarah Crawford of Washington, D.C., lately of the Havermore estate, Gloucestershire, England. Two hours later, they checked into their suite at the Château de la Messardière, a luxury five-star hotel located a few minutes from the centre ville. The bellman who showed the young couple to an ocean-view room reported to his colleagues that they could barely keep their hands off one another. The next morning, while the guests were partaking of a buffet breakfast, the chambermaids found their king-size bed in a shambles.
They drifted through the same world but along distinctly parallel planes. When Elena and the children chose to remain cloistered at the Villa Soleil, Sarah and her lover would spend the day poolside at the Messardière—or “the Mess,” as they referred to it privately. And when Elena and the children chose to spend the day frolicking in the gentle surf of Tahiti Beach, Sarah and her lover would be stretched out on the sands of the Plage de Pampelonne instead. And if Elena chose to do a bit of late-afternoon shopping on the rue Gambetta, Sarah and her lover could be found strolling past the storefronts of the rue Georges Clemenceau or having a quiet drink in one of the bars on the Place Carnot. And at night, when Elena and Ivan dined at Villa Romana or one of the other Russian haunts, Sarah and her lover would dine quietly at the Mess—in close proximity to their room, lest the urge to ravage each other grow too strong to resist.
It proceeded in this seemingly directionless fashion until the early afternoon of the fourth day, when Elena decided the time had finally come to have lunch at Grand Joseph, her favorite restaurant in Saint-Tropez. She reserved early—a requirement in August, even for the wife of an oligarch—and although she did not know it, her call was intercepted by an NSA spy satellite floating high overhead. Due to a minor traffic accident on the D61, she and the children arrived at the restaurant seventeen minutes late, accompanied, as usual, by a team of four bodyguards. Jean-Luc, the maître d’, greeted Elena effusively with kisses on both cheeks before conveying the party to their tables along the creamy white banquette. Elena took a seat with her back turned discreetly to the room, while her bodyguards settled at each end of the table. They took only scant notice of the postcard that arrived with her bottle of rosé, though it sent a jolt of fear the length of Elena’s body. She concealed it with a look of mild displeasure, then picked up the card and read the handwritten note scribbled on the back:
Elena,
I hope you’re enjoying the Cassatt. May we join you?
Sarah
37
SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
Wineglass in hand, Mikhail at her side, Sarah gazed calmly across the crowded dining room toward Elena’s long back. The postcard was still in Elena’s grasp. She was gazing down at it with an air of mild curiosity, as was Oleg, her chief bodyguard. She laid the postcard on the tablecloth and turned slowly around to survey the room. Twice, her gaze passed over Sarah with
no visible sign of recognition. Elena Kharkov was a child of Leningrad, Sarah thought. A child of the Party. She knew how to scan a room for watchers before making a meeting. She knew how to play the game by the Moscow Rules.
On its third sweep over the room, her gaze finally settled on Sarah’s face. She lifted the postcard dramatically and opened her mouth wide in a show of surprise. The smile was forced and illuminated with artificial light, but her bodyguards could not see it. Then, before they could react, she was suddenly on her feet and flowing across the dining room, her hips swiveling as she maneuvered between the tightly packed tables, her white skirt swirling around her suntanned thighs. Sarah stood to greet her; Elena kissed her formally on each cheek and pressed her mouth to Sarah’s ear. The right ear, Sarah noted. The one her bodyguardscouldn’t see. “I can’t believe it’s really you! What a wonderful surprise!” Then, in a quiet voice that caused a cavernous ache in Sarah’s abdomen: “You’ll be careful, won’t you? My husband is a very dangerous man.”
Elena released her tense grip on Sarah and looked at Mikhail, who had risen to his feet and was standing silently at his chair. She appraised him carefully, as though he were a painting propped on a viewing easel, then extended a bejeweled hand while Sarah saw to the introduction.
“This is my very good friend, Michael Danilov. Michael and I work in the same office in Washington. If any of our colleagues found out we were here together, there would be a terrible scandal.”
“So we share another secret? Just like the hiding place for the key to the nursery?” She was still clinging to Mikhail’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Michael.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Kharkov. I’ve been an admirer of your husband’s success for some time. When Sarah told me that she’d met you, I was extremely envious.”
Hearing Mikhail’s accent, Elena’s face took on an expression of surprise. It was contrived, Sarah thought, just as her smile had been a moment earlier. “You’re a Russian,” she said, not as a question but as a statement of fact.
“Actually, I’m an American citizen now, but, yes, I was born in Moscow. My family moved to the States not long after the fall of communism. ”
“How fascinating.” Elena looked at Sarah. “You never told me you had a Russian boyfriend.”
“It’s not exactly the sort of personal information one reveals during a business transaction. Besides, Michael is my secret Russian boyfriend. Michael doesn’t really exist.”
“I love conspiracies,” Elena said. “Please, you must join me for lunch.”
“Are you sure it’s not an imposition?”
“Are you sure you want to have lunch with my children?”
“We would love to have lunch with your children.”
“Then it’s settled.”
Elena summoned Jean-Luc with an imperious wave of her hand and, in French, asked him to add another table to the banquette so her friends could join her. There followed much frowning and pouting of lips, then a lengthy explanation of how the tables were too closely aligned already for him to possibly add another. The only solution, he ventured cautiously, was for Mrs. Kharkov’s two friends to trade places with two of Mrs. Kharkov’s entourage. This time it was Oleg, the chief of her detail, who was summoned. Like Jean-Luc before him, he offered resistance. It was overcome by a few tense words that, had they not been spoken in colloquial Russian, would have scandalized the entire room.
The exchange of places was swiftly carried out. Two of the bodyguards were soon sulking at the far end of the table, one with a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Sarah tried not to think about whom he was calling. Instead, she kept her gaze focused on the children. They were miniature versions of their parents: Nikolai, fair and compact; Anna, lanky and dark. “You should see photographs of Ivan and me when we were their age,” Elena said, as if reading Sarah’s thoughts. “It’s even more shocking.”
“It’s as if you produced exact duplicates.”
“We did, right down to the shape of their toes.”
“And their dispositions?”
“Anna is much more independent than I was as a child. I was always clinging to my mother’s apron. Anna lives in her own world. My Anna likes time to herself.”
“And Nikolai?”
Elena was silent for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer the question with evasion or honesty. She chose the latter. “My precious Nikolai is much sweeter than his father. Ivan accuses me of babying him too much. Ivan’s father was distant and authoritarian, and I’m afraid Ivan is as well. Russian men don’t always make the best fathers. Unfortunately, it is a cultural trait they pass on to their sons.” She looked at Mikhail and, in Russian, asked: “Wouldn’t you agree, Michael?”
“My father was a mathematician,” he replied, also in Russian. “His head was too filled with numbers to think much about his son. But he was gentle as a lamb, and he never touched alcohol.”
“Then you should consider yourself extremely lucky. A weakness for alcohol is another trait our men tend to pass on to their sons.” She raised her wineglass and spoke in English again. “Although I must confess I have a certain weakness for cold rosé on a warm summer day, especially the rosé that comes from the vineyards around Saint-Tropez. ”
“A weakness I share myself,” Sarah said, raising her glass.
“Are you staying here in Saint-Tropez?”
“Just outside,” said Sarah. “At the Château de la Messardière.”
“I hear it’s very popular with Russians.”
“Let’s just say that no one expressed any surprise at my accent there,” Mikhail replied.
“I hope our countrymen are behaving themselves.”
“For the most part. But I’m afraid there was one minor incident at the pool involving a middle-aged Moscow businessman and his extremely young girlfriend.”
“What sort of incident?”
Mikhail made a show of thought. “I suppose uncontrolled lust would be the best way to describe it in polite company.”
“I hear there’s a great deal of that going around,” Elena said. “We Russians love it here in France, but I’m not so sure the French love us in return. Some of my countrymen don’t know how to conduct themselves in polite company yet. They like to drink vodka instead of wine. And they like to flaunt their pretty young mistresses.”
“The French like anyone with money and power,” said Mikhail. “And, at the moment, the Russians have both.”
“Now, if we could only learn some manners.” Elena turned her gaze from Mikhail to Sarah. “By the way, the answer to your question is yes.”
Sarah was momentarily confused. Elena tapped the postcard with her fingertip. “The Cassatt,” she said. “I am enjoying it. In fact, I’m enjoying it a great deal. I’m not sure whether you know this, Sarah, but I own six other paintings by Madame Cassatt. I know her work extremely well. I think this one might actually be my favorite.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. It takes away some of the sting of losing it.”
“Has it been hard for you?”
“The first night was hard. And the first morning was even worse.”
“Then you must come see it again. It’s here, you know.”
“We wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Not at all. In fact, I insist that you come tomorrow. You’ll have lunch and a swim.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added: “And you can see the painting, of course.”
A waiter appeared and placed a plate of steak haché avec pomme frites in front of each child. Elena instructed Sarah and Mikhail to have a look at the menu and was opening her own when her mobile phone began to chime. She drew it from her handbag and looked at the display screen before lifting the cover. The conversation that followed was brief and conducted in Russian. When it was over, she closed the phone with a snap and placed it carefully on the table before her. Then she looked at Sarah and treated her to another smile filled with false light.
“Ivan was planning to take
his yacht out to sea this afternoon but he’s decided to join us for lunch instead. He’s just over in the harbor. He’ll be here in a minute or two.”
