by Daniel Silva
Carter looked at the digital clock. “It is now four-fifteen, Ari. If your team is to have any chance of getting on that plane, they need to be in their cars and heading to the airport in the next ten minutes.”
“Airplanes are complicated machines, Adrian. A lot of little things can go wrong with an airplane.”
“It might be a good idea to get that over and done with.” Shamron picked up a secure telephone connected to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard. A few terse words in Hebrew. A calm glance at Carter.
“It appears a cabin pressure warning light is now flashing in the cockpit of El Al Flight 1612. Until that problem is resolved to the satisfaction of the captain, a man who happens to be a decorated former IAF fighter pilot, that aircraft isn’t going anywhere.”
“Well played,” said Carter.
“How long can our French friends keep Ivan tied up in Nice?”
“Monsieur Boisson is just getting started. The children, however, are another matter entirely. We have a decision to make, Ari. What do we do about the children?”
“I wouldn’t want my children sitting around a gendarmerie station, would you, Adrian?”
“Can’t say I would.”
“Then let’s take them. Who knows? Depending on what happens inside the apartment building in the next ten minutes, we may need them.”
“For what?”
“I’m not going to give her up without a fight, Adrian, and you can be sure Gabriel isn’t either.” Shamron dropped his cigarette into his coffee cup and gave it a swirl. “Call the French. Get me Ivan’s children.”
Carter picked up the secure line connected to the French ops center in Paris. Shamron looked at the message screen, where Uzi Navot’s last message flashed incessantly.
AM ENTERING HOTE . . . ADVISE . . .
AM ENTERING HOTE . . . ADVISE . . .
AM ENTERING HOTE . . . ADVISE . . .
They had placed Sonia and the children in a pleasant holding room and plied them with cold fruit juice and ice cream. A pretty young female gendarme remained with them at all times, more for company than for reasons of security. They watched cartoons and played a noisy game of cards that made no sense to anyone, least of all the children themselves. The chief duty officer made them honorary gendarmes for the day and even allowed Nikolai to inspect his firearm. Later, he would tell his colleagues that the boy knew rather too much about guns for a child of seven.
After receiving a telephone call from headquarters in Paris, the duty officer returned to the holding room and announced that it was time for everyone to go home. Anna and Nikolai greeted this news not with joy but tears; for them, the arrest and detention had been a great adventure and they were in no hurry to return home to their palace by the sea. They were finally coaxed into leaving with a promise they could come back to play anytime they wished. As they headed down the central corridor of the station, Anna held the hand of the female gendarme while Nikolai lectured the duty officer about the superiority of Russian-made weapons. Sonia asked after the whereabouts of the bodyguards but received no response.
They left the station not through the front entrance but through a rear door that gave onto an enclosed courtyard. Several official Renaults were parked there, along with an older-model Peugeot wagon. Seated behind the wheel, wearing a white Lacoste polo, was a man with gray hair. Seeing the children, he climbed out of the car with a tranquil smile on his face and opened the rear door. Sonia froze and turned to the duty officer in confusion.
“What’s going on? Who is this man?”
“This is Monsieur Henri. He’s a good man. He’s going to take you and the children somewhere safe.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Kharkov is in a bit of trouble at the moment. Mrs. Kharkov has made arrangements to place the children in the care of Monsieur Henri until she returns. She has asked that you remain with them. She promises you will be extremely well compensated. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Mademoiselle?”
“I think so.”
“Very good. Now, get into the car, please. And try not to look so frightened. It will only upset the children. And that is the last thing they need at a time like this.”
At Moscow’s Sheremetyevo 2 Airport, Chiara was standing at her post at the check-in counter when the status window on the departure board switched from ON TIME to DELAYED. Ten feet away, in the crowded passenger lounge, 187 weary voices groaned in unison. One brave soul, a bearded Orthodox Jew in a dark suit, approached the counter and demanded an explanation. “It’s a minor mechanical problem, ” Chiara explained calmly. “The delay shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.” The man returned to his seat, skeptical he had been told the truth. Chiara turned and looked up at the board: DELAYED . . .
Walk away, Gabriel, she thought. Turn around and walk away.
60
MOSCOW
The clouds opened up at the same instant Gabriel’s earpiece crackled with the sound of Uzi Navot’s voice.
"We’re history.”
"What are you talking about?”
“The Old Man just issued the order to abort.”
“Tell him I want ten more minutes.”
“I’m not telling him anything. I’m following his order.”
“You go. I’ll meet you at Sheremetyevo.”
“We’re out of here. Now.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Get off the radio and into your car.”
Gabriel and Peled rose in unison and walked calmly from the park in the driving rain. Peled headed to the Volga; Gabriel, to Bolotnaya Square. Navot and Lavon joined him. Navot was wearing a waxed cap but Lavon was hatless. His wispy hair was soon plastered to his scalp.
“Why are we here?” Navot demanded. “Why are we standing in the rain in this godforsaken park when we should be in our cars heading to the airport?”
“Because I’m not leaving yet, Uzi.”
“Of course you are, Gabriel.” Navot tapped the PDA. “It says right here you are: ’Abort at 5 P.M. Moscow time and board flight at SVO.’ That’s what the message says. I’m quite certain it’s not a suggestion. In fact, I’m sure it is a direct order from the Memuneh himself.”
Memuneh was a Hebrew word that meant “the one in charge.” For as long as anyone in the Office could remember, it had been reserved for a single man: Ari Shamron.
“You can stand here in the park and shout at me until you’re hoarse, Uzi, but I’m not leaving her behind.”
“It’s not your call, Gabriel. You made a promise to Shamron in Paris. If she doesn’t come out of that building within the allotted period of time, you leave.”
Gabriel wiped the rain from his tinted glasses. “You’d better get moving, Uzi. The traffic to Sheremetyevo can be terrible this time of night.”
Navot seized Gabriel’s upper arm and squeezed it hard enough for Gabriel’s hand to go numb.
“What do you intend to do, Uzi? Drag me to the car?”
“If I have to.”
“That might cause a bit of a spectacle, don’t you think?”
“At least it will be brief. And unlike your desire to stay here in Moscow, chances are it won’t be fatal.”
“Let go of my arm, Uzi.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Gabriel. I’m the chief of Special Ops, not you. You’re nothing but an independent contractor. Therefore, you report to me. And I am telling you to get into that car and come with us to the airport.”
Eli Lavon carefully removed Navot’s hand from Gabriel’s arm. “That’s enough, Uzi. He’s not getting on the plane.”
Navot shot Lavon a dark look. “Thanks for the support, Eli. You Wrath of God boys always stick together, don’t you?”
“I don’t want him to stay behind any more than you do. I just know better than to waste my breath trying to talk him out of it. He has a hard head.”
“He’ll need it.” The rain was now streaming off the brim of Navot’s hat onto his face. “Do
you know what’s going to happen if I get on that plane without you? The Old Man will line me up against the wall and use me for target practice.”
Gabriel held up his wristwatch so Navot could see it. “Five o’clock, Uzi. Better be running along. And take Eli with you. He’s a fine watcher, but he’s never been one for the rough stuff.”
Navot gave Gabriel a Shamronian stare. He was done arguing.
“If I were you, I’d stay away from your hotel.” He reached into his coat pocket and handed Gabriel a single key. “I’ve been carrying this around in case we needed a crash pad. It’s an old Soviet wreck of a building near Dinamo Stadium, but it will do.”
Navot recited the street address, the building number, and the number of the apartment. “Once you’re inside, signal the station and bar the door. We’ll put in an extraction team. With a bit of luck, you’ll still be there when they arrive.”
Then he turned away without another word and pounded across the rain-swept square toward his car. Lavon watched him for a moment, then looked at Gabriel.
“Sure you don’t want some company?”
“Get to the airport, Eli. Get on that plane.”
“What would you like me to tell your wife?”
Gabriel hesitated a moment, then said, “Tell her I’m sorry, Eli. Tell her I’ll make it up to her somehow.”
“It’s possible you might be making a terrible mistake.”
“It won’t be the first time.”
“Yes, but this is Moscow. And it could be the last.”
Navot’s transmission appeared on the screen of the London ops center at 5:04 Moscow time: LEAVING FOR SVO ... MINUS ONE . . . Adrian Carter swore softly and looked at Shamron, who was turning over his old Zippo lighter in his fingertips.
Two turns to the right, two turns to the left . . .
“It seems you were right,” Carter said.
Shamron said nothing.
Two turns to the right, two to the left . . .
“The French say Ivan is about to blow, Ari. They say the situation at Nice is getting tenuous. They would like a resolution, one way or the other.”
“Perhaps it’s time to let Ivan see the scope of the dilemma he is now facing. Tell your cyberwarriors to turn the phones back on in Moscow. And tell the French to confiscate Ivan’s plane. And, while they’re at it, take his passport, too.”
“That should get his attention.”
Shamron closed his eyes.
Two turns to the right, two to the left . . .
By the time Ivan Kharkov emerged from the airport conference room at the Côte d’Azur International Airport, his anger had reached dangerous levels. It exploded into mild physical violence when he found his two bodyguards dozing on the couch. They stormed down a flight of stairs together, Ivan ranting in Russian to no one in particular, and climbed into the armored Mercedes limousine for the return trip to Saint-Tropez. When the car was two hundred feet from the building, Ivan’s phone rang. It was Arkady Medvedev calling from Moscow.
“Where have you been, Ivan Borisovich?”
“Stuck at the airport, dealing with my plane.”
“Do you have any idea what’s been going on?”
“The French are trying to steal my plane. And my passport. That’s what’s going on, Arkady.”
“They’re trying to steal more than that. They’ve got your children, too. It’s part of some elaborate operation against you. And it’s not just going on there in France. Something’s happening here in Moscow, too.”
Ivan made no response. Arkady Medvedev knew it was a dangerous sign. When Ivan was merely angry, he swore violently. But when he was mad enough to kill, he went dead silent. He finally instructed his chief of security to tell him everything he knew. Medvedev did so in a form of colloquial Russian that was nearly indecipherable to a Western ear.
“Where is she now, Arkady?”
“Still in the apartment.”
“Who put her up to this?”
“She claims she did it on her own.”
“She’s lying. I need to know what I’m up against. And quickly.”
“You need to get out of France.”
“With no plane and no passport?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Throw a party, Arkady. Somewhere outside the city. See if anyone shows up without an invitation.”
“And if they do?”
“Give them a message from me. Let them know that if they fuck with Ivan Kharkov, Ivan Kharkov is going to fuck with them.”
61
SHEREMET YEVO 2 AIRPORT, MOSCOW
They arrived at intervals of five minutes and made their way separately through security and passport control. Uzi Navot came last, hat pulled low over his eyes, raincoat drenched. He walked the length of the terminal twice, searching for watchers, before finally making his way to Gate A23. Lavon and Yaakov were gazing nervously out at the tarmac. Between them was an empty seat. Navot lowered himself into it and rested his attaché case on his knees. He stared hard at Chiara for a moment, like a middle-aged traveler admiring a beautiful younger woman.
“How’s she doing?”
Lavon answered. “How do you think she’s doing?”
“She has no one to blame but her husband.”
“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for recriminations later.” Lavon checked the departure board. “How much longer do you think Shamron is going to hold the plane?”
“As long as he thinks he can.”
“By my estimate, she’s been in the hands of Arkady Medvedev for two hours now. How long do you think it took him to tear her bag apart, Uzi? How long did it take him to find Ivan’s disks and Gabriel’s electronic toys?”
Navot typed a brief message on his BlackBerry. Two minutes later, the status window in the departure monitor changed from DELAYED to NOW BOARDING. One hundred eighty-seven weary passengers began to applaud. Three anxious men stared gloomily through the window at the shimmering tarmac.
“Don’t worry, Uzi. You did the right thing.”
“Just don’t ever tell Chiara. She’ll never forgive me.” Navot shook his head slowly. “It’s never a good idea to bring spouses into the field. You’d think Gabriel would have learned that by now.”
There was a time in Moscow, not long ago, when a man sitting alone in a parked car would have come under immediate suspicion. But that was no longer the case. These days, sitting in parked cars, or cars stuck in traffic, was what Muscovites did.
Gabriel was on the northern edge of Bolotnaya Square, next to a billboard plastered with a dour portrait of the Russian president. He did not know whether the spot was legal or illegal. He did not care. He cared only that he could see the entrance of the House on the Embankment. He left the engine running and the radio on. It sounded to Gabriel like a news analysis program of some kind: long cuts of taped remarks by the Russian president interspersed with commentary by a panel of journalists and experts. Their words were surely laudatory, for the Kremlin tolerated no other kind. Forward as one! as the president liked to say. And keep your criticism to yourself.
