The English Girl: A Novel (Gabriel Allon)

by Silva, Daniel

  “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 momen
t 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.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not going to do either one of us any good.”

  “You must be feeling guilty then.”

  “Not at all.”

  “How long have you been planning to take my job?”

  “You know me better than that, Uzi.”

  “I thought I did.”

  Navot pushed the tray of food away and looked around the room. “Would it kill them to leave me a bottle of water?”

  “I locked it in the cabinet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to hit me with it.”

  Navot placed his hand on Gabriel’s elbow and squeezed. Instantly, Gabriel felt his hand go numb.

  “Get it for me,” Navot said. “It’s the least you can do.”

  Gabriel rose and retrieved the bottle. When he sat down again, Navot’s anger seemed to have subsided, but only slightly. He unscrewed the aluminum cap using only his thumb and forefinger and slowly poured several inches of the effervescent water into a clear plastic cup. He offered none to Gabriel.

  “What did I do to deserve this?” he asked, more of himself than of Gabriel. “I’ve been a good chief, a damn good chief. I’ve managed the affairs of the Office with dignity and kept my country out of any major foreign entanglements. Have I been able to shut down the Iranian nuclear program? No, I haven’t. But I didn’t get us into a catastrophic war, either. That’s the first job of the chief, to make certain the prime minister doesn’t go off half-cocked and drag the country into a needless conflict. You’ll learn that once you settle into my chair.”

  When Gabriel offered no reply, Navot drank some of the water, deliberately, as though it were the last on earth. He was right about one thing; he had been a good chief. Unfortunately, the successes that had occurred under his watch had all been Gabriel’s.

  “There’s something else you’ll learn quickly,” Navot resumed. “It’s very difficult to run an intelligence service with a man like Shamron looking over your shoulder.”

  “It’s his service. He built it from the ground up and turned it into what it is today.”

  “The old man is just that—an old man. The world has changed in the century since Shamron was chief.”

  “You don’t really mean that, Uzi.”

  “Forgive me, Gabriel, but I’m not feeling terribly charitable toward Shamron at the moment. Or you, for that matter.”

  Navot lapsed into a sulky silence. Natan, the station chief, peered through the soundproof glass walls, saw two men glaring at one another over a table, and returned to his bunker.

  “How long do I have?” Navot asked.

  “Uzi . . .”

  “Am I going to be allowed to finish my term?”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, Gabriel. Because from where I sit, nothing seems terribly obvious at the moment.”

  “You’ve been a fine chief, Uzi. The best since Shamron.”

  “And what is my reward? I’ll be put out to pasture before my time. Because heaven knows we can’t have a chief and a former chief inside King Saul Boulevard at the same time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s no precedent for it.”

  “There’s no precedent for any of this.”

  “Sorry, Gabriel, but I’d rather not end my career as a sympathy case.”

  “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, Uzi.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “How is she?”

  “Good days and bad.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Go see her the next time you’re in town. She always loved you, Gabriel. Everyone loves you.”

  Navot treated himself to another butter cookie. Then another.

  “By my calculation,” he said, brushing the crumbs from his thick fingers, “I have fourteen months remaining in my term, which means I’m the one who gets to decide whether to send several of our best people to the most dangerous city in the world.”

  “You gave me the authority to run the operation.”

  “I had a gun to my head at the time.”

  “It’s still there.”

  “I realize that, which is why I would never dream of pulling the plug on your little gambit. Instead, I’m going to ask you to take a deep breath and come to your senses.”

  Greeted by silence, Navot leaned forward across the table and stared directly into Gabriel’s eyes. Absent from his face was any trace of anger.

  “Do you remember what it was like the last time we went to Moscow, Gabriel, or have you managed to repress it?”

  “I remember it all, Uzi.”

  “So do I,” Navot replied distantly. “It was the worst day of my life.”

  “Mine, too.”

  Navot narrowed his eyes, as if truly perplexed. “So why in God’s name do you want to go back there?”

  When Gabriel offered no answer, Navot removed his spectacles thoughtfully and massaged the spot on the bridge of his nose where the pads carved into his skin. The eyeglasses, like everything else he was wearing, had been chosen by his demanding wife, Bella. She had worked for the Office briefly as an analyst on the Syria desk and loved the status that came with being the wife of the chief. Gabriel had always suspected her influence extended far beyond her husband’s wardrobe.

  “It’s over,” Navot said finally. “You beat him. You won.”

  “Beat who?”

  “Ivan,” replied Navot.

  “This has nothing to do with Ivan.”

  “Of course it does. And if you can’t see that, maybe you’re not fit to run this operation after all.”

  “So pull my charter.”

  “I’d love to. But if I do, it will start a war I can’t possibly win.” Navot slipped on his glasses and smiled briefly. “That’s the other thing you’ll have to lea
rn when you become chief, Gabriel. You have to choose your battles carefully.”

  “I already have.”

  “Since I’m still the chief for fourteen more months, why don’t you do me the courtesy of giving me the broad strokes of your plan.”

  “I’m going to pull Pavel Zhirov aside for a chat. He’s going to tell me why he kidnapped and murdered an innocent young woman for the sake of Volgatek’s bottom line. He’s also going to explain how Volgatek is nothing more than a front for the KGB. And then I’m going to burn them to a crisp, Uzi. I’m going to prove to the civilized world once and for all that the current crowd sitting in the Kremlin isn’t much better than the one that came before them.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Gabriel. The civilized world already knows, and it couldn’t care less. In fact, it’s so broke and frightened about the future that it’s about to allow the mullahs to realize their nuclear dreams.”

  Gabriel said nothing. Navot exhaled heavily in capitulation.

  “A confession? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “On camera,” added Gabriel. “Just like the one he forced Madeline to make before he killed her.”

  “And what if he doesn’t talk?”

  “Everyone talks, Uzi.”

  “What are you going to do about Keller?”

  “He’s coming with me.”

  “He’s a professional assassin who once tried to kill you.”

  “We’ve let bygones be bygones. Besides,” Gabriel added, “I’m going to need a bit of extra muscle.”

  “What else do you need?”

  “Passports, visas, travel, accommodations—the usual, Uzi. And I also need Moscow Station to put Pavel Zhirov under immediate full-time surveillance.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” said Gabriel. “I need you, too.”

  Navot was silent.

  “I didn’t ask for this, Uzi.”

  “I know,” Navot replied. “But that still doesn’t make it any easier.”

  It was nearly midnight by the time Gabriel returned to the Grayswood safe house. Entering the room he shared with Chiara, he found her seated upright in bed, with a cup of herbal tea on the bedside table and a stack of glossy magazines on her lap. Her hair was arranged into a careless bun with many stray tendrils, and she was wearing the stylish new glasses she required for reading. Chiara was self-conscious about the glasses, but Gabriel took secret pleasure in the slight weakening of her vision. It gave him hope that perhaps one day she might look less like his daughter and more like his wife.