dictators, the warlords, and the guerrilla fighters with whatever they want, and, in turn, they’re willing to
pay him whatever he asks. He’s a vulture, our Ivan. He preys on the suffering of others and makes
millions in the process. He’s responsible for more death and destruction than all the Islamic terrorists of
the world combined. And now he trots around the playgrounds of Russia and Europe, safe in the
knowledge that we can’t lay a finger on him.”
“Why didn’t you ever go after him?”
“We tried during the nineties. We noticed that much of the Third World was burning, and we started
asking ourselves a single question: Who was pouring the gasoline on the flames? The Agency started
tracking the movement of suspicious cargo planes around Africa and the Middle East. NSA started
listening to telephone and radio conversations. Before long, we had a good idea where all the weapons
were coming from.”
“Ivan Kharkov.”
Carter nodded. “We established a working group at NSC to come up with a strategy for dealing with
the Kharkov network. Since he had violated no American laws, our options were extremely limited. We
started looking for a country to issue an indictment but got no takers. By the end of the millennium, the
situation was so bad we even considered using a novel concept known as extraordinary rendition to get
Ivan’s operatives off the streets. It came to nothing, of course. When the administration left town, the
Kharkov network was still in business. And when the new crowd settled into the White House, they
barely had time to figure out where the bathrooms were before they were hit with 9/11. Suddenly, Ivan
Kharkov didn’t seem so important anymore.”
“Because you needed Russia ’s help in the fight against al-Qaeda.”
“Exactly,” said Carter. “Ivan is former KGB. He has powerful benefactors. To be fair, even if we
had
pressed the Kremlin on the Kharkov issue, it probably wouldn’t have done any good. On paper, there
are no legal or financial ties between Ivan Kharkov the legitimate oligarch and Ivan Kharkov the
international arms trafficker. Ivan is a master of the corporate front and the offshore account. The network
is completely quarantined.”
Carter fished a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from the flap pocket of his jacket. “There’s something
else we need to keep in mind: Ivan has a long track record of selling his wares to unsavory elements in
the Middle East. He sold weapons to Gadhafi. He smuggled arms to Sad-dam in violation of UN
sanctions. He armed Islamic radicals in Somalia and Sudan. He even sold weapons to the
Taliban
.”
“Don’t forget Hezbollah,” said Gabriel.
“How could we forget our good friends at Hezbollah?” Carter methodically loaded tobacco into the
bowl of his pipe. “In a perfect world, I suppose we would go to the Russian president and ask him for
help. But this world is far from perfect, and the current president of Russia is anything but a trustworthy
ally. He’s a dangerous man. He wants his empire back. He wants to be a superpower again. He wants to
challenge American supremacy around the globe, especially in the Middle East. He’s sitting atop a sea of
oil and natural gas, and he’s willing to use it as a weapon. And the last thing he’s going to do is intervene
on our behalf against a protected oligarch by the name of Ivan Kharkov. I lived through the end of the first
Cold War. We’re not there yet, but we’re definitely heading in that direction. I’m certain of
one
thing,
though. If we’re going to track down those weapons, we’re going to have to do it
without
Russia ’s help.”
“I prefer it that way, Adrian. We Jews have a long history of dealing with Russians.”
“So how do you suggest we proceed?”
“I want to arrange a meeting with Elena Kharkov.”
Carter raised an eyebrow. “I suggest you proceed carefully, Gabriel. Otherwise, you might get her
killed.”
“Thank you, Adrian. That really hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Forgive me,” said Carter. “How can I help?”
“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 listlessly 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