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.”