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 SHEREMETYEVO 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.
Twenty minutes into his vigil, a pair of underfed Militia officers rounded the corner, tunics
glistening. Gabriel turned up the radio and nodded cordially. For a moment, he feared they might be
contemplatinga shakedown. Instead, they frowned at his old Volga, as if to say he wasn’t worth their time
on a rainy night. Next came a man with lank, dark hair, and an open bottle of Baltika beer in his hand. He
shuffled over to Gabriel’s window and opened his coat, revealing a veritable pharmacy underneath.
Gabriel motioned for him to move on, then flicked the wipers and focused his gaze on the building.
Specifically, on the lights burning in the ninth-floor apartment overlooking the Kremlin.
They went dark at 7:48 P.M. The woman who emerged from the building soon after had no handbag
hanging over her left shoulder. Indeed, she had no handbag at all. She was walking more swiftly than
normal; Luka Osipov, bodyguard turned captor, held one arm while a colleague held another. Arkady
Medvedev walked a few steps behind, head lowered against the rain, eyes up and on the move.
A Mercedes waited at the curb. The seating arrangements had clearly been determined in advance,
for the boarding process was accomplished with admirable speed and efficiency: Elena in the backseat,
wedged between bodyguards; Arkady Medvedev in the front passenger seat, a mobile phone now pressed
to his ear. The car crept to the end of Serafimovicha Street, then disappeared in a black blur. Gabriel
counted to five and slipped the Volga into gear. Forward as one.
62 MOSCOW
They roared southward out of the city on a road that bore Lenin’s name and was lined with
monuments to Lenin’s folly. Apartment blocks-
endless
apartments blocks. The biggest apartment blocks
Gabriel had ever seen. It was as if the masters of the Communist Party, in their infinite wisdom, had
decided to uproot the entire population of the world’s biggest country and resettle it here, along a few
wretched miles of the Leninsky Prospekt. And to think that by the end of September it would be covered
beneath a blanket of snow and ice.
At that hour, the Leninsky was two different roads: inbound lanes clogged with Muscovites returning
from the weekend at their dachas, outbound lanes filled with giant trucks thundering out of the capital
toward the distant corners of the empire. The trucks were both his allies and enemies. One moment, they
granted Gabriel a place to hide. The next, they obscured his view. Shmuel Peled had been right about the
Volga-it did run decently for a twenty-year-old piece of Soviet-made junk-but it was no match for the
finest automobile Bavaria had to offer. The Volga topped out at about eighty-five, and did so with much