The Defector (24 page)

“You wouldn’t have a telephone number, would you?”

“Actually, I might have his mobile.”

UNDER NORMAL circumstances, Gabriel would never have bothered to write down the name and telephone number. Now, with his wife in Ivan’s hands, he did not trust his usually flawless memory. By the time he had finished jotting down the information, Olga was slipping through Viktor’s wrought-iron gate. A taxi collected her and brought her around the corner to Cheyne Gardens. Gabriel climbed in next to her and headed to London City Airport, where an American-supplied Gulfstream G500 was waiting. The rest of his team was already on board, along with its newest addition, Sarah Bancroft. The tower log would later show the plane departed at 10:18 p.m. For reasons never explained, its destination was not recorded.

43

KING SAUL BOULEVARD, TEL AVIV

IT MIGHT not have seemed like much—a name, a business address, a pair of phone numbers—but in the hands of an intelligence service like the Office it was enough to open a man up stem to stern. Shamron gave the information to the bloodhounds of Research and shot it across the Atlantic to Langley as well. Then, with Rami at his side, he headed home to Tiberias.

It was after midnight when he arrived. He undressed in darkness and crept into bed quietly so as not to wake Gilah. He didn’t bother to close his eyes. Sleep came rarely, and never under circumstances like these. Rather than try, he relived each minute of the past two days and explored the remotest regions of his past. And he wondered when he might be given the chance to do something of value, something other than making a nuisance of himself or taking in a message from London. And he wrestled with two questions: Where was Ivan? And why hadn’t they heard from him?

Oddly enough, Shamron was focused on that very thought when the telephone at his bedside rang at 4:13 a.m. He knew the exact time because, out of habit, he glanced at his wristwatch before answering. Fearful he was about to be informed of yet another death, he held the receiver to his ear for a moment before grumbling his name. The voice that responded was instantly familiar. It was the voice of an old rival. The voice of an occasional ally. He wanted a word with Shamron in private. He was wondering whether Shamron was free to come to Paris. In fact, said the voice, it would be wise for Shamron to find some way of getting on the nine o’clock flight out of Ben-Gurion. Yes, said the voice, it was urgent. No, it couldn’t wait. Shamron hung up the phone and switched on the bedside lamp. Gilah rose and went to make the coffee.

IVAN HAD chosen his envoy with care. There were few people who had been in the trade longer than Ari Shamron, but Sergei Korovin was one of them. After spending the 1950s in Eastern Europe, the KGB taught him to speak Arabic and sent him off to make mischief in the Middle East. He went first to Baghdad, then Damascus, then Tripoli, and finally Cairo. It was in the tense summer of 1973 that Korovin and Shamron first crossed paths. Operation Wrath of God was in full swing in Europe, the terrorists of Black September were killing Israelis wherever they could be found, and Shamron alone was convinced the Egyptians were preparing for war. He had a spy in Cairo who was telling him so—a spy who was then arrested by the Egyptian secret service. With his execution just hours away, Shamron had reached out to Korovin and asked him to intercede. After weeks of negotiations, Shamron’s spy was allowed to stagger across the Israeli lines in the Sinai. He had been severely beaten and tortured, but he was alive. One month later, as Israel was preparing for Yom Kippur, the Egyptians staged a surprise attack.

By the mid-1970s, Sergei Korovin was back in Moscow, working his way steadily up the ranks of the KGB. Promoted to general, he was placed in charge of Department 18, which dealt with the Arab world, and was later given command of Directorate R, which handled operational planning and analysis. In 1984 he took control of the entire First Chief Directorate, a position he held until the KGB was disbanded by Boris Yeltsin. If given the chance, Sergei Korovin would have probably killed the Russian president himself. Instead, he burned his most sensitive files and went quietly into retirement. But Shamron knew better than anyone there was really no such thing, especially for Russians. There was a saying within the brotherhood of the sword and the shield: once a KGB officer, always a KGB officer. Only in death was one truly free. And, sometimes, not even then.

Shamron and Korovin had maintained contact over the years. They had met to swap stories, share information, and do each other the occasional favor. It would have been wrong to describe them as friends, more like kindred spirits. They knew the rules of the game and shared a healthy cynicism for the men they served. Korovin was also one of the few people in the world who could keep pace with Shamron’s tobacco intake. And like Shamron, he had little patience for trivial matters, such as food, fashion, or even money. “It’s a shame Sergei wasn’t born an Israeli,” Shamron once told Gabriel. “I would have enjoyed having him on our side.”

Shamron knew time could be hard on Russian men. They tended to age in the blink of an eye—young and virile one minute, wrinkled paper the next. But the man who entered the salon of the Hôtel de Crillon shortly after three that afternoon was still the tall, erect figure Shamron had first met many years earlier. Two bodyguards trailed slowly behind him; two others had arrived an hour earlier and were seated not far from Shamron. They were drinking tea; Shamron, mineral water. Rami had delivered the bottle himself after instructing the bartender not to remove the cap and twice requesting clean glasses. Even so, Shamron had yet to touch it. He was wearing his dark suit and silver tie: Shamron the shady businessman who played baccarat well.

Like Shamron, Sergei Korovin could discuss matters of import in many different languages. Most of their meetings had been conducted in German, and it was German they spoke now. Korovin, after settling himself into a chair, immediately thumbed open his silver cigarette case. Shamron had to remind him smoking was no longer permitted in Paris. Korovin frowned.

“Do they still let you drink vodka?”

“If you ask nicely.”

“I’m like you, Ari. I don’t ask for anything.” He ordered a vodka, then looked at Shamron. “It was reassuring to hear your voice last night. I was afraid you might be dead. It’s the hardest thing about growing old, the death of one’s friends.”

“I never knew you had any.”

“Friends? A couple.” He gave a faint smile. “You always played the game well, Ari. You had many admirers at Yasenevo. We studied your operations. We even learned a thing or two.”

Yasenevo was the old headquarters of the First Chief Directorate, sometimes referred to as Moscow Center. It was now headquarters of the SVR.

“Where’s my file?” Shamron asked.

“Locked away where it belongs. For a time, I feared all our dirty laundry would be made public. Thankfully, the new regime put an end to that. Our president understands that he who controls history controls the future. He lauds the achievements of the Soviet Union while minimizing its so-called crimes and abuses.”

“And you approve?”

“Of course. Russia has no democratic tradition. To have democracy in Russia would be tantamount to imposing Islamic law in Israel. Do you see my point, Ari?”

“I believe I do, Sergei.”

The waiter presented the vodka with great ceremony and withdrew. Korovin drank without hesitation.

“So, Ari, now that we’re alone—”

“Are we alone, Sergei?”

“No one but my security.” He paused. “And you, Ari?”

Shamron glanced at Rami, who was seated near the entrance of the ornate salon, pretending to read the Herald Tribune.

“Just one?”

“Trust me, Sergei, one is all I need.”

“That’s not what I hear. I’m told a couple of your boys got themselves killed the other night, and the Italians are trying to keep it quiet for you. It won’t work, by the way. My sources tell me the story is going to blow up in your face tomorrow morning in one of the big Italian dailies.”

“Really? And what’s the story going to say?”

“That two Office agents were killed during a drive through the Italian countryside.”

“But nothing about an agent being kidnapped?”

“No.”

“And the perpetrators?”

“There will be speculation it was an Iranian job.” He paused, then said, “But we both know that’s not true.”

Korovin drank more of his vodka. The topic had been broached. Now both men would have to proceed carefully. Shamron knew that Korovin was in a position to admit little. It didn’t matter. The Russian could say more with a raised eyebrow than most men managed during an hour-long lecture. Shamron made the next move.

“We’ve always been honest with each other, Sergei.”

“As honest as two men can be in this business.”

“So let me be honest with you now. We believe our agent was taken by Ivan Kharkov. We believe it was in retaliation for an operation we ran against him last fall.”

“I know all about your operation, Ari. The whole world does. But Ivan Kharkov had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance of this woman.”

Shamron ignored everything about Korovin’s response except for a single word: woman. It was all he needed to know. The Russian had just laid his bona fides upon the table. The negotiation could now begin. It would follow a set of carefully prescribed guidelines and be conducted mainly with falsehoods and half-truths. Nothing would be admitted and no demands would ever be stated. It wasn’t necessary. Shamron and Korovin both spoke the language of lies.

“Are you sure, Sergei? Are you sure Ivan’s hands are clean?”

“I’ve spoken to representatives of Ivan personally.”

Another pause, then, “Have you heard anything about the condition of the woman?”

“Only that she’s alive and being well cared for.”

“That’s good to know, Sergei. If that could continue, we would be most grateful.”

“I’ll see what I can do. As you know, Ivan is very upset about his current circumstances.”

“He has no one to blame but himself.”

“Ivan doesn’t see it that way. He believes these charges and accusations in the West are all lies and fabrications. He would have never been so foolish as to enter into a deal to supply our missiles to al-Qaeda. In fact, he assures me he’s not even involved in the arms business.”

“I’ll make sure to pass that along to the Americans.”

“There’s something else you should pass along.”

“Anything, Sergei.”

“Ivan believes his children were taken from him illegally in France last summer. Ivan wants them back.”

Shamron shrugged his shoulders, feigning surprise. “I never knew the Americans had them.”

“We believe this to be the case, despite the official statements to the contrary. Perhaps someone could put in a good word with the Americans on Ivan’s behalf.” Now it was Korovin’s turn to shrug. “I couldn’t say for certain, but I believe it would go a long way toward helping you recover your missing agent.”

Korovin had just taken another step closer toward offering a quid pro quo. Shamron chose the path of prevarication.

“We’re not a large service like you, Sergei. We’re a small family. We want our agent back, and we’re willing to do whatever we can. But I have very little sway over the Americans. If they do have the children, it’s unlikely they would agree to hand them over to Ivan, even under circumstances such as these.”

“You give yourself too little credit, Ari. Go to the Americans. Talk some sense into them. Convince them to put Ivan’s children on a plane. Once they’re in Russia where they belong, I’m certain your agent will turn up.”

Korovin had laid a contract upon the table. Shamron did due diligence.

“Safe and sound?”

“Safe and sound.”

“There is one other matter, Sergei. We want Grigori Bulganov back as well.”

“Grigori Bulganov is none of your concern.”

Shamron conceded the point. “And if I’m able to convince the Americans to surrender the children? How long would we have to make the arrangements?”

“I couldn’t say for certain, but not terribly long.”

“I need to know, Sergei.”

“My response would only be hypothetical in nature.”

“All right, hypothetically speaking, how long do we have?”

Korovin sipped his vodka and said, “Seventy-two hours.”

“That’s not long, Sergei.”

“It is what it is.”

“How do I contact you?”

“You don’t. We’ll meet again on Tuesday at four in the afternoon. As one friend to another, I would strongly advise you to have an answer by then.”

“Where shall we meet?”

“Is one still permitted to smoke in the Jardin des Tuileries?”

“For now.”

“Then let’s meet there. The benches near the Jeu de Paume.”

“Four o’clock?”

Korovin nodded. Four o’clock.

44

HOTEL BRISTOL, GENEVA

THE NEWS from Paris was quickly flashed to several points around the globe: to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard, to Thames House in London, and to CIA Headquarters in Langley. And to the stately Hotel Bristol in Geneva, temporary home of Gabriel and his team. Though they were deeply relieved to hear Chiara was indeed alive, there was nothing resembling celebration. Ivan’s terms were, of course, unacceptable. They were unacceptable to Shamron. Unacceptable to the Americans. And especially unacceptable to Gabriel. No one was prepared to ask Elena Kharkov to sacrifice her children, least of all a man who had once lost one of his own. Ivan’s offer did serve one valuable purpose, though. It gave them a bit of time and some additional room to maneuver. Not much time, just seventy-two hours, and very little room. They were going to pursue Chiara and Grigori along parallel paths. One was the path of negotiation; the other, the path of violence. Gabriel would have to move quickly, and he would be forced to take chances. For now, he had just one man in his sights: Vladimir Chernov.