The Defector (28 page)

“She has to speak English, German, and French. That leaves only one candidate.”

Navot looked briefly at Sarah. “I’d feel better about getting Langley’s approval before sending her in there.”

“Carter gave me the authority to use her in whatever capacity I needed. Besides, I used her in an operational role last night in Geneva.”

“And all she had to do was play the jilted lover for a few seconds. Now you’re talking about placing her in close proximity to a former KGB assassin.”

Sarah spoke for the first time. “I can handle it, Uzi.”

“You’re forgetting that Ivan has pictures of you from his house in Saint-Tropez last summer. And it’s possible he’s shown those pictures to his friend Petrov.”

“I packed a dark wig and fake glasses. When I put them on, I barely recognize myself. And no one else will, either, especially if they’ve never met me in person.”

Navot was still skeptical. “There is one other thing to consider, Gabriel.”

“What’s that?”

“Her weapons training. More to the point, her lack of weapons training.”

“I trained her. So did the Agency.”

“No, you gave her very basic training. And the Agency prepared her for a desk job in the Counterterrorism Center. There’s not a lot of gunfire on a typical day at Langley.”

Sarah spoke up in her own defense. “I can handle a gun, Uzi.”

“Not like Dina and Rimona. They both served in the army. And if something goes wrong in there . . .”

“They won’t hesitate?”

Navot made no response.

“I won’t hesitate either, Uzi.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure.”

The waiter delivered Gabriel’s coffee. Navot handed him a packet of sugar.

“I suppose the secretary job is now filled.”

“It is.”

“Who do you have in mind for the security guard?”

“The language requirements are the same: English, French, and German. He also needs a bit of muscle.”

“That narrows the field considerably: you and me. And since there’s no doubt whatsoever that Petrov knows your face, it means you can’t go anywhere near that bank.”

“If you don’t—”

“I’ll do it,” Navot said quickly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re the strongest person I know, Uzi.”

“Not strong enough to stop Russian poison.”

“Just don’t shake hands with him. And remember, you won’t be alone. The instant you let Petrov into the vault, Sarah will signal us and we’ll enter the bank. When you open the door again to let Petrov out, he’ll be confronted by several men.”

“Where do we take him?”

“Out the back door and into the van. We’ll hit him with a little something to keep him comfortable during the drive.”

Navot made a show of examining his clothing. Like Gabriel, he was wearing a sweater and a leather coat.

“I need something a little more presentable.” He ran his hand over his chin. “I could also use a shave.”

“You can go shopping here on the Bahnhofstrasse. But hurry, Uzi. I wouldn’t want you to be late for your first day of work.”

THE OLD hands like to say that the life of an Office field agent is one of constant travel and mind-numbing boredom, broken by interludes of sheer terror. And then there is the waiting. Waiting for a plane or a train. Waiting for a source. Waiting for the sun to rise after a night of killing. And waiting for a Russian assassin to collect five million dollars from a safe-deposit box in Zurich. For Gabriel, the waiting was made worse by the images that flashed through his thoughts like paintings in a gallery. The images robbed him of his natural patience. They made him restless. They made him terrified. And they stripped him of the emotional coldness that Shamron had found so appealing when Gabriel was a boy of twenty-two. Don’t hate them, Shamron had said of the Black September terrorists. Just kill them, so they can’t kill again. Gabriel had obeyed. He tried to obey now but could not. He hated Ivan. He hated Ivan as he had never hated before.

The interminable day of watching was not without its lighter moments. They were supplied almost exclusively by the pair of transmitters Navot planted inside Becker & Puhl within minutes of his arrival. The team listened while Miss Irene Moore, an attractive young American sent by a Zurich temp agency, fetched Herr Becker’s coffee. And took Herr Becker’s dictation. And answered Herr Becker’s telephone. And accepted Herr Becker’s many compliments about her appearance. And deftly declined an invitation to dine with Herr Becker at a restaurant overlooking the Zürichsee. And they listened, too, while Herr Becker and Oskar Lange spent several uncomfortable moments getting reacquainted. And while Herr Becker instructed Herr Lange on the intricacies of opening and closing a vault. And, in late afternoon, they heard Herr Becker berating Herr Lange for failing to open the vault quickly enough when Mr. al-Hamdali of Jeddah wanted access to his safe-deposit box. Unwilling to let a good opportunity go to waste, they instructed Miss Moore to copy the contents of Mr. al-Hamdali’s file. Then, for good measure, they snapped several photographs of the same Mr. al-Hamdali as he exited the bank.

Thirty minutes later, Becker & Puhl drew its shades and switched off its lights. The security guard and secretary bade Herr Becker good night and went their separate ways, Herr Lange heading left toward the Barengasse, Miss Moore right toward the Bleicherweg. Gabriel, who was with Lavon in a parked car, didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. “We’ll come back tomorrow,” Lavon said, doing his best to console him. “And the day after if we have to.” But Lavon, like Gabriel, knew their time was limited. Ivan had given them just seventy-two hours. It was time enough for just one more day in Zurich.

Gabriel instructed the team to return to their hotel rooms and rest. Though desperately in need of sleep himself, he neglected to heed his own advice and instead slipped quietly into the back of a surveillance van parked along the Talstrasse. There he spent the night alone, his gaze fixed on the entrance of Becker & Puhl, waiting for Ivan’s assassin. Ivan’s brother from the KGB. Ivan’s old friend from Moscow in the nineties, the bad old days when there was no law and nothing to prevent Ivan from killing his way to the top. A man like that might know where Ivan liked to do his blood work. Who knows? A man like that might have killed there himself.

A few minutes before nine the next morning, Sarah and Navot arrived for work. Yossi relieved Gabriel in the van, and it all started again. The watching. The waiting. Always the waiting . . . Shortly after four that afternoon, Gabriel found himself paired with Mikhail in a café overlooking the Paradeplatz. Mikhail ordered Gabriel something to eat. “And don’t try to say no. You look like hell. Besides, you’re going to need your strength when we take down Petrov.”

“I’m starting to think he’s not going to come.”

“And leave five million euros on the table? He’ll come, Gabriel. Eventually, he’ll come.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Chernov came at the end of the day, and Petrov will come at the end of the day. These Russian thugs don’t do anything when it’s light out. They prefer the night. Trust me, Gabriel, I know them better than you. I grew up with these bastards.”

They were seated side by side along a high counter in the window. Outside, streetlamps were coming on in the busy square, and the trams were snaking up and down the Bahnhofstrasse. Mikhail was drumming his fingers nervously.

“You’re giving me a headache, Mikhail.”

“Sorry, boss.” The fingers went still.

“Something bothering you?”

“Other than the fact we’re waiting for a Russian killer to collect the proceeds for kidnapping your wife? No, Gabriel, nothing’s bothering me at all.”

“Do you disagree with my decision to send Sarah into that bank?”

“Of course not. She’s perfect for the job.”

“Because if you disagreed with one of my decisions, you would tell me, wouldn’t you, Mikhail? That’s always been the way the team works. We talk about everything.”

“I would have said something if I’d disagreed.”

“Good, Mikhail, because I would hate to think something has changed because you’re involved with Sarah.”

Mikhail sipped his coffee, a play for time.

“Listen, Gabriel, I was going to say something, but—”

“But what?”

“I thought you’d be angry.”

“Why?”

“Come on, Gabriel, don’t make me say this now. It’s not the time.”

“It’s the perfect time.”

Mikhail placed his coffee on the counter. “It was obvious to all of us from the minute we recruited Sarah for the al-Bakari operation that she had feelings for you. And frankly—”

“Frankly what?”

“We thought you might have felt the same way.”

“That’s not true. It’s never been true.”

“Okay, Gabriel, whatever you say.”

A waitress placed a sandwich in front of Gabriel. He immediately pushed it aside.

“Eat it, Gabriel. You have to eat.”

Gabriel tore a corner from the sandwich. “Are you in love with her, Mikhail?”

“What answer do you want to hear?”

“The truth would be nice.”

“Yes, Gabriel. I love her very much. Too much.”

“There’s no such thing. Just do me a favor, Mikhail. Take good care of her. Go live in America. Get out of this business as soon as you can. Get out before . . .”

He left the thought unfinished. Mikhail began drumming his fingers again.

“Do you think he’ll come?”

“He’ll come.”

“Two days of waiting. I can’t stand the waiting anymore.”

“You won’t have to wait much longer, Mikhail.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because Anton Petrov just walked past us.”

52

ZURICH

HE WORE a dark toggle coat, a gray scarf, large wire-framed glasses, and a flat cap pulled low. Oddly enough, the crude disguise threw the advantage over to Gabriel. He had spent countless hours staring at the surveillance photographs from Heathrow Airport, the fragmentary glimpses of a sturdy-jawed man wearing glasses and a fedora. It was this man who walked past the café overlooking the Paradeplatz, carrying a pair of mismatched attaché cases. And it was this man who was now rounding the corner into the Talstrasse. Gabriel raised his wrist mic carefully to his lips and informed Sarah and Navot that Petrov was headed their way. By the time the transmission was complete, Mikhail was on his feet, moving toward the door. Gabriel left a wad of money on the table and followed after him. “You forgot to pay the bill,” he said. “The Swiss get very angry when you run out on a check.”

PETROV WALKED past the bank twice before finally presenting himself at the entrance just three minutes before closing. Pressing the buzzer, he identified himself as Herr Otto Wolfe and was admitted without delay. The receptionist immediately telephoned Miss Irene Moore, Herr Becker’s temporary secretary, and was instructed to send the client back straightaway. Outside, on the Talstrasse, two pairs of men moved quietly into place: Yaakov and Oded at one end, Gabriel and Mikhail at the other. Mikhail was calmly humming to himself. Gabriel didn’t hear it. He was focused only on the voice in his ear, the voice of Sarah Bancroft, bidding a pleasant evening to one of the world’s most dangerous men. “Why don’t you have a seat, Herr Wolfe,” she said in perfect German. “Herr Becker will be with you in just a moment.”

HE PLACEDthe attaché cases on the floor next to the chair, unbuttoned his coat, and removed his leather gloves. The fingers of the left hand were absent any rings. On the third finger of the right hand, the one where an ordinary Russian would have worn a wedding band, was a heavy ring with a dark stone. In America, it would have been mistaken for a class ring or the ring of a military unit. Sarah, seated at her desk, forced herself not to look at it.

“May I take your coat?”

“No.”

“Something to drink? Coffee or tea?”

He shook his head, and sat without removing his overcoat or hat. “You’re not Herr Becker’s usual secretary.”

“She’s sick.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Just a virus.”

“There’s a lot going around. I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I’m a temp.”

“You’re not Swiss.”

“American, actually.”

“Your German is very good. It even has a bit of a Swiss accent.”

“I went to school here for a few years when I was young.”

“Which one?”

Sarah’s answer was interrupted by the appearance of Becker in the door of his office. Petrov stood.

“Your secretary was just telling me the name of the school she attended in Switzerland.”

“It was the International School of Geneva.”

“It has an excellent reputation.” He extended his right hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Moore.” Sarah grasped the hand firmly. “Irene Moore.”

Petrov released Sarah’s hand and entered Becker’s office. Thirty seconds later, the formalities complete, the two men emerged and set off together toward the vault room. Sarah passed that information to Gabriel over the microphone concealed on her desk, then reached beneath the desk and unzipped her handbag. The gun was there, barrel pointed downward, grip exposed. She glanced at the clock and waited for the sound of the front buzzer. Her hand was beginning to itch on the spot where Petrov’s ring had touched her. It was nothing, she told herself. Just her mind playing tricks.

UZI NAVOT was waiting outside the entrance to the vault room when Becker appeared, followed by Anton Petrov. The Heathrow surveillance photos had not done justice to the Russian’s size. He was well over six feet, broad shouldered, and well built. He was also clearly uneasy. Staring directly at Navot, he asked of Becker, “Where’s the usual security guard?”