Daniel Silva - The defector

“I suppose we know how they got him into the car so quietly,” Shamron said. “Did you share this with your British friends?”

“It might have slipped my mind while I was fleeing the country one step ahead of a Russian hit squad.”

“Accompanied by Graham Seymour’s defector.” Shamron spent a moment scrutinizing the photograph. “Tell me what you have in mind, my son.”

“I made a promise to Grigori the night he saved my life. I intend to keep that promise.”

“Grigori Bulganov has a British passport. That makes him a British problem.”

“Graham Seymour made one thing abundantly clear to me in London, Ari. As far as the British are concerned, Grigori is my defector, not theirs. And if I don’t try to get him back, no one will.”

Shamron tapped the photograph. “And you think she can help you?”

“She saw their faces. Heard their voices. If we can get to her, she can help us.”

“And what if she’s not willing to help you? What if she willingly took part in the operation?”

“I suppose anything is possible…”

“But?”

“I doubt it very seriously. Based on what Grigori told me, Irina hated the FSB and everything it stood for. It was one of the reasons their marriage came apart.”

“Were there any other reasons?”

“She was ashamed of Grigori for taking money from Ivan Kharkov. She called it blood money. She wouldn’t touch it.”

“Perhaps Irina had a change of heart. Russians can be very persuasive, Gabriel. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that everyone has a price.”

“You might be right, Ari. But we won’t know for sure until we ask her.”

“A conversation? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“Something like that.”

“What makes you think they haven’t killed her?”

“I called her office this morning. She answered the phone.”

Shamron drank some of his coffee and pondered the implications of Gabriel’s statement. “Let me make one thing clear from the outset. Under no circumstances are you or anyone else from the original operation against Ivan going back to Moscow. Ever.”

“I have no intention of going back.”

“So how are you going to arrange a meeting with her?”

Gabriel gave the rough outlines of his plan. Shamron twirled his lighter between his fingertips while he listened: two turns to the right, two turns to the left.

“It has one flaw. You’re assuming she’ll cooperate.”

“I’m assuming nothing.”

“She’ll have to be handled carefully until you’re certain of her true loyalties.”

“And after that as well.”

“I suppose you’d like to use your old team.”

“It saves time having to get acquainted.”

“How much money is this going to cost me?”

Gabriel added coffee to Shamron’s cup and smiled. The Old Man had worked for the Office during a time when it counted every shekel, and he still acted as if operational funds came directly from his own pocket.

“A hundred thousand should cover it.”

“A hundred thousand!”

“I was going to ask for two.”

“I’ll transfer the funds into your account in Zurich tomorrow morning. As soon as you’ve established a base of operations, I’ll dispatch the team.”

“What are you going to tell Amos?”

“As little as possible.”

“And the British?”

“Leave that to me. I’ll brief them about your plans and make it clear we’ll share whatever information you discover.” Shamron paused. “You will share nicely, won’t you, Gabriel?”

“Absolutely.”

“To be honest, I’m sure they’ll be relieved we’re handling it. The last thing Downing Street wants is another confrontation with the Russians-not with the British economy on life support. They’re more interested in making sure that Russian money continues to flow into the banks of London.”

“That leaves one problem.”

“Just one?”

“Olga.”

“I’ll return her to the British tomorrow and fall on my sword on your behalf. I’ve brought along a little present for them, some chatter we’ve been picking up in Lebanon about a possible terror plot in London.”

“You can tell them about the chatter in Lebanon, Ari, but I’m afraid Olga isn’t going back to Britain anytime soon.”

“You can’t leave her here in Paris.”

“I don’t intend to. I’m taking her with me. She’s really rather good, you know.”

“Something tells me my stay in London isn’t going to be a pleasant one.” Shamron sipped his coffee. “You’d better have a word with Uzi. Whatever you do, don’t mention our conversation about your taking control of the Office. He’s not going to be thrilled about the prospect of working for you.”

“I never said I would take the job, Ari. I said I would consider it.”

“I heard you the first time. But I know you wouldn’t be leading me on, not over something as important as this.”

“I need you to do me one other favor while you’re in London.”

“What’s that?”

“I had to leave Olga’s cat with Julian Isherwood.”

Shamron began turning his lighter again. “I hate cats. And the only thing I hate worse than cats is being lied to.”

LAKE COMO lies in the northeastern corner of the region of Lombardy, just a few miles from the Swiss border. Shaped like an inverted Y, it is surrounded by soaring Alpine peaks and dotted with picturesque towns and villages. One of Europe’s deepest lakes, it is also, sadly, among its most polluted. In fact, a recent study by an Italian environmental group found that bacteria levels had reached sixty-eight times the limit for safe human bathing. The culprits were antiquated lakeside sewage systems, runoff from nearby farms and vineyards, and a reduction in rainfall and mountain snowpack attributed, rightly or wrongly, to global warming. Under pressure from the local tourism industry, the government had promised dramatic action to prevent the lake from slipping past the point of no return. Most Italians weren’t holding their breath. Their government was rather like a charming rogue-good at making promises, not so good at keeping them.

To stand on the terraces of Villa Teresa, however, was to forget that the magnificent waters of Lake Como had been spoiled in any way. Indeed, at certain times of the day and under proper light and weather conditions, one could imagine there was no such thing as global warming, no wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, no worldwide financial crisis, and no possible threat looming anywhere over the ring of protective mountains. Built by a wealthy Milanese trader in the eighteenth century, the villa stood on its own small peninsula. It was three floors in height, tawny orange in color, and accessible only by boat-a fact that Herr Heinrich Kiever, chief operating officer of Matrix Technologies of Zug, Switzerland, found highly appealing.

Herr Kiever, it seemed, was looking for a private retreat where his employees could complete work on a major project free from distractions and in a setting that would inspire greatness. After a brief tour, he declared Villa Teresa perfection itself. The contracts were signed over coffee in the town of Laglio, home of an American movie star whose highly publicized presence in Como was, in the opinion of many longtime habitués, the worst thing to happen to the lake since the invention of the gasoline-powered engine. Herr Kiever paid the entire lease with a certified check drawn on his bank in Zurich. He then informed the rental agent he required complete privacy, meaning no maid service, no cooks, and no follow-up calls from the agency. If there were any problems, he explained, the agent would be the first to know.