Daniel Silva - The defector

“We’ve heard rumors to that effect. But for the moment, keeping track of Ivan’s business activities is low on our list of priorities. Our main concern is keeping his former wife and children safe from harm.”

“Has he ever made any formal effort to reclaim them?”

“A couple of months ago, the Russian ambassador raised the issue during a routine meeting with the secretary of state. The secretary acted somewhat surprised and said she would look into the matter. She’s a good poker player, the secretary. Would have made an excellent case officer. A week later, she told the ambassador that Elena Kharkov and her children were not currently residing in the United States, nor had they ever resided here at any time in the past. The ambassador thanked the secretary profusely for her efforts and never raised the matter again.”

“Ivan must know they’re here, Adrian.”

“Of course he knows. But there’s nothing he and his friends in the Kremlin can do about it. That operation you ran in Saint-Tropez last summer was a thing of beauty. You plucked the children from Ivan cleanly and with a veneer of legality. Furthermore, when Ivan divorced Elena in a Russian court, he effectively gave up all legal claim to them. The only way he can get them now is to steal them. And that’s not going to happen. We take better care of our defectors than the British do.”

“She’s somewhere safe, I hope.”

“Very safe. But will you allow me to give you a piece of advice, as one friend to another? Take Grigori’s words to heart. Forget about that promise you made that night in Russia. Besides, I suspect Ivan has already put a bullet in the back of his head. Knowing Ivan, I imagine he did the deed himself. Go home to your wife, and let the British clean up their mess.”

“I like to keep promises. I used to think you did, too, Adrian.”

Carter steepled his fingertips and pressed them to his chin. “I think your characterization is a tad unfair. But since you put it that way, how can Langley be of service?”

“Give those photos of Anatoly to the Counterintelligence Center. See if they can put a name and a résumé to that face.”

“I’ll ask the chief to handle it personally.” Carter gathered up the photos. “How long are you planning to stay in town?”

“As long as it takes.”

“One of our officers is about to leave on an overseas assignment. She was wondering if you might be free for dinner.”

Gabriel didn’t bother to ask the officer’s name.

“Where’s she going, Adrian?”

“That’s classified.”

“I don’t suppose I have to remind you that she was involved in the operation against Ivan?”

“No, you don’t.”

“So why are you letting her leave the country?”

“Your concern over her safety is touching but completely unnecessary. What should I tell her about dinner?”

Gabriel hesitated. “I’ll take a rain check, Adrian. It’s complicated.”

“Why? Because she’s dating one of your team?”

“What are you talking about?”

“She and Mikhail are seeing each other. I’m surprised no one told you.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“It started shortly after the Saint-Tropez operation. Since Mikhail is an employee of a foreign intelligence service, she was required to report the relationship to the Office of Personnel. Personnel wasn’t pleased about it, but I intervened on their behalf.”

“How thoughtful of you, Adrian. Actually, I will have dinner with her.”

Carter jotted the time and place on a slip of paper. “Just be nice to her, Gabriel. I think she’s happy. It’s been a long time since Sarah has been happy.”

1789 RESTAURANT, a Georgetown landmark, is regarded as one of the finest in Washington and is one of the few that still requires gentlemen to wear a jacket. With that admonition, Carter sent Gabriel to Brooks Brothers, where in the span of ten minutes he picked out gabardine trousers, an oxford-cloth shirt, and the requisite blue blazer. He drew the line at a necktie, though. Like most Israelis, he wore them only under duress or for the purposes of cover. Besides, if he wore a tie, Sarah might get the wrong impression. The blazer was going to cause him enough problems.

He arrived a few minutes early and was informed by the hostess that his dinner companion was already seated. He wasn’t surprised; he had personally overseen Sarah Bancroft’s training and regarded her as one of the finest natural operatives he had ever encountered. Multilingual, well-traveled, and extremely well-educated, she had been working as an assistant curator at the Phillips Collection in Washington when Gabriel recruited her to find a terrorist mastermind lurking in the entourage of Saudi billionaire Zizi al-Bakari. After the operation, Sarah joined the CIA on a full-time basis and was assigned to the Counterterrorism Center. Gabriel had borrowed her again the previous summer and, with the help of a forged painting, had placed her alongside Elena Kharkov. Mikhail had posed as Sarah’s Russian-American boyfriend during the operation, and they had spent several nights together in a five-star Saint-Tropez hotel. Gabriel reckoned the attraction had started then.

He was not happy about it for a number of reasons, not least of which because it violated his ban on sexual relationships between members of his team. But his anger went only so far. He knew the unique combination of stress and boredom could sometimes lead to romantic entanglements in the field. In fact, he could speak from experience. Twenty years earlier, while preparing for a major assassination in Tunis, he had an affair with his female escort officer that nearly destroyed his marriage to Leah.

The hostess escorted him through the intimate dining room to a corner table near the fireplace. Sarah was seated along the banquette with her shoulders turned in a way that allowed her to discreetly survey the entire space. She was wearing a black sleeveless dress and a double strand of pearls. Her pale hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and her wide blue eyes shone with the warm light of the candles. One hand was resting on the stem of a martini glass. The other was placed lightly against her teardrop chin. Her cheek, when kissed, smelled of lilac.

“Can I get you one of these?” she asked, tapping a manicured nail on the base of the glass.

“I’d rather drink your nail polish remover.”

“Would you like that with a twist or just on the rocks?” She looked up at the hostess. “A glass of champagne, please. Something nice. He’s had a long day.”

The hostess withdrew. Sarah smiled and raised the martini to her lips.

“They say it’s bad to drink the night before you fly, Sarah.”

“If I can survive one of your operations, I think I can survive a transatlantic flight with a bit of gin in my bloodstream.”

“So it’s Europe? Is that where Carter is sending you?”

“Adrian warned me to be on my toes around you. You’re not going to get it out of me.”

“I think I have a right to know.”

“Really?” She set down her glass and leaned forward over the table. “You might find this difficult to believe, Gabriel, but I don’t actually work for the Office. I am employed by the National Clandestine Service of the Central Intelligence Agency, which means Adrian Carter, not you, makes my assignments.”

“Would you like to say that a little louder? I’m not sure the cooks and the dishwashers heard you.”

“Weren’t you the one who told me that nearly every important professional conversation you’d ever had was conducted in public places?”

It was true. Safe rooms were only safe if they hadn’t been bugged.