Daniel Silva - The defector

“You’ve seen him before?”

Elena nodded. “In Moscow, a long time ago. He was a regular visitor to our house in Zhukovka.”

“Did he come alone?”

She shook her head. “Only with Arkady.”

“Were you ever told his name?”

“I was never told their names.”

“And you never happened to overhear one?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Gabriel tried to conceal his disappointment and asked whether Elena could recall anything else. She looked down at the photograph, as if trying to wipe the dust from her memory.

“I remember that Arkady was always quite deferential in his presence. I found it rather odd because Arkady was deferential in front of no one.” She looked up at Gabriel. “Too bad you killed him. He could have told you the name.”

“The world is a much better place without the likes of Arkady Medvedev.”

“That’s true. Sometimes I actually wish I’d killed him myself.” She turned her head and stared across the room toward the painting. “The question is, has Ivan hired this same man to take my children from me?”

Gabriel took hold of Elena’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’ve experienced Adrian’s security firsthand. There’s no way Ivan will ever find you and the children here.”

“I’d feel better knowing you were here.” She looked at him.

“Will you stay with us, Gabriel? Just for a day or two?”

“I’m not sure Grigori has a day or two to spare.”

“Grigori?” She gazed despondently into the fire. “I know what my husband and his friends from the FSB do to those who betray them. You should forget about Grigori. Better to focus on the living.”

GABRIEL AGREED to spend the night and return to Washington the next morning. After settling into a second-floor guest room, he went in search of a telephone. As a security precaution, Ed Fielding had removed all the phones from the main lodge. Indeed, only one telephone on the entire property was capable of reaching the outside world. It was located in the second lodge, on the desk in Fielding’s office. A small sign warned that all calls, regardless of origin or destination, were monitored and recorded. “It’s no joke,” Fielding said as he handed Gabriel the receiver. “As one professional to another.”

Fielding stepped outside and closed the door. Unwilling to betray normal Office communication procedures, Gabriel dialed King Saul Boulevard on a business line and asked for Uzi Navot. Their conversation was brief and conducted in a form of Hebrew no NSA supercomputer could ever decipher. In the space of a few seconds, Navot managed to give Gabriel a thorough update. Irina Bulganova was safely on the ground in Moscow, Gabriel’s team was headed back to Israel, and Chiara was on her way back to Umbria, accompanied by her bodyguards. In fact, Navot added after checking the time, they were probably there by now.

Gabriel severed the connection and debated whether to ring her. He decided it wasn’t safe. Making contact with the Office on an Agency line was one thing, but calling Chiara at home or on her mobile was quite another. He would have to wait until he was outside the CIA’s bubble before trying to reach her. Replacing the receiver, he thought of the words Elena had just spoken. You should forget about Grigori. Better to focus on the living. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had made a promise he couldn’t possibly keep. Perhaps it was time to go home and look after his wife. He opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Ed Fielding was there, leaning against the wall.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Feel like taking a ride?”

“Where?”

“I know you’re concerned about Elena. I thought I’d put your mind at ease by showing you some of our security measures.”

“Even though I work for a foreign service?”

“Adrian says you’re family. That’s all I need to know.”

Gabriel followed Fielding into the bitter late-afternoon cold. He had expected the tour to be conducted by Jeep. Instead, Fielding escorted him to an outbuilding where two snowmobiles glistened beneath overhead fluorescent lights. From a metal cabinet, the CIA man produced a pair of helmets, two parkas, two neoprene face masks, and two pairs of wind-stopper gloves. Five minutes later, after a perfunctory lesson on the operation of a snowmobile, Gabriel was hurtling through the woods in Fielding’s blizzardlike wake, bound for a distant corner of the estate.

They inspected the westernmost edge of the property first, then the southern border, which was marked by a branch of the St. Regis River. Two weeks earlier, a black bear had crossed onto the estate from the other side of the stream and triggered the motion detectors and infrared heat sensors. Fielding had responded to the intrusion by dispatching a pair of guards, who confronted the bear within thirty seconds of its arrival. Faced with the prospect of becoming a rug, the bear had wisely retreated to the other side of the stream and had not been seen since.

“Are there any other wild animals we need to worry about?” asked Gabriel.

“Just deer, bobcats, beavers, and the occasional wolf.”

“Wolves?”

“We had one just the other day. A big one.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“Only if you surprise them.”

Fielding twisted the throttle and vanished in a cloud of white. Gabriel followed him along the winding bank of the streambed to the eastern edge of the property. It was marked by a chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. Every fifty yards or so was a sign warning that the property was private and that anyone foolish enough to attempt a crossing would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. As they sped side by side along the fence, Gabriel noticed Fielding talking over his radio. By the time they reached the road, it was clear something was wrong. Fielding stopped and motioned for Gabriel to do the same.

“You have a phone call.”

Gabriel didn’t have to ask who had placed the call. Only one person knew where he was or how to reach him.

“What’s it about?”

“He didn’t say. He wants to talk to you right away, though.”

Fielding led Gabriel back to the compound by the shortest route possible. It was dusk when they arrived, and the two Adirondack lodges were little more than silhouettes against the fiery horizon. Elena Kharkov stood on the porch of the main house, her arms folded beneath her breasts, her long dark hair moving in the frigid wind. Gabriel and Fielding swept past her without a word and entered the staff lodge. The telephone in Fielding’s office was off the hook. Gabriel raised the receiver swiftly to his ear and heard the voice of Adrian Carter.

IF THERE was indeed a recording of the conversation that followed, it did not exist for long. Carter would never speak of it, except to say that it was among the most difficult of his long career. The only other witness was Ed Fielding. The security man could not hear Carter’s words, but could see the terrible toll they were taking. He saw a hand gripping the telephone with such force the knuckles were white. And he saw the eyes. The unusually bright green eyes now burning with a terrifying rage. As Fielding slipped quietly from the room, he realized he had never seen such rage before. He did not know what his friend Adrian Carter was saying to the legendary Israeli assassin. But he was certain of one thing. Blood was going to flow. And men were going to die.

ARI SHAMRON had long ago lost the gift of sleep. Like most men, it had been taken from him late in life, but for reasons that were uniquely his. He had told so many lies, spun so many deceptions, he could no longer tell fact from fiction, truth from untruth. Condemned by his work to remain forever awake, Shamron spent nights wandering ceaselessly through the secure file rooms of his past, reliving old cases, walking old battlefields, confronting enemies long since vanquished.