Daniel Silva - The defector

“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.”

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.”