Daniel Silva - The defector

“Shoot him, Sarah! Shoot him, damn it!”

Sarah took two steps forward and pressed the gun against Petrov’s left hip. I won’t hesitate either, Uzi… She didn’t. Not for an instant. The round shattered the Russian’s hip joint and caused his leg to buckle. Somehow, the left hand managed to maintain its grip on the gun. The right was still inching toward Navot’s neck.

“Again, Sarah! Shoot him again!”

This time, she placed the gun against Petrov’s left shoulder and pulled the trigger. As the Russian’s arm went limp, she quickly tore the gun from his grasp. Free to use his own right hand, Navot balled it into a massive fist and gave Petrov three sledgehammer blows to the face. The final two were unnecessary. The Russian was out on his feet after the first.

THREE MILES from the German border, at the end of a narrow logging valley, stands little Bargen, famous in Switzerland because it is the country’s northernmost town. It has little to offer other than a gas station and a small market frequented by travelers on their way somewhere else. No one seemed to take note of the two men waiting outside in the parking lot in an Audi sedan. One had thinning flyaway hair and was drinking coffee from a paper cup. The other had eyes of emerald and was watching the traffic speeding along the motorway, white lights headed toward Zurich, red lights streaming toward the German border. The waiting… Always 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 van carrying a wounded Russian assassin.

“There’s going to be hell to pay at that bank,” said Eli Lavon.

“Becker will keep it quiet. He has no choice.”

“And if he can’t?”

“Then we’ll clean up the mess later.”

“Good thing the Swiss joined the modern world and took down their border posts. Remember the old days, Gabriel? They would get us coming and going.”

“I remember, Eli.”

“I can’t tell you how many times I had to sit there while those smug Swiss boys searched my trunk. Now they barely look at you. This will be our fourth Russian in three days, and no one will be the wiser.”

“We’re doing them a favor.”

“If we keep going at this rate, there won’t be any Russians left in Switzerland.”

“My point exactly.”

Just then a van turned into the lot. Gabriel climbed out of the Audi and walked over. Pulling open the rear door, he saw Sarah and Navot sitting on the floor of the cargo hold. Petrov was stretched between them.

“How is he?”

“Still unconscious.”

“Pulse?”

“Okay.”

“How’s the blood loss?”

“Not too bad. I think the rounds cauterized the vessels.”

“ King Saul Boulevard is sending a doctor to the interrogation site. Can he make it?”

“He’ll be fine.” Navot handed Gabriel a small ziplock plastic bag. “Here’s a souvenir.”

Inside was Petrov’s ring. Gabriel carefully slipped the bag into his coat pocket and gestured for Sarah to get out of the van. He helped her into the backseat of the Audi, then climbed behind the wheel. Five minutes later, both vehicles were safely over the invisible border and heading north into Germany. Sarah managed to keep her emotions in check for a few minutes longer. Then she leaned her head against the window and began to weep.

“You did the right thing, Sarah. You saved Uzi’s life.”

“I’ve never shot anyone before.”

“Really?”

“Don’t make jokes, Gabriel. I don’t feel so well.”

“You will.”

“When?”

“Eventually.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Should I pull over?”

“No, keep going.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll stop just in case.”

“Maybe you should.”

Gabriel pulled to the side of the motorway and crouched at Sarah’s side as her body retched.

“I did it for you, Gabriel.”

“I know, Sarah.”

“I did it for Chiara.”

“I know.”

“How long am I going to feel this way?”

“Not long.”

“How long, Gabriel?”

He rubbed Sarah’s back as her body convulsed again.

Not long, he thought. Only forever.

FOR EVERY safe house, there is a story. A salesman who lives out of a suitcase and rarely sees home. A couple with too much money to be tied to one place for long. An adventurous soul who travels to faraway lands to take pictures and scale mountains. These are the tales told to neighbors and landlords. These are the lies that explain short-term tenants and guests who arrive in the middle of the night with keys in their pockets.

The villa near the Danish border had a story, too, though some of it happened to be true. Before the Second World War, it had been owned by a family called Rosenthal. All but one member, a young girl, perished in the Holocaust, and after emigrating to Israel in the mid-1950s she bequeathed her family home to the Office. Known as Site 22XB, the property was the jewel in Housekeeping’s crown, reserved for only the most sensitive and important operations. Gabriel believed a Russian assassin with two bullet wounds and a head filled with vital secrets certainly fell into that category. Housekeeping had agreed. They had given him the keys and made certain the pantry was well provisioned.

The house stood a hundred yards from a quiet farm road, a lonely outpost on the stark, flat plain of western Jutland. Time had taken its toll. The stucco needed a good scrubbing, the shutters were broken and peeling for want of paint, and the roof leaked when the big storms swept in from the North Sea. Inside was a similar story: dust and cobwebs, rooms not quite furnished, fixtures and appliances from a bygone era.

Indeed, to wander the halls was to step back in time, especially for Gabriel and Eli Lavon. Known to Office veterans as Château Shamron, the house had served as a planning base during Operation Wrath of God. Men had been condemned to death here, fates had been sealed. On the second floor was the room Lavon and Gabriel had shared. Now, as then, it contained nothing but a pair of narrow beds separated by a chipped nightstand. As Gabriel stood in the doorway, an image flashed in his memory: the watcher and the executioner lying awake in the darkness, one made sleepless by stress, the other by visions of blood. The ancient transistor radio that had filled the empty hours still stood on the table. It had been their link to the outside world. It had told them about wars won and lost, about an American president who resigned in disgrace; and, sometimes, on summer nights, it played music for them. The music normal boys were listening to. Boys who weren’t killing terrorists for Ari Shamron.

Gabriel tossed his bag onto his old bed-the one nearest the window-and headed downstairs to the cellar. Anton Petrov lay supine across a bare stone floor, Navot, Yaakov, and Mikhail standing over him. His hands and feet were secured, though at this point it was scarcely necessary. Petrov’s skin was ghostly white, his forehead damp with perspiration, his jaw distorted from swelling at the spot where Navot had hit him. The Russian was in desperate need of medical attention. He would get it only if he talked. If not, Gabriel would allow the rounds still lodged in his pelvis and shoulder to poison his body with sepsis. The death would be slow, feverish, and agonizing. It was the death he deserved, and Gabriel was more than prepared to grant it. He crouched at the Russian’s side and spoke to him in German.