Daniel Silva - The defector

Go and take care of your mother…

There were few nights when he did not see the face of that child. And he saw it now, as they turned off the highway and headed into the northernmost reaches of the oblast. Sometimes, Gabriel wondered whether he would have pulled the trigger had he known the girl was standing at his back. And sometimes, in his darker moments, he wondered whether everything that had befallen him since was not God’s punishment for killing a man in front of his family. Now, as he had done countless times before, he nudged the child gently from his thoughts and watched as Mikhail made another turn, this time into a dense stand of pine and fir. The headlamps went dark, the engine silent.

“How far is the property?”

“Two miles.”

“How long to make the drive?”

“Five minutes. We’ll take it nice and slow.”

“You’re sure, Mikhail? Timing is everything.”

“I’ve done it twice. I’m sure.”

Mikhail began drumming his fingers on the console. Gabriel ignored him and looked at the clock: 6:25. The waiting… Waiting for the sun to rise before a morning of killing. Waiting to hold Chiara in his arms. Waiting for the child of Abu Jihad to forgive him. He poured himself a cup of coffee and loaded his weapons.

6:26… 6:27… 6:28…

THE SUN set fire to the snowbank. Chiara did not know whether it was sunrise or sunset. But as the light fell upon Grigori’s sleeping face, she had a premonition of death, so clear that it seemed a stone had been laid over her heart. She heard the sound of the latch and watched as the woman with milk-white skin and translucent eyes entered the cell. The woman had food: stale bread, cold sausage, tea in paper cups. Whether it was breakfast or dinner, Chiara was not certain. The woman withdrew, locking the door behind her. Chiara held her tea between shackled hands and looked at the burning snowbank. As usual, the light remained only a few minutes. Then the fire was extinguished, and the room plunged once more into pitch-blackness.

LIKE RUSSIA ITSELF, the airfield at Konakovo had been a two-time loser. Abandoned by the air force shortly after the fall of the Soviet Union, it was allowed to crumble into a state of ruin before finally being taken over by a consortium of businessmen and civic leaders. For a brief period, it experienced modest success as a commercial cargo facility, only to see its fortunes plummet a second time with the price of Russian crude. The airfield now handled fewer than a dozen flights a week and was used mainly as a rest home for decaying Antonovs, Ilyushins, and Tupolevs. But its runway, at twelve thousand feet, was still one of the longest in the region, and its landing lights and radar systems functioned well by Russian standards, which is to say they worked most of the time.

All systems were in good working order that Friday morning, and great effort had been made to plow and treat the runway and tarmac. And with good reason. The control tower had been informed by the Kremlin that an American Air Force C-32 would be landing at Konakovo at 9 a.m. sharp. What’s more, a delegation of hotshots from the Foreign Ministry and customs would be on hand to greet the aircraft and expedite arrival procedures. Airport authorities had not been told the identity of the arriving passengers, and they knew far better than to press the matter. One didn’t ask too many questions when the Kremlin was involved. Not unless one wanted the FSB knocking on one’s door.

The Moscow delegation arrived shortly after eight and was waiting at the edge of the windswept tarmac when a string of lights appeared against the overcast sky to the south. A few of the officials initially mistook the lights for the American plane, which was not possible since the C-32 was still a hundred miles out and would be landing from the west, not the southeast. As the lights drew closer, the brittle air was filled with the beating of rotors. There were three helicopters in all, and even from a long way off it was clear they were not of Russian manufacture. Someone in the control tower identified them as custom-fitted Bell 427s. Someone in the delegation said that would make sense. Ivan Kharkov might be willing to put a load of weapons on a Russian rust bucket, but when it came to his family he only flew American.

The helicopters settled onto the tarmac and, one by one, killed their engines. From the two flanking aircraft emerged a security detail fit for a Russian president: big boys, well groomed, heavily armed, hard as nails. After establishing a perimeter around the third helicopter, one guard stepped forward and opened the cabin door. For a long moment, no one appeared. Then came a flash of lustrous blond hair, framing a face of Slavic youth and perfection. The features were instantly recognizable to the control tower as well as the members of the Moscow delegation. The woman had appeared on countless magazine covers and billboards, usually with far less clothing than she was wearing now. Her name had once been Yekaterina Mazurov. Now she was known as Yekaterina Kharkov. Though meticulously coiffed and painted, she was clearly on edge. Immediately after placing an elegant boot on the tarmac, she gave one of the bodyguards a good tongue-lashing, which, unfortunately, could not be heard. Someone in the Moscow delegation pointed out that Yekaterina’s anxiety was to be forgiven. She was about to become a mother of two and was still little more than a child herself.

The second person to emerge from the helicopter was a trim man in a dark overcoat with a face that hinted of ancestors from deep in Russia ’s interior. He was holding a cell phone to his ear and appeared to be engaged in a conversation of great import. No one in the control tower or the Moscow delegation recognized him, which was hardly surprising. Unlike the ravishing Yekaterina, this man’s photograph never appeared in the papers, and few people outside the insular world of the siloviki and the oligarchs knew his name. He was Oleg Rudenko, a former colonel in the KGB who now served as chief of Ivan Kharkov’s personal security service. Even Rudenko was the first to admit the title was merely an honorific. Ivan called all the shots; Rudenko just made the trains run on time. Thus the cell phone pressed tightly to his ear and the grim expression on his face.

The interval between Rudenko and the emergence of the third passenger was eighty-four long seconds, as timed by the control tower staff. He was an immensely powerful-looking figure, somewhat short in stature, with angular cheekbones, a pugalist’s broad forehead, and coarse hair the color of steel wool. One of the officials briefly confused him for a bodyguard, which was a common mistake and one he secretly enjoyed. But any inclination to such thinking was immediately dispelled by the cut of his magnificent English overcoat. And by the manner in which his trousers broke across his handmade English shoes. And by the way his own bodyguards seemed to fear his very presence. And by the sundial-sized gold watch on his left wrist. Look at him, murmured someone in the Moscow delegation. Look at Ivan Borisovich! The controversy, the arrest warrants, the indictments in the West: any one of them would have gladly accepted it all, just to live like Ivan Borisovich for a day. Just to ride in his helicopters and his limousines. And just to climb into bed one time with Yekaterina. But why the frown, Ivan Borisovich? Today is a joyous occasion. Today is the day your children are coming home from America.

He strode across the tarmac, Yekaterina on one side, Rudenko on the other, bodyguards all around. The head of the delegation, deputy foreign minister so-and-so of department such-and-such, met him halfway. Their conversation was brief and, by all appearances, unpleasant. Afterward, each retreated to his respective corner. When asked to recount what Ivan had said, the deputy refused. It couldn’t be repeated in polite company.