Daniel Silva - The defector

“He suggests you improvise.”

“Really?”

Thank you, Uncle Ari.

Rimona stared at the Mercedes. Same chin. Same hands on the wheel. But now the fingers were in motion. Tapping a nervous rhythm.

He suggests you improvise…

But how? During the pre-op briefings, Uzi Navot had been resolute on one key point: under no circumstances were they going to give Ivan the opportunity to kidnap another Office agent, especially another woman. Rimona was to remain on embassy grounds at all times because, technically, the grounds were Israeli soil. Unfortunately, there was no way to force the issue in fifteen seconds by remaining behind the safety of the gate. Only by approaching the car could she do that. And to approach the car she had to leave Israel and enter Russia. She glanced at her watch, then turned to one of the Shin Bet security guards.

“Open the gate.”

“We were ordered to keep it closed.”

“Do you know who my uncle is?”

“Everyone knows who your uncle is, Rimona.”

“So what are you waiting for?”

The guard did as he was told and followed Rimona into Bolshaya Ordynka, gun drawn in violation of all diplomatic protocol, written and unwritten. Rimona went without hesitation to the rear passenger door of the Mercedes and rapped on the heavy bulletproof glass. Receiving no response, she gave the window two more firm knocks. This time, the glass slid down. No Chiara, only a well-dressed Russian in his late twenties wearing sunglasses in spite of the overcast weather. He was holding two things: a Makarov pistol and an envelope. He used the gun to keep the Shin Bet security guard at bay. The envelope he handed to Rimona. As the window rose, the Russian was smiling. Then the car lurched forward, tires spinning over icy pavement, and disappeared around the corner.

Rimona’s first instinct was to let the envelope fall to the ground. Instead, after giving it a cursory inspection, she tore open the flap. Inside was a gold ring. Rimona recognized it. She had been standing at Gabriel’s side when he purchased it from a jew eler in Tel Aviv. And she had been standing on her uncle’s terrace overlooking the Sea of Galilee when Gabriel placed it on Chiara’s finger. She brought her secure cell to her ear and told the Operations Desk what had just happened. Then, after retreating once again to the Israeli side of the security gate, she read the inscription on the wedding band, tears streaming down her face.

FOREVER, GABRIEL.

THE NEWS from the embassy confirmed what they always suspected: that Ivan had never intended to release Chiara. Shamron immediately spoke four words calmly in Hebrew: “Send Joshua to Canaan.” Then he turned to Adrian Carter. “It’s time.”

Carter snatched up his phone. “Switch on the jammers. And give Ivan the note.”

Shamron gazed at the message still winking at him from the display screens. His command had unleashed a torrent of noise and activity at King Saul Boulevard. Now, amid the pandemonium, he heard two familiar voices, both calm and unemotional. The first was Uzi Navot’s, reporting that the sentries at the back of the dacha appeared restless. The next voice was Gabriel’s. Joshua was thirty seconds away from the target, he said. Joshua would soon be knocking on the devil’s door.

THOUGH NEITHER Gabriel nor Shamron could see it, the devil was rapidly running out of patience. He was standing at the base of the passenger-boarding stairs, his malletlike hands resting on his hips, his weight shifting forward to aft. Veteran Kharkov watchers would have recognized the curious pose as one of many he had taken from his hero, Stalin. They would have also suggested that now might be a good time to take cover, because when Ivan started rocking heel to toe it usually meant an eruption was coming.

The source of his rising anger was the door of the American C-32. For more than a minute, there had been no activity there, other than the appearance of two heavily armed men in black. His anger scaled new heights shortly after 9:05 when Oleg Rudenko, who was standing at Ivan’s right hand, reported that his cell phone no longer appeared to be functioning. He blamed it on interference from the plane’s communications system, which was partially correct. Ivan, however, was clearly dubious.

At this point, he briefly attempted to take matters into his own hands. Pushing past one of his bodyguards, he mounted the passenger stairs and started toward the cabin door. He froze on the third step when one of the CIA paramilitaries leveled a compact submachine gun and, in excellent Russian, instructed him to stay back. On the tarmac, hands reached beneath overcoats, and the control tower staff later claimed to have spotted the flash of a weapon or two. Ivan, furious and humiliated, did as he was told and retreated to the base of the stairs.

And there he remained for two more tense minutes, hands on his hips, eyes fixed on the two men with machine guns standing shoulder to shoulder in the doorway of the C-32. When finally the CIA men parted, it was not his children Ivan saw but the pilot. He was holding a note. Using only hand signals, he summoned a member of the Russian ground crew and instructed him to deliver the note to the enraged-looking man in the English overcoat. By the time the note had reached Ivan, the aircraft’s door was closed and the twin Pratt & Whitney engines were roaring. As the plane began to taxi, those on board were treated to the extraordinary sight of Ivan Kharkov-oligarch, arms dealer, murderer, and father of two-wadding the paper into a ball and hurling it to the ground in disgust.

Another man might have conceded defeat at this point. But not Ivan. Indeed, the last thing the crew saw was Ivan seizing hold of Oleg Rudenko’s cell phone and hurling it at the aircraft. It bounced harmlessly off the belly of the fuselage and shattered into a hundred pieces on the tarmac. A few of the crew laughed. Those who knew what was coming next did not. Blood was going to flow. And men were going to die.

AS IT TURNED OUT, the wash from the C-32’s engines blew the note across the tarmac toward the Moscow delegation, and, eventually, to the feet of the deputy minister himself. For a moment he considered allowing it to continue on its journey into oblivion, but his bureaucratic upbringing would not allow it. After all, the letter was an official document of sorts.

Ivan’s mighty fist had compressed the sheet of paper into a wad the size of a golf ball, and it took the deputy several seconds to pry it open and flatten it out again. Across the top of the paper was the official letterhead of the 89th Airlift Wing. Beneath it were a few lines of English script, clearly written by the hand of a child under emotional stress. Glancing at the first line, the deputy considered reading no further. Once again, duty demanded otherwise.

We do not want to live in Russia.

We do not want to be with Yekaterina.

We want to go home to America.

We want to be with our mother.

We hate you.

Good-bye.

The deputy looked up in time to see Ivan boarding his helicopter. Look at him! Look at Ivan Borisovich! He had everything in the world: a mountain of money, a supermodel for a wife. Everything but the love of his children. Look at him! You are nothing, Ivan Borisovich! Nothing!

THE WARNING sign at the entrance was Soviet era. The birch trees on either side had been there since the time of the tsars. Forty yards along the narrow track was a Range Rover, two Russian guards in the front seat. Mikhail flashed his lights. The Range Rover made no move.

Mikhail opened his door and climbed out. He was wearing a heavy gray parka zipped to the chin and a dark woolen hat pulled low. For now, he was just another Russian. Another one of Ivan’s boys. An Alpha Group veteran with a bad attitude. The sort who didn’t like having to get out of the car when it was ten below zero.