Daniel Silva - The defector

“Did you enjoy the time you spent with my wife?” he asked Mikhail in Russian.

“Former wife,” replied Mikhail in the same language. “And, yes, I enjoyed my time with her very much. She’s a remarkable woman. You should have treated her better.”

“Is that why you took her from me?”

“I didn’t have to take her. She staggered into our arms.”

Mikhail never saw the blow coming. A backhand, low at the start, high at the finish. Somehow he managed to stay on his feet. Ivan’s guards, who were standing in a semicircle in the snow, found it amusing. Chiara closed her eyes and began to shake with fear. Gabriel pressed his shoulder lightly against hers. In Hebrew, he murmured, “Try to stay calm. Mikhail’s doing the right thing.”

“He’s just making him angrier.”

“Exactly, my love. Exactly.”

Ivan was now rubbing the back of his hand, as if to show he had feelings, too. “I trusted you, Mikhail. I allowed you into my home. You betrayed me.”

“It was just business, Ivan.”

“Really? Just business? Elena told me about that shitty little villa in the hills above Saint-Tropez. She told me about the lunch you had waiting. And the wine. Bandol rosé. Elena’s favorite.”

“Very cold. Just the way she likes it.”

Another backhand, hard enough to send Mikhail crashing into the side of the dacha. With his hands still bound, he was unable to stand on his own. Ivan seized the front of his parka and lifted him effortlessly to his feet.

“She told me about the shitty little room where you made love. She even told me about the Monet prints hanging on the wall. Funny, don’t you think? Elena had two real Monets of her own. And yet you took her to a room with Monet posters on the wall. Do you remember them, Mikhail?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I was too busy looking at your wife.”

This time, it was a sledgehammer fist. It opened another gash on Mikhail’s face, an inch beneath the left eye. As the guards hauled him to his feet, Chiara pleaded with Ivan to stop. Ivan ignored her. Ivan was just getting started.

“Elena said you were a perfect gentleman. That you made love twice. That you wanted to make love a third time, but Elena said no. She had to be going. She had to get home to her children. Do you remember it now, Mikhail?”

“I remember, Ivan.”

“These were lies, were they not? You concocted this story of a romantic encounter in order to deceive me. You never made love to my wife in that villa. You debriefed her about my operation. Then you plotted her defection and the theft of my children.”

“No, Ivan.”

“No, what?”

“The lunch was waiting. So was the rosé. Bandol. Elena’s favorite. We made love twice. Unlike you, I was a perfect gentleman.”

The knee came up. Mikhail went down. He stayed down.

Now it was Gabriel’s turn.

IVAN’S MEN had not bothered to remove Gabriel’s watch. It was strapped to his left wrist, and the wrist was pinned to his kidney. In his mind, though, he could picture the digital numbers advancing. At last check it had been 9:11:07. Time had stopped with the collision, and it had started again with Ivan’s arrival from Konakovo. Gabriel and Shamron had chosen the old airfield for a reason: to create space between Ivan and the dacha. To create time in the event something went wrong. Gabriel reckoned at least an hour had elapsed between the time of their capture and the time of Ivan’s arrival. He knew Shamron had not spent that hour planning a funeral. Now Gabriel and Mikhail had to help their own cause by giving Shamron one thing: time . Oddly enough, they would have to enlist Ivan as their ally. They had to keep Ivan angry. They had to keep Ivan talking. When Ivan went silent, bad things happened. Countries tore themselves to shreds. People died.

“You were a fool to come back to Russia, Allon. I knew you would, but you were a fool regardless.”

“Why didn’t you just kill me in Italy and be done with it?”

“Because there are certain things a man does himself. And thanks to you, I can’t go to Italy. I can’t go anywhere.”

“You don’t like Russia, Ivan?”

“I love Russia.” A terse smile. “Especially from a distance.”

“So I suppose the demand for your children was a lie-just like your agreement to return my wife unharmed.”

“I believe ‘safe and sound’ were the words Korovin and Shamron used in Paris. And no, Allon, it was not a lie. I do want my children back.” He glanced at Chiara. “I calculated that kidnapping your wife gave me at least an outside chance of getting them.”

“You knew Elena and the children were living in America?”

“Let us say I strongly suspected that was the case.”

“So why didn’t you kidnap an American target?”

“Two reasons. First and foremost, our president wouldn’t have permitted it, since it would have almost certainly caused an open rupture in our relations with Washington.”

“And the second reason?”

“It wouldn’t have been a wise investment in time and resources.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“Certainly,” said Ivan, his tone suddenly convivial. “As everyone in the world knows, the Americans have a policy against negotiating with kidnappers and terrorists. But you Israelis operate differently. Because you are a small country, life is very precious to you. That means you’ll negotiate at the drop of a hat when innocent life is at stake. My God, you’ll even trade dozens of proven murderers in order to retrieve the bodies of your dead soldiers. Your love of life makes you a weak people, Allon. It always has.”

“So you calculated we would bring pressure to bear on the Americans to return the children?”

“Not on the Americans,” Ivan said. “On Elena. My former wife is rather like the Jews: devious and weak.”

“Why the pause between Grigori’s abduction and Chiara’s?”

“The tsar decreed it. Grigori was a test case of sorts. Our president wanted to see how the British would react to a clear provocation on their soil. When he saw only weakness, he allowed me to push the knife in deeper.”

“By kidnapping my wife and making a play for your children.”

“Correct,” said Ivan. “As far as our president was concerned, your wife was a legitimate target. After all, Allon, you and your American friends carried out an illegal operation on Russian soil last summer-an operation that resulted in the deaths of several of my men, not to mention the theft of my family.”

“And if Elena had refused to return Nikolai and Anna?”

Ivan smiled. “Then I was certain I would get you.”

“So now you have me, Ivan. Let the others go.”

“Mikhail and Grigori?” Ivan shook his head. “They betrayed my trust. And you know what we do with traitors, Allon.”

“Vyshaya mera. ”

Ivan raised his chin in a show of mock admiration.

“Very impressive, Allon. I see you’ve picked up a bit of Russian during your travels in our country.”

“Let them go, Ivan. Let Chiara go.”

“Chiara? Oh, no, Allon, that is not possible, either. You see, you took my wife. Now I’m going to take yours. That is justice. Just like it says in your Jewish book. Life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, burn for burn, wound for wound.”

“It’s called Exodus, Ivan.”

“Yes, I know. Chapter 21, if memory serves. And your laws state very clearly that I am permitted to take your wife since you took mine. Too bad you didn’t have a child. I would take that, too. But the PLO already did that, didn’t they? In Vienna. His name was Daniel, was it not?”

Gabriel lunged at him. Ivan stepped deftly away and allowed Gabriel to pitch headlong into the snow. The guards let him lie there a moment-a precious moment, thought Gabriel-before lifting him once more to his feet. Ivan brushed the snow from his face.