Daniel Silva - The defector

“Not over the phone.”

“Where?”

They met for breakfast two days later on the terrace of the King David Hotel. When Gabriel arrived, he found Carter wearing a wrinkled poplin suit and reading the International Herald Tribune . It had been many months since they had seen each other. Indeed, their last encounter had occurred at Shannon Airport in Ireland, the morning after the G-8 summit. Under the agreement reached with the Russian president, Gabriel, Chiara, Mikhail, and Irina Bulganova had been allowed to leave Moscow the same way Gabriel had arrived: surrounded by Secret Service agents, aboard the so-called car plane. They had disembarked during a refueling stop and had gone their separate ways. Irina had accompanied Graham Seymour to Britain, while Gabriel, Chiara, and Mikhail had flown home to Israel with Shamron. Carter had been so overcome by emotion that morning that he had neglected to ask Gabriel for the official American passport he had used to enter Russia. He did so now, a moment after retaking his seat. Gabriel tossed it onto the table, emblem down.

“I hope you didn’t use this during your little European holiday this summer.”

“I haven’t left Israel since I got back from Russia.”

“Nice try, Gabriel. But we have it on very good authority that you and your team spent the summer killing Anton Petrov’s friends and associates. And you did a damn good job of it.”

“It wasn’t us, Adrian. It was Ivan.”

“My European station chiefs heard those rumors, too.”

Carter opened the passport and began leafing through the pages.

“Don’t worry, Adrian. You won’t find any new visas in there. I wouldn’t do that to you or the president. My wife is alive because of you. And I’ll never be able to repay you.”

“I believe the balance of our account is still weighted heavily in your favor.” Carter sipped his coffee and changed the subject. “We hear there’s about to be a change at the helm of King Saul Boulevard. Needless to say, Langley is pleased by the choice. I’ve always been fond of Uzi.”

“But?”

“Obviously, we were hoping the next chief would be you. We understand why that’s not going to be possible. And we whole- heartedly support your decision.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know I have the support of Langley, Adrian.”

“Do try to control that caustic Israeli wit of yours.” Carter dabbed his lips with his napkin. “Have you given any thought to your future plans?”

“For the moment, Chiara and I will have to stay here.” Gabriel nodded toward the pair of bodyguards seated two tables away. “Protected by children with guns.”

“You could come to America. Elena says you’re welcome anytime. In fact, she says she’d be willing to build a house for you and Chiara on the estate. If I were in your shoes, I’d be tempted to take her up on the offer.”

“That’s because you grew up in New England and you’re used to the winters. I’m from the Valley of Jezreel.”

“She’s not joking, Gabriel.”

“Please thank Elena and tell her I do appreciate the offer. But I can’t accept it.”

“Her children are going to be very disappointed.” Carter handed Gabriel an envelope. “They wrote you a letter. Actually, it’s addressed to you and Chiara.”

“What is it?”

“A letter of apology. They want you to know how sorry they are for what their father did.”

Gabriel removed the letter and read it in silence.

“It’s beautiful, Adrian, but tell the children they have no need to feel guilty about their father’s actions. Besides, we would never have been able to get Chiara back without their help.”

“Apparently, they put on quite a performance at Andrews. Fielding says it was one for the books. The Russian ambassador never suspected a thing.”

Gabriel returned the letter to the envelope and smiled. Though the Russian ambassador did not realize it, he had been a bit player in an elaborate deception. It was true that Anna and Nikolai had boarded the U.S. Air Force C-32 at Andrews, but at Gabriel’s insistence they had been kept far from Russian airspace. Indeed, within seconds after passing through the cabin door, they walked straight into the hold of a hydraulic catering vehicle, where Sarah Bancroft was waiting. Ten minutes after the ambassador departed, they joined their mother aboard the Gulfstream and returned to the Adirondacks. Only the note was genuine. It had been written by the children at Andrews and handed over to the pilot. According to Elena, they had meant every word of it.

“My director bumped into the Russian ambassador at a White House reception a couple of months back. He’s still fuming about what happened. Apparently, he lives in fear of Ivan’s wrath. He spends as little time in Russia as possible.”

Gabriel slipped the letter into his shirt pocket. Surely Carter hadn’t come all the way to Jerusalem to recover a passport and deliver a letter, but he seemed in no hurry to get around to the real reason for his visit. He was now reading his newspaper. He folded it in quarters and handed it across to Gabriel.

“You see this?” he asked, tapping a headline.

It was a story about the new memorial at the killing ground in Vladimirskaya Oblast. Though understated and small, it had already attracted tens of thousands of visitors, much to the chagrin of the Kremlin. Many of the visitors were relatives of those killed there, but most were ordinary Russians who came to see something of their dark past. Since the memorial’s opening, Stalin had seen a precipitous slide in his standing. So, too, had the current regime. Indeed, more and more Russians were beginning to voice their discontent. The reporter for the Herald Tribune wondered whether Russians might be so willing to accept an authoritarian future if they spoke more openly about their totalitarian past. Gabriel wasn’t so sure. He remembered something Olga Sukhova had once said while walking through Novodevichy Cemetery. Russians had never known true democracy. And, in all likelihood, they never would.

“It says here the Russian president still hasn’t paid a visit.”

“He’s a very busy man,” said Carter.

“Do you think he’s regretting the decision to make it public?”

“I’m afraid he had no choice. We agreed to keep everything about the affair quiet and to cover up Grigori’s death with that ridiculous story about suicide. But the graves weren’t part of the deal. In fact, we made it clear to the Kremlin that if they didn’t tell the Russian people the truth, we would do it for them.”

Gabriel folded the newspaper and tried to return it to Carter.

“Look at the story below it.”

The subject was a new round of bloodletting in the Congo that had left more than a hundred thousand people dead. It was accompanied by a photo of a distraught mother holding the body of her dead child.

“And guess who’s helping to fan the flames?” Carter asked.

“Ivan?”

Carter nodded his head. “He put two planeloads of weapons on the ground there last month. Mortars, RPGs, AKs, and several million rounds of ammunition. And what do you think the Russian president said when we asked him to intervene?”

“Ivan who?”

“Words to that effect. It’s clear no amount of cajoling or sweet talk is ever going to convince the Kremlin to shut down Ivan’s operation. If we ever want to put him out of business, we’re going to have to do it ourselves.”

“As long as Ivan is in Russia, he’s untouchable.”

“That’s true, as long as he stays in Russia. But if he were to leave…”

“He won’t leave, Adrian. Not with an Interpol Red Notice hanging over his head.”

“One would think. But Ivan can be impulsive.” Carter bunched his hands beneath his chin and gazed at the walls of the Old City. “By our count, you and your team killed eleven Russians in Europe this summer. We were wondering whether you might be interested in going after one more target.”