The English Girl: A Novel (28 page)
RED SQUARE, MOSCOW
B
y four that afternoon, they had the broad outlines of an agreement. Lazarev drew up a one-page deal memo, booked a private room at Café Pushkin for the celebration, and sent Mikhail back to the Ritz for a few hours of rest. He made the short walk with no escort other than Gabriel, who was shadowing him along the opposite pavement, his coat collar around his ears, a flat cap pulled low over his brow. He watched Mikhail turn into the hotel’s grand entrance and then continued along Tverskaya Street to Revolution Square. There he paused briefly to watch a Lenin impersonator exhorting a group of bewildered Japanese tourists to seize the means of production from their bourgeoisie overlords. Then he slipped beneath the archway of Resurrection Gate and entered Red Square.
Darkness had fallen and the wind had decided to give the city a reprieve to go about its evening business in peace. Head down, shoulders hunched, Gabriel looked like just another jaded Muscovite as he hurried along the northern wall of the Kremlin, past the blank stares of the frozen guards standing watch outside the Lenin Mausoleum. Directly ahead, awash in white light, rose the swirling candy-cane domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. Gabriel glanced at the clock in the Savior Tower and then made his way to the spot along the Kremlin wall where Stalin, the murderer of millions, slumbered peacefully in a place of honor. Eli Lavon joined him a moment later.
“What do you think?” asked Gabriel in German.
“I think they should have buried him in an unmarked grave in a field,” Lavon responded. “But that’s just one man’s opinion.”
“Are we clean?”
“As clean as we can be in a place like Moscow.”
Gabriel turned without a word and led Lavon across the square to the entrance of GUM. Before the fall of the Soviet Union, it had been the only department store in the country where Russians could reliably find a winter coat or a pair of shoes. Now it was a Western-style shopping mall stuffed with all the useless trinkets capitalism had to offer. The soaring glass roof reverberated with the chatter of the evening shoppers. Lavon stared at his BlackBerry as he walked at Gabriel’s side. These days, it was a very Russian thing to do.
“Gennady Lazarev’s secretary just sent an e-mail to his senior staff about tonight’s dinner at Café Pushkin,” Lavon said. “Pavel Zhirov was on the invitation list.”
“I never heard his voice when Mikhail was inside Volgatek today.”
“That’s because he wasn’t there,” Lavon replied, still gazing at his BlackBerry. “After leaving his apartment in Sparrow Hills, he went straight to Yasenevo.”
“Why today of all days? Why wasn’t he at Volgatek to meet the new boy?”
“Maybe he had other business to attend to.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe there was someone else who needed to be kidnapped.”
“That’s what worries me.”
Gabriel paused in the window of a jewelry store and gazed at a display of glittering Swiss watches. Next door was a Soviet-style cafeteria where plump women in white aprons joylessly spooned cheap Russian food onto gray Brezhnev-era plates. Even now, more than twenty years after the fall of communism, there were still Russians who clung to the nostalgia of their totalitarian past.
“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?” Lavon asked.
“It’s December in Moscow, Eli. It’s impossible not to.”
“What do you want to do about it?”
“I’d like the hotel to give Nicholas Avedon his special amenity a little earlier than planned.”
“Amenities like that are frowned upon at Café Pushkin.”
“Anyone who’s anyone carries a gun at Pushkin, Eli.”
“It’s risky.”
“Not as risky as the alternative.”
“Why don’t we skip dinner and go straight to dessert?”
“I’d love to,” said Gabriel, “but the rush-hour traffic won’t allow it. We have to wait until after ten o’clock. Otherwise, we’ll never be able to get him out of town. We’ll be dead in the water.”
“A poor choice of words.”
“Send the message, Eli.”
Lavon typed a few characters into his BlackBerry and led Gabriel outside, into Il’inka Street. The wind was getting up again, and the temperature had plummeted. Tears flowed freely from Gabriel’s eyes as they walked past the Easter-egg facades of the heavy imperial buildings. In his earpiece he could hear Nicholas Avedon humming softly to himself as he ran a bath in his room at the Ritz.
“I want full coverage on him the entire time,” Gabriel said. “We take him to dinner, we sit with him at dinner, and then we take him back to his hotel. That’s when the fun begins.”
“Only if Pavel agrees to ride to Mikhail’s rescue.”
“He’s the chief of Volgatek security. If Volgatek’s newest executive believes his life is in danger, Pavel will come running. And then we’ll make him very sorry that he did.”
“I’d feel better if we could take him to another country.”
“Which one, Eli? Ukraine? Belarus? Or how about Kazakhstan?”
“Actually, I was thinking about Mongolia.”
“Bad food.”
“Terrible food,” agreed Lavon, “but at least it isn’t Russia.”
At the end of the street, they turned to the left and climbed the hill toward Lubyanka Square.
“Do you think it’s ever been done before?” asked Lavon.
“What’s that?”
“Kidnapping a KGB officer
inside
Russia.”
“There is no KGB, Eli. The KGB is a thing of the past.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s called the FSB now. And it occupies that big ugly building directly ahead of us. And they’re going to be rather upset when they find out one of their brethren is missing.”
“If we get him cleanly, they won’t have time to do anything about it.”
“If we get him cleanly,” Lavon agreed.
Gabriel was silent.
“Do me a favor tonight, Gabriel. If you don’t have the shot, don’t take it.” He paused, then added, “I’d hate to miss out on the opportunity of working for you when you become the chief.”
They had arrived at the top of the hill. Lavon slowed to a stop and gazed at the enormous yellow fortress on the opposite side of Lubyanka Square. “Why do you suppose they kept it?” he asked seriously. “Why didn’t they tear it down and put up a monument to its victims?”
“For the same reason they didn’t remove Stalin’s bones from the Kremlin wall,” answered Gabriel.
Lavon was silent for a moment. “I hate this place,” he said finally. “And at the same time, I love it dearly. Am I crazy?”
“Certifiable,” said Gabriel. “But that’s just one man’s opinion.”
“I’d feel better if we could take him to another country.”
“So would I, Eli. But we can’t.”
“How far
is
it to Mongolia?”
“Too far to drive,” said Gabriel. “And the food is terrible.”
F
ive minutes later, as Gabriel entered the Metropol’s overheated lobby, Yossi Gavish stepped from his fourth-floor room at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel dressed in a banker’s gray suit and a silver necktie. In his left hand was a gold name tag that read
ALEXANDER
—a student of history, Yossi had chosen it himself—and in his right was a glossy blue gift bag bearing the hotel’s logo. The bag was heavier than Yossi made it appear, for it contained a Makarov 9mm pistol, one of several weapons that Moscow Station had acquired from illicit local sources before the team’s arrival. For three days the weapon had been concealed between the mattress and box spring in Yossi’s room. He was understandably relieved to finally be rid of it.
Yossi waited until he was certain the corridor was unoccupied before quickly affixing the name tag to his lapel. Then he made his way to the doorway of Room 421. From the opposite side he could hear a man singing “Penny Lane” quite well. He knocked twice, firm but polite, the knock of a concierge. Then, upon receiving no answer, he knocked again, louder. This time a man in a white toweling robe answered. He was tall, impossibly fit, and pink from his bath.
“I’m busy,” he snapped.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Mr. Avedon,” replied Yossi in a neutral cosmopolitan accent, “but management would like to offer you a small gift of our appreciation.”
“Tell management thanks but no thanks.”
“Management would be disappointed.”
“It’s not more bloody caviar, is it?”
“I’m afraid management didn’t say.”
The pink man in the white robe snatched the gift bag and slammed the door on Yossi’s false hotelier’s smile. With that, Yossi turned on his heel and, after plucking the name tag from his lapel, headed back to his own room. There he quickly removed his suit and changed into a pair of jeans and a heavy woolen sweater. His suitcase stood at the foot of the bed; if everything went according to plan, a courier from Moscow Station would collect it in a few hours and destroy the contents. Yossi stuffed the suit into a side pocket and pulled the zipper closed. Then he wiped down every object he had touched in the room and left it for what he hoped would be the last time.
Downstairs in the lobby, he saw Dina leafing skeptically through an English-language Moscow newspaper. He walked past her as though they were unacquainted and stepped outside. A Range Rover waited at the curb, its tailpipe sending a plume of vaporous exhaust into the bitterly cold night. Seated behind the wheel was Christopher Keller. He pulled into the evening rush-hour traffic on Tverskaya Street even before Yossi had closed the door. Directly before them rose the Kremlin’s Corner Arsenal Tower, its red star glowing like a warning light. Keller whistled tunelessly as he drove.
“Do you know the way?” asked Yossi.
“Left on Okhotnyy Ryad Street, left on Bol’shaya Dmitrovka Street, and then another left on the Boulevard Ring.”
“Spend much time in Moscow, do you?”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“Can you at least pretend to be nervous?”
“Why should I be nervous?”
“Because we’re about to kidnap a KGB officer in the middle of Moscow.”
Keller smiled as he made the first left turn. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
I
t took Keller and Yossi the better part of twenty minutes to make the short drive to their holding point on the Boulevard Ring. Upon arrival, Yossi fired off a secure message to Gabriel at the Metropol, and Gabriel in turn bounced it to King Saul Boulevard, where it flashed across the status screen in the Op Center. Seated in his usual chair was Uzi Navot. He was staring at a live video image of the Ritz-Carlton’s lobby, courtesy of the miniature transmitter concealed in Dina’s handbag. The time was 7:36 in Moscow, 6:36 in Tel Aviv. At 6:38 the phone at Navot’s elbow rang. He brought the receiver swiftly to his ear, grunted something that sounded like his own name, and heard the voice of Orit, his executive secretary. Inside King Saul Boulevard, she was known as “the Iron Dome” because of her unrivaled ability to shoot down requests for a moment with the chief.
“No way,” responded Navot. “Not a chance.”
“He’s made it clear he’s not going to leave.”
Navot sighed heavily. “All right,” he said. “Send him down, if you have to.”
Navot hung up the phone and stared at the image of the hotel lobby. Two minutes later he heard the sound of the Op Center door opening and closing behind him. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a liver-spotted hand place two packs of Turkish cigarettes on the tabletop, along with a battered old Zippo. The lighter flared. A cloud of smoke blurred the image on the screen.
“I thought I pulled all your passes,” Navot said quietly, still staring straight ahead.
“You did,” replied Shamron.
“How did you get in the building?”
“I tunneled in.”
Shamron twirled the old lighter in his fingertips. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left.
“You have a lot of nerve showing your face around here,” Navot said.
“This isn’t the time or the place, Uzi.”
“I know it isn’t,” Navot said. “But you still have a lot of nerve.”
Two turns to the right, two turns to the left . .
.
“Would it be possible to turn up the volume on the audio feed from Mikhail’s phone?” Shamron asked. “My hearing isn’t what it once was.”
“Your hearing isn’t the only thing.”
Navot caught the eye of one of the technicians and gestured for him to increase the volume.
“What’s that song he’s singing?” Shamron asked.
“What difference does it make?”
“Answer the question, Uzi.”
“It’s ‘Penny Lane.’ ”
“The Beatles?”
“Yes, the Beatles.”
“Why do you suppose he chose that song?”
“Maybe he likes it.”
“Maybe,” said Shamron.
Navot glanced at the clock. It was 7:42 in Moscow, 6:42 in Tel Aviv. Shamron crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.
Two turns to the right, two turns to the left . .
.
M
ikhail was still singing to himself as he departed his hotel room, dressed for dinner. The gift bag was in his right hand as he entered the elevator, though it was absent when he came out of the lobby men’s room three minutes after that. The team in the Ops Center saw him for the first time at 7:51 as he passed within range of Dina’s camera and started toward the hotel entrance. Waiting there, his arm raised as though he were signaling a rescue aircraft, was Gennady Lazarev. The hand seized Mikhail by the shoulder and drew him into the back of a waiting Maybach limousine. “I hope you managed to get a little rest,” Lazarev said as the car eased gracefully away from the curb, “because tonight you’re going to get a taste of the real Russia.”
CAFÉ PUSHKIN, MOSCOW
I
n the
aftermath, when they were tidying up their files and writing their after-action
reports, there would be a heated debate over the true meaning of Gennady
Lazarev’s words. One camp saw them as a harmless expression of goodwill; the
other as a clear warning that Gabriel, a chief in waiting, would have been wise
to heed. As usual, it was Shamron who settled the dispute. Lazarev’s words were
without consequence, he declared, for Mikhail’s fate had been sealed the instant
he climbed into the car.
The setting for what transpired next, Moscow’s
renowned Café Pushkin, could not have appeared any more inviting, especially on
a December evening, with the air brittle and snow dancing on a Siberian wind. It
was located at the corner of Tverskaya Street and the Boulevard Ring, in a
stately old eighteenth-century house that looked as though it had been imported
from Renaissance Italy. Beyond its pretty French doors ran three lanes of
traffic; and beyond the traffic was a small square where Napoleon’s soldiers had
once pitched their tents and burned the lime trees for warmth. Muscovites
hurried home along the gravel footpaths, and a few brave mothers sat on the
benches in the lamplight, watching their overbundled children playing on the
snow-whitened lawns. Mordecai and Rimona sat silently among them, Mordecai
watching the entrance of Café Pushkin, Rimona the children. Keller and Yossi had
found a parking space fifty yards short of the restaurant. Yaakov and Oded, also
in a Land Rover, were fifty yards beyond it.
The dinner had been called for eight, but owing to
the heavier than normal traffic in Moscow that evening, Lazarev and Mikhail did
not arrive until twelve minutes past. Mordecai made a note of the time, as did
the teams in the Land Rovers. So did Gabriel, who quickly flashed a message to
the Op Center at King Saul Boulevard. The message was unnecessary, of course,
because Navot and Shamron were closely monitoring the live audio feed from
Mikhail’s phone. Therefore, they heard his heavy footfalls over the unpolished
floorboards in Pushkin’s entrance. And the rattle of the old elevator that bore
him to the second floor. And the round of throaty Russian applause that greeted
him as he entered the private room that had been set aside for his
coronation.
A place had been reserved for Mikhail at the head
of the table, with Lazarev to his right and Pavel Zhirov, Volgatek’s chief of
security, to his left. Zhirov alone seemed to take no joy in the acquisition of
Viktor Orlov’s protégé. Throughout the evening, he wore the blank expression of
an experienced gambler who was losing badly at roulette. His gaze, narrow and
dark, never strayed long from Mikhail’s face. He seemed to be calculating his
losses and deciding whether he had the stomach for another turn of the
wheel.
If Zhirov’s brooding presence made Mikhail uneasy,
he gave no sign of it. Indeed, all those who listened in on Mikhail’s
performance that evening would describe it as one of the finest they had ever
heard. He was the Nicholas Avedon whom they had all fallen in love with from
afar. The witty Nicholas. The edgy Nicholas. The smarter than everyone else in
the room Nicholas—save for Gennady Lazarev, who was perhaps smarter than anyone
else in the world. As the evening wore on, he spoke less English and more
Russian, until he stopped speaking English altogether. He was one of them now.
He was Nicolai Avdonin. A Volgatek man. A man of Russia’s future. A man of
Russia’s past.
The transformation was made complete shortly after
ten o’clock when he did a spot-on imitation of Viktor Orlov, along with the
twitching left eye, which brought down the house. Only Pavel Zhirov seemed not
to find it amusing. Nor did he join in the ovation that followed Gennady
Lazarev’s benedictory remarks. Afterward, the party spilled onto the pavement,
where a line of Volgatek limousines waited at the curb. Lazarev offhandedly
asked Mikhail to stop by the office on his way out of town in the morning to tie
up a few loose ends on the deal memo. Then he guided him toward the open rear
door of a waiting Mercedes. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said through his
mathematician’s smile, “I’m going to have Pavel run you back to the hotel. He
has a few questions he’d like to ask you on the way.”
Mikhail heard himself say “No problem, Gennady.”
Then, without an instant’s hesitation, he slid into the waiting car. Pavel
Zhirov, the night’s only loser, sat opposite, staring inconsolably out his
window. He said nothing as the car pulled into the street. Mikhail tapped his
finger against the armrest. Then he forced himself to stop.
“Gennady said you had a few questions for me.”
“Actually,” replied Zhirov in his underpowered
voice, “I only have one.”
“What is it?”
Zhirov turned and looked at Mikhail for the first
time. “Who the fuck are you?”
S
ounds
like Pavel just moved the goalposts,” Navot said.
Shamron frowned; he considered the use of sports
metaphors to be inappropriate for a business as vital as espionage. He looked up
at one of the video panels and saw lights moving quickly across a map of central
Moscow. The light depicting Mikhail’s position flashed red. Four blue lights
moved along with it, two in front, two behind.
“Looks like we’ve got him boxed in,” said
Shamron.
“Quite nicely, actually. The question is, does
Pavel have backup of his own, or is he flying solo?”
“I’m not sure it matters much at this point.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Kick the ball,” said Shamron, lighting a fresh
cigarette. “Quickly.”
T
hey
shot past Tverskaya Street in a blur and continued on along the Boulevard
Ring.
“My hotel is that way,” said Mikhail, jerking his
thumb over his shoulder.
“You seem to know Moscow well,” replied Zhirov.
Clearly, it was not meant as a compliment.
“Habit of mine,” said Mikhail.
“What’s that?”
“Getting to know my way around foreign cities. Hate
having to ask for directions. Don’t like doing the tourist thing.”
“You like to blend in?”
“Listen, Pavel, I don’t like the sound of where
this is—”
“Or maybe you’ve been to Moscow before,” Zhirov
suggested.
“Never.”
“Not recently?”
“No.”
“Not as a child?”
“Never means never, Pavel. Now if you don’t mind,
I’d like to go back to my hotel.”
Zhirov was looking out his window again. Or was he
peering into the driver’s sideview mirror? Mikhail couldn’t be sure.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Zhirov
said finally.
“I haven’t answered it because it doesn’t deserve
one,” Mikhail shot back.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Nicholas Avedon,” Mikhail said calmly. “I’m an
employee of Viktor Orlov Investments in London. And thanks to this little
display of yours, I’m going to remain one.”
Zhirov was obviously unconvinced. “Who are you?” he
asked again.
“I’m Nicholas. I grew up in England. I went to
Cambridge and Harvard. I worked in the oil biz in Aberdeen for a time. And then
I came to Viktor.”
“Why?”
“Why did I grow up in England? Why did I go to
Harvard?”
“Why did you go to work for a known enemy of the
Kremlin like Viktor Orlov?”
“Because he was looking for someone to take over
his oil portfolio. And at this moment, I’m sorry I betrayed him.”
“Did you know about his politics when you went to
work for him?”
“I don’t care about his politics. In fact, I don’t
care about anyone’s politics.”
“You’re a freethinker?”
“No, Pavel, I’m a businessman.”
“You are a spy.”
“A spy? Are you off your meds, Pavel?”
“Who are you working for?”
“Take me back to my hotel.”
“The British?”
“My hotel, Pavel.”
“The Americans?”
“You were the ones who approached
me
, remember, Pavel? It happened in Copenhagen, at the
oil forum. We met at the house in the middle of nowhere. I’m sure you were
there.”
“Who are you working for?” Zhirov asked again, a
teacher to a dull pupil.
“Stop the car. Let me out.”
“Who?”
“Stop the fucking car.”
It did stop, but not because of Zhirov; they had
reached Petrovka Street. It was a large intersection, with streets leading away
in several different directions. The light had just turned red. Directly in
front of them was a Land Rover with two men in front. Mikhail shot a glance over
his shoulder and saw a second Rover behind them. Then he felt his mobile phone
give three short bursts of vibration.
“What was that?” asked Zhirov.
“Just my mobile.”
“Turn it off and remove the battery.”
“You can never be too careful, right, Pavel?”
“Turn it off,” Zhirov snapped.
Mikhail reached into his overcoat, drew the
Makarov, and screwed the barrel hard into Zhirov’s ribs. The Russian’s eyes
widened, but he said nothing. He looked at Mikhail for a few seconds, then his
gaze moved toward Yaakov, who was climbing out of the Land Rover in front of
them. Keller had already climbed out of the second Land Rover and was
approaching the Mercedes from behind.
“Tell the driver to put the car in park,” Mikhail
said quietly. “Otherwise, I’m going to put a bullet in your heart. Tell him,
Pavel, or you’re going to die right now.”
When Zhirov made no response, Mikhail thumbed back
the hammer of the weapon. Keller was now standing at Zhirov’s window.
“Tell him, Pavel.”
The traffic light turned green. Somewhere a car
horn sounded. Then another.
“Tell him!” Mikhail barked in Russian.
Zhirov glanced into the rearview mirror, met the
driver’s gaze, and nodded once. The driver slipped the car into park and placed
his hands atop the wheel.
“Tell him to get out of the car and do exactly as
he’s told.”
Another glance into the mirror, another nod of the
head. The driver responded by opening the door and climbing slowly out. Yaakov
waited there to take possession of him. After murmuring a few words into the
driver’s ear, he led him to the Land Rover, shoved him into the backseat, and
slid in after him. By then, Keller had taken the driver’s place behind the wheel
of the Mercedes. When the Land Rover moved off, he slipped the car into gear and
followed after it. Mikhail still had the Makarov to Zhirov’s ribs.
“Who are you?” Zhirov asked.
“I’m Nicholas Avedon,” Mikhail answered.
“Who are you?” Zhirov repeated.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” said Mikhail. “And if
you don’t shut your mouth, I’m going to kill you.”
I
n the
Op Center at King Saul Boulevard, the lights of the team were moving vertically
up the video map of Moscow—all but one, which was motionless on Teatralny
Prospekt, just down the hill from Lubyanka Square. There were no celebrations,
no congratulations on a job well done. The setting wouldn’t allow it. Moscow had
a way of fighting back.
“Thirty seconds from start to finish,” Navot said,
his eyes fixed on the screen. “Not bad.”
“Thirty-three,” said Shamron. “But who’s
counting?”
“You were.”
Shamron gave a faint smile; he
had
been counting. In fact, he had been counting his entire life.
The number of family members lost to the fires of the Holocaust. The number of
countrymen lost to the bullets and the bombs. The number of times he had cheated
death.
“How far is it to the safe house?”
“One hundred and forty-seven miles from the Outer
Ring.”
“What’s the weather forecast?”
“Horrendous,” replied Navot, “but they can handle
it.”
Shamron said nothing more. Navot stared at the
lights moving across Moscow.
“Thirty seconds,” he repeated. “Not bad.”
“Thirty-three,” said Shamron. “And let’s hope no
one else was watching.”
T
hough
Shamron did not know it, those were the same thoughts running through the head
of the man standing in the window of his fourth-floor room at the Hotel
Metropol. He was gazing down the curve of Teatralny Prospekt, toward the yellow
fortress looming over Lubyanka Square. He wondered whether he would be able to
detect some sort of reaction—lights coming on in the upper floors, cars
careening out of the garage—but decided it was unlikely. Lubyanka had always
been good at hiding her emotions, just as Russia had always been good at hiding
her dead.
He turned away from the window, switched off his
computer, and stuffed it into the side pocket of his overnight bag. Then he rode
the elevator down to the lobby, accompanied by a pair of prostitutes, seventeen
going on forty-five. Outside a Volvo SUV idled at the curb, watched over by a
miserable-looking valet. He gave the valet a large tip, climbed behind the
wheel, and drove away. Twenty minutes later, having rounded the walls of the
Kremlin, he joined the river of steel and light flowing north out of Moscow. In
the Op Center at King Saul Boulevard, however, he was but a single red light, an
angel of vengeance alone in the city of heretics.