The Heist (33 page)

“So why don’t you help me do something about it?”

“Steal the tsar’s money? I’d love nothing more. After all,” Orlov added, “some of it is mine. But it’s not possible.”

“I agree.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“That we steal his Syrian friend’s money instead.”

“Have you found it?”

“No,” Gabriel answered. “But I know who’s controlling it.”

“That would be Kemel al-Farouk,” said Orlov. “But the man who’s actually managing the investment portfolio is Waleed al-Siddiqi.”

Gabriel was too stunned to offer a reply. Orlov smiled.

“You should have come to me a long time ago,” he said. “I could have saved you a lot of trouble.”

“How do you know about al-Siddiqi?”

“Because you’re not the only one searching for the money.” Orlov looked over his shoulder at the video wall, where the Russian president was now receiving a briefing from his generals. “The tsar wants it, too. But that’s hardly surprising,” he added. “The tsar wants everything.”

At the stroke of five, the maid appeared with a bottle of Château Pétrus, the legendary Pomerol wine that Orlov drank as though it were Evian.

“Care for a glass, Gabriel?”

“No, thanks, Viktor. I’m driving.”

Orlov gave a dismissive wave of his hand and dumped several inches of the dark red wine into a large goblet.

“Where were we?” he asked.

“You were about to tell me how it is you know about Waleed al-Siddiqi.”

“I have sources in Moscow. Very good sources,” he added with a smile. “I would think you’d know that by now.”

“Your sources are the best, Viktor.”

“Better than MI6’s,” he said. “You should tell your friend Graham Seymour to take my calls every now and again. I can be of great help to him.”

“I’ll mention it the next time I see him.”

Orlov settled at one end of a long brocaded couch and invited Gabriel to sit at the other. On the other side of the bulletproof windows, evening traffic flowed along the Chelsea Embankment and across the Albert Bridge to Battersea. In Viktor Orlov’s world, however, there was only the faintly comedic figure striding across the screens of his video wall.

“Why do you suppose he rose to the Syrian president’s defense when the rest of the civilized world was ready to use military force against him? Was it because he wanted to protect Russia’s only friend in the Arab world? Did he want to keep his naval base at Tartus? The answer to both questions is yes. But there’s another reason.” Orlov looked at Gabriel and said, “Money.”

“How much?”

“Half a billion dollars, payable directly into an account controlled by the tsar.”

“Says who?”

“Says I’d rather not say.”

“Where did the half a billion come from?”

“Where do you think?”

“Since there was nothing left in the Syrian treasury, I’d say it came directly from the ruler’s pocket.”

Orlov nodded and looked at the screen again. “And what do you think the tsar did after he received confirmation that the money had been deposited into his account?”

“Since the tsar is a greedy bastard, I suppose he ordered his old colleagues at the SVR to find the rest of it.”

“You know the tsar well.”

“And I have the scars to prove it.”

Orlov smiled and drank some of his wine. “My sources tell me the search was conducted by the SVR
rezident
in Damascus. He already knew about Kemel al-Farouk. It took all of five minutes for him to come up with al-Siddiqi’s name.”

“Does al-Siddiqi control the entire fortune?”

“Not even close,” replied Orlov. “If I had to guess, I’d say about half of the ruler’s money is under his management.”

“So what’s the tsar waiting for?”

“He’s waiting to see whether the ruler survives or whether he ends up like Gaddafi. If he survives, he gets to keep his money. But if he ends up like Gaddafi, the SVR is going to grab that list of accounts that al-Siddiqi carries around in his pocket.”

“I’m going to beat them to it,” said Gabriel. “And you’re going to help me.”

“What exactly do you need me to do?”

Gabriel told him. Orlov twirled his eyeglasses by the stem, something he always did when he was thinking about money.

“It’s not going to be cheap,” he said after a moment.

“How much, Viktor?”

“Thirty million, bare minimum. Maybe forty when everything’s said and done.”

“What do you say we go Dutch treat this time?”

“How much can you spare?”

“I might have ten million lying around,” said Gabriel. “But I’d have to give it to you in cash.”

“Is it real?”

“Absolutely.”

Orlov smiled. “Then cash would be fine.”

T
HERE WAS A SPIRITED DEBATE
over what to call it. Orlov demanded that his name be associated with the venture—hardly surprising, for he was footing the lion’s share of the bill. “The Orlov name stands for quality,” he argued. “The Orlov name stands for success.” True, said Gabriel, but it also stood for corruption, double-dealing, and rumors of violence, charges Orlov didn’t bother to deny. In the end, they settled on the European Business Initiative: stoic, solid, and without a hint of controversy. Orlov was grudging in defeat. “Why don’t we call it twelve hours of unmitigated boredom,” he muttered. “That way we can be certain that no one will bother to attend.”

They announced the venture the following Monday in the pages of the
Financial Journal
, the venerable London business daily that Orlov had acquired for a song a few years earlier, when it was on the verge of insolvency. The stated goal of the gathering, he said, was to bring together the brightest minds in government, industry, and finance to produce a set of policy recommendations that would lift the European economy out of its post-recession doldrums. The initial reaction was tepid at best. One commentator called it Orlov’s Folly. Another christened it Orlov’s
Titanic.
“With one critical difference,” he added. “This ship will sink before it ever leaves port.”

There were still others who dismissed the conference as yet another in a long line of Orlov publicity stunts, an accusation he denied repeatedly during a daylong blitz of interviews on the business news networks. Then, as if to prove his critics wrong, he embarked on a quiet tour of Europe’s capitals to build support for his endeavor. His first stop was Paris, where, after a marathon negotiating session, the French finance ministry agreed to send a delegation. Then he was off to Berlin, where he won a commitment from the Germans to attend. The rest of the Continent soon followed suit. The Low Countries fell in an afternoon, as did Scandinavia. The Spanish were so desperate to attend that Orlov didn’t bother to make the trip to Madrid. Nor was it necessary for him to go to Rome. Indeed, the Italian prime minister said he would attend personally—provided, of course, he was still in office at the time.

Having won the commitment of European governments, Orlov next went after the stars of business and finance. He snared the titans of the German auto industry, and the manufacturing giants from Sweden and Norway. Big Shipping wanted in on the fun, as did Big Steel and Big Energy. The Swiss banks were initially reluctant, but agreed after Orlov assured them they would not be crucified for past sins. Even Martin Landesmann, the Swiss private-equity king and international doer of good deeds, announced that he would make time in his busy schedule, though he implored Orlov to devote at least some of the program to issues he held dear, such as climate change, Third World debt, and sustainable agriculture.

And so it was that, within a few short days, the conference once dismissed as folly was now the business world’s hottest ticket. Orlov was besieged with requests for invitations. There were the Americans, who wondered why they weren’t invited in the first place. There were the fashion models, rock stars, and actors who wanted to rub shoulders with the rich and powerful. There was a former British prime minister, disgraced by personal scandal, who wanted a chance at redemption. There was even a fellow Russian oligarch who maintained uncomfortably close ties with Orlov’s enemies in the Kremlin. He offered the same reply to each. The invitations would be issued via overnight mail on the first day of July. RSVPs were due back in forty-eight hours. The press would be allowed to view Orlov’s introductory remarks, but all other proceedings, including the gala dinner, would be closed to the media. “We want our participants to feel free to speak their minds,” said Orlov. “And they won’t be able to do that if the press are hanging on their every word.”

All of which seemed to matter little in the enchanted Austrian city located along an unusually sharp bend in the river Danube. Yes, the chairman of Voestalpine AG, the Linz-based steel giant, had received feelers from Orlov about attending the London conference, but otherwise life went on as normal. A pair of summer festivals came and went, the cafés filled and emptied twice each day, and in the little private bank located near the streetcar roundabout, a child of Hama went about her daily routine as if nothing unusual had transpired. Owing to her compromised mobile phone, which was now acting as a full-time transmitter, Gabriel and the rest of the team were able to listen to her every move. They listened as she opened accounts and moved money. They listened to her meetings with Herr Weber and with Mr. al-Siddiqi. And late at night, they listened as she dreamed of Hama.

They listened, too, as she renewed her friendship with an aspiring novelist, recently divorced and living alone in Linz, named Ingrid Roth. They lunched together, they shopped together, they visited museums together. And on two occasions they returned to the pretty yellow villa on the western shore of the Attersee, where Jihan was briefed and prepared by a man she had been led to believe was German. At the end of the first session, he asked her for a detailed description of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s office. And when she returned for the second session, a replica of the office had been created in one of the rooms of the villa. It was a perfect forgery in every detail: the same desk, the same computer, the same telephone, even the same surveillance camera overhead and the same numeric keypad on the door.

“What’s it for?” asked Jihan, amazed.

“Practice,” said Gabriel with a smile.

And practice they did, for three hours without a break, until she could carry out her assignment without showing a trace of fear or tension. Then she did it in the pitch-dark, and with an alarm sounding, and with Gabriel shouting at her that Mr. al-Siddiqi’s men were coming for her. He did not tell Jihan that the training she was undergoing had been created by the secret intelligence service of the State of Israel. Nor did he mention the fact that, on several occasions, he had endured similar periods of training himself. In her presence, he was never Gabriel Allon. He was a dull German tax collector without a name who just happened to be very good at his job.

The deception of Jihan seemed to weigh heavily upon Gabriel’s conscience as the day of the operation drew nearer. He reminded the team at every turn that their opponents would be playing by Hama Rules—and perhaps Moscow Rules as well—and he fretted over the smallest details. As his mood worsened, Eli Lavon took the liberty of acquiring a small wooden sloop, just to get Gabriel out of the safe house for a few hours each afternoon. He would sail it downwind toward the Mountains of Hell and then expertly tack his way home again, always trying to better his time of the previous day. The smell of the Rosenwind made him think of a terrified child clinging to her mother—and, sometimes, of the warning the old mystic had whispered into his ear on the island of Corsica.

Do not let any harm come to her, or you will lose everything
. . .

But his primary obsession during those last days of June was with Waleed al-Siddiqi, the Syrian-born banker who went everywhere with a black leather notebook in his pocket. He traveled frequently during this period and, as was his custom, with only a few hours’ advance booking. There was a day trip to Brussels, an overnight jaunt to Beirut, and, lastly, a quick visit to Dubai, where he spent a great deal of time at the headquarters of the TransArabian Bank, an institution the Office knew well. He returned to Vienna at one p.m. on the first day of July, and by three that afternoon he was striding through the door of Bank Weber AG, trailed as usual by his bookend Alawite bodyguards. Jihan greeted him cordially in Arabic and handed him a stack of mail that had arrived in his absence. It included a DHL envelope, inside of which was a glossy invitation to something called the European Business Initiative. He carried it unopened into his office and quietly closed the door.

It was a Wednesday, which meant he had until five p.m. Friday to deliver his RSVP via electronic mail. Gabriel had braced himself for a long wait, and unfortunately Waleed al-Siddiqi did not disappoint. The remainder of Wednesday passed without a response, as did Thursday morning and Thursday afternoon. Eli Lavon saw the delay as a positive sign. It meant, he said, that the banker was flattered by the invitation and was deliberating over whether to attend. But Gabriel feared otherwise. He had invested heavily in time and money to lure the Syrian banker to Britain. And now it seemed he might have nothing to show for his efforts other than a glitzy gabfest for Euro-businessmen. Improving Europe’s anemic economy was a noble endeavor, he told Lavon, but it was hardly one of his top priorities.

By Friday morning, Gabriel was brittle with worry. He phoned Viktor Orlov in London at the top and bottom of every hour. He paced the floor of the great room. He muttered at the ceiling in whatever language suited his ever-shifting mood. Finally, at two that afternoon, he flung open the door of al-Siddiqi’s mock office and shouted at him in Arabic to make up his mind. It was at this point that Eli Lavon intervened. He took Gabriel gently by the elbow and walked him to the end of the long dock. “Go,” he said, pointing to the distant end of the lake. “And don’t come back a minute before five.”

Gabriel reluctantly climbed aboard the sloop and sailed downwind toward the Mountains of Hell, wing and wing, trailed by the heady scent of roses. It took him only an hour to reach the southern end of the lake; he dropped his sails in a sheltered cove and warmed himself in the sun, all the while resisting the urge to reach for his mobile phone. Finally, at half past three, he raised his mainsail and jib and beat his way northward. He reached the town of Seeberg at ten minutes to five, tacked one final time to starboard, and powered up for the straight run to the safe house on the opposite side of the lake. As he drew near, he spotted the diminutive figure of Eli Lavon standing at the end of the dock, one arm raised in a silent salute.