“We could file a confidential complaint with the Austrian authorities,” Weiss suggested. “Surely, the local police are better equipped to handle this matter.”
“That would be a mistake,” Tamir warned.
“Why?” the consular chief asked, puzzled.
“Because whatever we tell them is bound to leak,” he explained patiently. “Especially if the Russians are involved. We’re not the only ones with contacts inside the government here. And if these people learn that we’re onto their game, they’ll just pull back a bit and set up a new surveillance perimeter outside our easy reach. At least now, we can watch them while they watch us.”
The ambassador nodded in agreement. “Dov makes a good point, Miriam. For the time being, it’s best if we simply watch and wait.” He looked at Amar. “Please keep your eyes open, Rivka. And let me know at once if there any further developments.” Unhurriedly, he rose and left the secure room, followed by Weiss and the others.
Rivka Amar waited until they were gone and then shook her head in disbelief. “So that’s it?” she said indignantly. “We just sit here on our asses under virtual siege… and do nothing?”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of high-level international relations,” Tamir said with a thin, dry smile.
She glared at him. “If you’re trying to comfort me here, Dov, it’s not working.”
“No comfort intended,” he told her. “Just a reality check.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean I plan to do nothing.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve got one card left to play,” Tamir said. “An old friend and former colleague in Jerusalem named Gideon Ayish. He’s a research fellow at an international think tank now. They monitor terrorist groups and terrorist-supporting governments, like Iran. In the past, I’ve found sharing insights and information with him to be extremely useful.”
“A think tank?” Amar said pointedly. “What is it you hope this Ayish will do for us? Craft an impeccably researched position paper that will somehow persuade the ambassador to stop screwing around?”
“Not quite,” Tamir said cryptically. “Gideon has a very wide range of rather unusual friends and contacts. And some of them, I suspect, do a lot more than just write research papers.”
Gideon Ayish finished reading Dov Tamir’s email and sat back with a frown. His high forehead wrinkled in thought. His longtime friend had used a simple personal code they’d arranged between themselves years ago. To an outsider, it would have seemed like nothing more than a breezy summary of Tamir’s recent life in Vienna — where the usual grind of boring government business was broken only by rare interludes of pleasure at coffeehouses and concert halls.
The real message it conveyed was significantly more worrying.
He swiveled around in his chair to look out the windows of his office. From here, high up the slopes of Mount Scopus, he had a view of the Old City and the Mount of Olives. The golden-topped Dome of the Rock gleamed, lit by the last rays of the sun setting beyond the western hills.
Ayish steepled his fingers for a few moments, considering his options. Then he checked his watch. At this time of day, it wouldn’t take him more than an hour to get to Ben Gurion Airport. One of the benefits of living in a small country, he thought — though that was a cold comfort when missiles started flying. He swung back to his desk and picked up the phone.
His personal assistant answered it on the first ring. “Yes, Professor Ayish?”
“I want you to book me on the next available flight to the United States,” he said.
“To Washington, D.C.? Or New York?” she asked, not fazed by this sudden request. Ayish’s work for the Institute often involved a great deal of overseas travel.
“Whichever will get me there the soonest,” he told her. “But then I’ll need a connecting flight. To Orlando.”
Now he heard the surprise in her voice. “Orlando, Professor? In Florida?”
Ayish smiled ruefully. “Relax, Sarah,” he reassured her. “I may be older than I would like, but I’m not slipping into my second childhood. This is a work trip, not a vacation excursion to Disney World.”
Seven
Built to Pavel Voronin’s exacting specifications, his country home was a far cry from the usual ramshackle rustic Russian dacha. Set on a hill ninety kilometers southeast of Moscow, it was surrounded by an extensive pine forest that belonged exclusively to him. The sprawling two-story steel-and-glass villa had wall-length windows offering unimpeded views of snow-shrouded woods and the frozen Moskva River, a wide silver-gray ribbon of ice. At the touch of a button, these windows could be darkened for privacy or energy efficiency, thanks to enormously expensive experimental electrochromic technology. Modernist furniture from the most fashionable designers filled every room, along with original paintings by Kandinsky, Rothko, and other renowned abstract artists. A spacious, glass-roofed atrium held a heated swimming pool and sauna.
To avoid spoiling the image of carefree luxury, the compound’s extensive security measures were kept discreetly out of sight of the main house. But anyone approaching uninvited would run head-on into defenses that included infrared cameras, motion sensors, razor wire — topped perimeter fences, armed Raven Syndicate sentries, and roving guard dog patrols. In a very real sense, Voronin’s opulent weekend retreat was also a heavily guarded fortress.
Clad in an impeccably cut tweed jacket, Voronin himself waited at the dacha’s front portico to greet the visitors he’d invited for this morning’s secret meeting. Behind him, a pair of solid bronze doors opened into the dacha’s central hall. Although it was well below freezing outside, powerful space heaters discreetly built into the portico’s spiraling steel columns kept him perfectly comfortable.
Precisely on schedule, the large black Aurus Senat L700 limousine he’d dispatched to bring his guests from Moscow appeared over the crest of the hill. All-weather tires crunched softly across compacted snow as it rolled smoothly up the long, open drive and pulled in under the shelter of the portico. Powered by a Porsche-developed, twin-turbocharged 4.4 liter V8 engine, the Senat L700 model was the Russian-made equivalent of a Rolls-Royce Ghost or a top-of-the-line Cadillac. These luxury cars were ordinarily reserved for very high-ranking political leaders. Owning one as a private citizen was a mark of extraordinary power and prestige.
At Voronin’s nod, two of his bodyguards stepped forward and opened the limousine’s doors. Somewhat hesitantly, four middle-aged men climbed out of the luxuriously appointed passenger compartment. For a moment, they clumped together at the foot of the steps leading up into the villa, plainly unsure of what they should do next.
“Gentlemen, my name is Voronin and I’m your host. Welcome to Raven’s Nest,” he greeted them politely. “I’d like to thank you for so promptly responding to my invitation.” Left hanging in the air was the fact that his “invitation” had been accompanied by direct orders from Russia’s president, Piotr Zhdanov. With a genial smile, he waved them on ahead of him through the main doors.
Immediately, a small army of servants bustled up to relieve them of their gloves, overcoats and fur hats. More staff led them deeper into the dacha’s interior and into a large, high-ceilinged living room. There, the four men stopped dead, plainly staggered by their first look at the pieces of expensive furniture and priceless art carefully arrayed around the room.
Voronin watched with carefully hidden amusement. He noted the quick glances each darted at these extravagant surroundings — glances that mingled curiosity with poorly concealed awe. He also observed that they all seemed distinctly uneasy in civilian business suits and ties instead of their more familiar and comfortable military uniforms.