“Where is she now?”
“Back in her apartment, surrounded by private security guards and brave Western reporters like our friend from the BBC. She’s as safe as one can be in Russia, which is to say not terribly safe at all. Eventually, she might want to consider a new life in the West.” His eyes settled on Gabriel. “Is she as good as she appears or is it possible she’s something else entirely?”
“Are you asking whether she’s been turned by the FSB and was blowing smoke in my face?”
“That is precisely what I’m asking.”
“She’s golden, Ari. She’s a gift from the intelligence gods.”
“I’m just wondering why she asked you to take her home. I’m wondering whether it’s possible she led you into that stairwell to be killed.”
“Or maybe that wasn’t Olga Sukhova at all. Maybe it was Ivan Kharkov in a clever disguise.”
“I’m paid to think dark thoughts, Gabriel. And so are you.”
“I saw her reaction to the shooting. She’s the real thing, Ari. And she agreed to help us at great risk to herself. Remember, I was allowed to leave. Olga is still in Moscow. If the Kremlin wants her dead, they’ll kill her. And there’s nothing those security guards and brave reporters can do to protect her.”
They sat down at the kitchen table. The BBC had moved on from Russia and was now showing footage of a fatal bomb blast in a Baghdad market. Gabriel aimed the remote at the screen and, frowning, pressed the MUTE button. Shamron fiddled with the French press for a moment before appealing to Gabriel for assistance. He occupied his spare time by restoring antique radios and clocks yet even the most basic kitchen appliances were beyond his capabilities. Coffeemakers, blenders, toasters: these items were a mystery to him. Gilah often joked that her husband, if left to his own devices, would find a way to starve to death in a house filled with food.
“How much do we have on Ivan Kharkov?” Gabriel asked.
“Plenty,” said Shamron. “Ivan’s been active in Lebanon for years. He makes regular deliveries to Hezbollah, but he also sells weapons to the more radical Palestinian and Islamist factions operating inside the refugee camps.”
“What kind of weapons?”
"The usual. Grenades, mortars, RPGs, AK-47s-and bullets, of course. Lots of bullets. But during our war with Hezbollah, the Kharkov network arranged for a special shipment of armor-piercing antitank weapons. We lost several tank crews because of them. We dispatched the foreign minister to Moscow to protest, all to no avail, of course.”
“Which means Ivan Kharkov has an established track record of selling weapons directly to terrorist organizations.”
“Without question. RPGs and AK-47s we can deal with. But our friend Ivan has the connections to lay his hands on the most dangerous weapons in the world. Chemical. Biological. Even nuclear weapons aren’t out of the question. We know that agents of al-Qaeda have been scouring the remnants of the old Soviet Union for years looking for nuclear material or even a fully functioning nuclear device. Maybe they’ve finally found someone willing to sell it to them.”
Shamron spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred it slowly. “The Americans might have better insight into the situation. They’ve been watching Ivan closely for years.” He gave a sardonic smile. “The Americans love to monitor problems but do nothing about them.”
“They’ll have to do something about him now.”
Shamron nodded in agreement. “It’s my recommendation we dump this in their lap as soon as possible and wash our hands of the affair. I want you to go to Washington and see your friend Adrian Carter. Tell him everything you learned in Moscow. Give them Elena Kharkov. Then get on the next plane to Umbria and finish your honeymoon. And don’t ever accuse me of failing to live up to my word again.”
Gabriel stared at the silent television but made no response.
“You disagree with my recommendation?” Shamron asked.
“What do you think Adrian Carter and the Americans are going to do with this information?”
“I suspect they’ll go cap in hand to the Kremlin and plead with the Russian president to block the sale.”
“And he’ll tell the Americans that Ivan is a legitimate businessman with no ties to the illegal international arms trade. He’ll dismiss the intelligence as an anti-Russian slur spread by Jewish provocateurs who are conspiring to keep Russia backward and weak.” Gabriel shook his head slowly. “Going to the Russians and appealing for help is the last thing we should be doing. We should regard the Russian president and his intelligence services as adversaries and act accordingly.”
“So what exactly are you suggesting?”
“That we have a quiet word with Elena Kharkov and see if she knows more than she told Olga Sukhova.”
“Just because she trusted Olga Sukhova once doesn’t mean she’ll trust an intelligence service of a foreign country. And remember, two Russian journalists have lost their lives because of her actions. I don’t suspect she’s going to be terribly receptive to an approach.”
“She spends the majority of her time in London, Ari. We can get to her.”
“And so can Ivan. She’s surrounded by his security goons night and day. They’re all former members of the Alpha Group and OMON. All her contacts and communications are probably monitored. What do you intend to do? Invite her to tea? Call her on her cell phone? Drop her an e-mail?”
“I’m working on that part.”
“Just know Ivan is three steps ahead of you. There’s been a leak from somewhere in his network and he knows it. His private security service is going to be on high alert. Any approach to his wife is going to set off alarm bells. One misstep and you could get her killed.”
“So we’ll just have to do it quietly.”
“We?”
“This isn’t something we can do alone, Ari. We need the assistance of the Americans.”
Shamron frowned. As a rule, he didn’t like joint operations and was uncomfortable with Gabriel’s close ties to the CIA. His generation had lived by a simple axiom known as kachol lavan, or “blue and white.” They did things for themselves and did not rely on others to help them with their problems. It was an attitude borne from the experience of the Holocaust, when most of the world had stood by silently while the Jews were fed to the fires. It had bred in men like Shamron a reluctance-indeed, a fear-of operating with others.
“I seem to remember a conversation we had a few days ago during which you berated me for interrupting your honeymoon. Now you want to run an open-ended operation against Ivan Kharkov?”
“Let’s just say I have a personal stake in the outcome of the case.”
Shamron sipped his coffee. “Something tells me your new wife isn’t going to be pleased with you.”
“She’s Office. She’ll understand.”
“Just don’t let her anywhere near Ivan,” Shamron said. “Ivan likes to break pretty things.”
22 JERUSALEM
Is this some sort of sick fantasy of yours, Gabriel? Watching a stewardess remove her clothing?”
"I’ve never really been attracted to girls in uniform. And they’re called flight attendants now, Chiara. A woman in your line of work should know that.”
“You could have at least flirted with me a little bit. All men flirt with flight attendants, don’t they?”
“I didn’t want to blow your cover. You seemed to be having enough trouble as it was.”
“I don’t know how they can wear these uniforms. Help me with my zipper.”
“With pleasure.”
She turned around and pulled aside her hair. Gabriel lowered the zipper and kissed the nape of her neck.
“Your beard tickles.”
“I’ll shave.”
She turned around and kissed him. “Leave it for now. It makes you look very distinguished.”