“Where are the children?” asked Arkady Medvedev.
“What children?” replied Gabriel.
Medvedev nodded to the giant, then stepped away as if he didn’t want his clothing to be spattered with the blood. The sledgehammer crashed into Gabriel’s skull a second time. Same eye, same result. Pine trees and missiles. Then nothing at all.
63 LUBYANKA SQUARE, MOSCOW
Like almost everyone else in Moscow, Colonel Grigori Bulganov of the FSB was divorced. His marriage, like Russia itself, had been characterized by wild lurches from one extreme to the other: glasnost one day, Great Terror the next. Thankfully, it had been short and had produced no offspring. Irina had won the apartment and the Volkswagen; Grigori Bulganov, his freedom. Not that he had managed to do much with it: a torrid office romance or two, the occasional afternoon in the bed of his neighbor, a mother of three who was divorced herself.
For the most part, Grigori Bulganov worked. He worked early in the morning. He worked late into the evening. He worked Saturdays. He worked Sundays. And sometimes, like now, he could even be found at his desk late on a Sunday night. His brief was counterespionage. More to the point, it was Bulganov’s job to neutralize attempts by foreign intelligence services to spy on the Russian government and State-owned Russian enterprises. His assignment had been made more difficult by the activities of the FSB’s sister service, the SVR. Espionage by the SVR had reached levels not seen since the height of the Cold War, which had prompted Russia ’s adversaries to respond in kind. Grigori Bulganov could hardly blame them. The new Russian president was fond of rattling his saber, and foreign leaders needed to know whether it had an edge to it or had turned to rust in its scabbard.
Like many FSB officers, Bulganov supplemented his government salary by selling his expertise, along with knowledge gained through his work itself, to private industry. In Bulganov’s case, he served as a paid informant for a man named Arkady Medvedev, the chief of security for Russian oligarch Ivan Kharkov. Bulganov fed Medvedev a steady stream of reports dealing with potential threats to his businesses, legal and illicit. Medvedev rewarded him by keeping a secret bank account in Bulganov’s name filled with cash. As a consequence of the arrangement, Grigori Bulganov had been able to penetrate Ivan Kharkov’s operations in a way no other outsider ever had. In fact, Bulganov was quite confident he knew more about Ivan’s arms-trafficking activities than any other intelligence officer in the world. In Russia, such knowledge could be dangerous. Sometimes, it could even be fatal, which explained why Bulganov was careful to stay on Arkady Medvedev’s good side. And why, when Medvedev called his cell at 11:15 P.M. on a Sunday night, he didn’t dare consider not answering it.
Grigori Bulganov did not speak for the next three minutes. Instead, he tore a sheet of notepaper into a hundred pieces while he listened to the account of what had taken place in Moscow that afternoon. He was glad Medvedev had called him. He only wished he had done it on a secure line.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Bulganov asked.
“No question.”
“How did he get back into the country?”
“With an American passport and a crude disguise.”
“Where is he now?”
Medvedev told him the location.
“What about Ivan’s wife?”
“She’s here, too.”
“What are your plans, Arkady?”
“I’m going to give him one more chance to answer a few questions. Then I’m going to drop him in a hole somewhere.” A pause. “Unless you’d like to do that for me, Grigori?”
“Actually, I might enjoy that. After all, he did disobey a direct order.”
“How quickly can you get down here?”
“Give me an hour. I’d like to have a word with the woman, too.”
“A word, Grigori. This matter doesn’t concern you.”
“I’ll be brief. Just make sure she’s there when I arrive.”
“She’ll be here.”
“How many men do you have there?”
“Five.”
“That’s a lot of witnesses.”
“Don’t worry, Grigori. They’re not the talkative sort.”
64 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
When Gabriel woke next, it was to the sensation of a dressing being applied to his wounded eye. He opened the one that still functioned and saw the task was being performed by none other than Arkady Medvedev. The Russian was working with a single hand. The other held a gun. A Stechkin, thought Gabriel, but he couldn’t be sure. He had never cared much for Russian guns.
“Feeling sorry for me, Arkady?”
“It wouldn’t stop bleeding. We were afraid you were going to die on us.”
“Aren’t you going to kill me anyway?”
“Of course we are, Allon. We just need a little bit of information from you first.”
“And who said former KGB hoods didn’t have any manners?”
Medvedev finished applying the bandage and regarded Gabriel in silence. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I know your real name?” he asked finally.
“I assume you could have got it from your friends at the FSB. Or, it’s possible you saved yourself a phone call by simply beating it out of Elena Kharkov. You strike me as the type who enjoys hitting women.”
“Keep that up and I’ll bring Dmitri back for another go at you. You’re not some kid anymore, Allon. One or two blows from Dmitri and you might not come to again.”
“He has a lot of wasted motion in his punch. Why don’t you let me give him a couple of pointers?”
“Are you serious or is that just your Jewish sense of humor talking?”
“Our sense of humor came from living with Russians as neighbors. It helps to have a sense of humor during a pogrom. It takes the sting out of having your village burned down.”
“You have a choice, Allon. You can lie there and tell jokes all night or you can start talking.” The Russian removed a cigarette from a silver case and ignited it with a matching silver lighter. “You don’t need this shit and neither do I. Let’s just settle this like professionals.”
“By professional, I suppose you mean I should tell you everything I know, so then you can kill me.”
“Something like that.” The Russian held the cigarette case toward Gabriel. “Would you like one?”
“They’re bad for your health.”
Medvedev closed the case. “Are you up for a little walk, Allon? I think you might find this place quite interesting.”
“Any chance of taking off these handcuffs?”
“None whatsoever.”
“I thought you would say that. Help me up, will you? Just try not to pull my shoulders out of their sockets.”
Medvedev hoisted him effortlessly to his feet. Gabriel felt the room spin and for an instant thought he might topple over. Medvedev must have been thinking the same thing because he placed a steadying hand on his elbow.
“You sure you’re up for this, Allon?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”
“I’ll be fine, Arkady.”
Medvedev dropped his cigarette and crushed it carefully with the toe of an expensive-looking Italian loafer. Everything Medvedev was wearing looked expensive: the French suit, the English raincoat, the Swiss wristwatch. But none of it could conceal the fact that, underneath it all, he was still just a cheap KGB hood. Just like the regime, thought Gabrieclass="underline" KGB in nice clothing.
They set out together between the crates. There were more than Gabriel could have imagined. They seemed to go on forever, like the warehouse itself. Hardly surprising, he thought. This was Russia, after all. World’s largest country. World’s largest hotel. World’s largest swimming pool. World’s largest warehouse.
“What’s in the boxes?”
“Food.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Medvedev pointed toward a skyscraper of wooden crates. “That’s canned tuna. Over there are canned carrots. A little farther on is the canned beef. We even have chicken soup.”