“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Two weeks ago. He was very excited. Apparently, Irina was thinking seriously about coming to London. But he was also nervous.”
“About Irina?”
“No, his security. He was convinced he was being watched.”
“By whom?”
“He didn’t go into specifics. He gave me the newest pages of his manuscript. Then he gave me a letter for safekeeping. He told me that if anything ever happened to him, a friend would look for him. He was confident this man would eventually make his way to Oxford to see me. Grigori liked this man and respected him very much. Apparently, they made some sort of pact during a long drive through the Russian countryside.” She slipped the letter into Gabriel’s hand and lit another cigarette. “I have to admit, I don’t remember hearing it. I must have been asleep at the time.”
18
YOU’VE NEVER READ IT?” Gabriel asked.
“No, never.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Because you were once the most famous investigative reporter in Russia.”
“And?”
“Investigative reporters are natural snoops.”
“Like spies?”
“Yes, like spies.”
“I don’t read other people’s mail. It’s unseemly.”
They were seated in the Queen’s Lane Coffee House against a latticed window. Gabriel was facing the street; Olga, the busy interior. She was holding the letter in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.
“I think it puts to rest the debate over whether Grigori redefected or was abducted.”
“Rather conclusively.”
Coincidentally, the letter was five sentences in length, though unlike the forged letter announcing Grigori’s redefection, it had been produced on a word processor, not written by hand. It bore no salutation, for a salutation would have been insecure. Gabriel took it back from Olga and read it again:
IF THIS IS IN YOUR POSSESSION, IVAN HAS TAKEN ME. I HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT MYSELF, SO PLEASE DO NOT FEEL OBLIGATED TO KEEP THE PROMISE YOU MADE THAT NIGHT IN RUSSIA. I DO HAVE ONE FAVOR TO ASK; I AM AFRAID MY DESIRE TO REUNITE WITH MY FORMER WIFE MAY HAVE PLACED HER IN DANGER. IF YOUR OFFICERS IN MOSCOW WOULD CHECK IN ON HER FROM TIME TO TIME, I WOULD BE GRATEFUL. FINALLY, IF I MAY OFFER ONE PIECE OF ADVICE FROM THE GRAVE, IT IS THIS: TREAD CAREFULLY.
Attached to the letter with a paper clip was a three-by-five photo. It showed Grigori and his former wife seated before a vodka-laden table in happier times. Irina Bulganova was an attractive woman with short blond hair and a compact body that suggested an athletic youth. Gabriel had never seen her before. Still, he found something remotely familiar in her face.
“Do you believe it?” Olga asked.
“Which part?”
“The part about Ivan. Could he really have pulled off an operation as complex as this?”
“Ivan is KGB to the bone. His arms-trafficking network was the most sophisticated the world had ever seen. It employed dozens of former and current intelligence officers, including Grigori himself. Grigori took Ivan’s money. And then he betrayed him. In Russia, the price of betrayal is still the same.”
“Vyshaya mera,” Olga said softly.
“The highest measure of punishment.”
“Do you think he’s dead?”
“It’s possible.” Gabriel paused, then said, “But I doubt it.”
“But he disappeared a week ago.”
“It might sound like a long time, but it isn’t. Ivan will want information, everything Grigori told the British and the Americans about his network. Then I suspect the boys from Lubyanka will want a crack at him. The Russians are very patient when it comes to hostile interrogations. They refer to it as sucking a source dry.”
“How charming.”
“These are the successors of Dzerzhinsky, Yezhov, and Beria. They’re not a charming lot, especially when it comes to someone who spilled family secrets to the British and the Americans.”
“I take it you’ve done this sort of thing yourself?”
“Interrogations?” Gabriel shook his head. “To be honest, they were never my specialty.”
“How long does it take to do it right?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether the subject is cooperating or not. Even if he is, it can take weeks or months to make sure he’s told the interrogators everything they want to know. Just ask the detainees at Guantánamo Bay. Some of them have been interrogated relentlessly for years.”
“Poor Grigori. Poor foolish Grigori.”
“He was foolish. He should have never lived so openly. He also should have kept his mouth shut. He was just asking for trouble.”
“Is there any possible way to get him back?”
“It’s not out of the question. But for now my concern is you.”
Gabriel looked out the window. The sun had slipped below the tops of the colleges and the High Street was now in shadow. An Oxford city bus rumbled past, followed by a procession of students on bicycles.
“You were in contact with him, Olga. He knows everything about you. Your cover name. Your address. We have to assume Ivan now knows that, too.”
“I have a telephone number to call in case of an emergency. The British say they can collect me in a matter of minutes.”
“As you might expect, I’m not terribly impressed with British security these days.”
“Is it your intention to move me from Oxford without telling them?”
“By force, if necessary. Where’s that new British passport of yours?”
“Top drawer of my bedside table.”
“You’re going to need it, along with a change of clothing and anything else you don’t want to leave behind.”
“I need my computer and my papers. And Cassandra. I’m not going without Cassandra.”
“Who’s Cassandra?”
“My cat.”
“We’ll leave it plenty of food and water. I’ll send someone to collect it tomorrow.”
“Cassandra is a girl, Gabriel, not an it.”
“Unless she’s a seeing-eye cat, she’s not allowed on the Eurostar.”
“The Eurostar?”
“We’re going to Paris. And we have to hurry if we’re going to make the last train.”
“What time does it leave?”
Seven thirty-nine, he thought. On the dot.
19
THE OXFORD City 5 bus runs from the train station, through the shopping district of Templars Square, and over Magdalen Bridge to the distant council estate of Blackbird Leys. Gabriel and Olga boarded outside All Souls College and disembarked at the first stop in Cowley Road. Five other passengers left with them. Four went their separate ways. The fifth, a middle-aged man, walked behind them for a short time before entering the church at the corner of Jeune Street. From inside came the sound of voices raised in prayer.
“They have evening services every Wednesday.”
“Wait inside while I get your things.”
“I want to say good-bye to Cassandra and make sure she’s all right.”
“You don’t trust me to feed her?”
“I can tell you don’t like animals.”
“Actually, it’s the other way around. And I have the scars to prove it.”
They turned into Rectory Road and made their way directly to Olga’s door. Her bicycle was still leaning against the rubbish bin behind the tiny brick wall. Hanging from the door latch was a lime-green flyer advertising a new Indian takeaway. Olga removed it before inserting her key into the lock, but the key refused to turn. Then, somewhere along the darkened street, a car engine turned over. And Gabriel felt the back of his neck turn to fire.
To a normal person, the two consecutive events would probably have meant very little. But to a man like Gabriel Allon, they were the equivalent of a flashing neon sign warning of danger. Twisting his head quickly to the right, he saw the car approaching at high speed from the direction of St. Clement’s Street, headlamps doused. The driver had wide shoulders and was holding the wheel calmly with both hands. Directly behind him, protruding from the open rear window, Gabriel noticed a shape that was instantly familiar: a semiautomatic pistol fitted with a suppressor.