“It’s a good thing you didn’t act like that when you were around Zizi and Ivan,” Gabriel said.
“Did Mikhail tell you?”
“Actually, the chief of the National Clandestine Service let it slip in conversation.”
Sarah made no response.
“So it’s true, then? You’re actually dating a member of my team?”
“Are you jealous or angry?”
“Why on earth would I be jealous, Sarah?”
“I couldn’t carry a torch for you forever. I had to move on.”
“And you couldn’t find anyone else other than someone who works for me?”
“Funny how that worked out. I guess there was something about Mikhail that I found familiar.”
“Dating a man who’s employed by the intelligence service of a foreign country isn’t exactly a wise career move, Sarah.”
“Langley is having trouble retaining bright young talent. They’re willing to bend some of the old rules.”
“Maybe I should have a quiet word with Personnel. They might have second thoughts.”
“You wouldn’t dare, Gabriel. You also have no right to interfere in my private life.”
Sarah’s private life, Gabriel knew, had been largely in ruins since 9:03 on the morning of September 11, 2001, when United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. On board the doomed aircraft was a young Harvard-trained lawyer named Ben Callahan. Ben had been able to make one call during the final moments of his life, and it had been to Sarah. Since that time, she had permitted herself to have feelings for only one other man. Unfortunately, that man had been Gabriel.
“You should think long and hard before you get involved with a man who kills people for a living. Mikhail’s done a lot of terrible things for the sake of his country.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Things that might make him difficult to be around sometimes.”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
“This isn’t a joke, Sarah. This is your life. Besides, Israeli men are notoriously unreliable. Just ask your average Israeli woman.”
“The Israeli men I know are quite wonderful, actually.”
“That’s because we’re the best of the best.”
“Mikhail included?”
“He wouldn’t be on my team if he wasn’t. How much time have you spent with him?”
“He’s come here a few times, and we met in Paris once.”
“It’s not safe for you to be in Paris alone.”
“I’m not alone. I’m with Mikhail.” A silence, then, “It’s almost like being with you.”
Her words hung between them for a moment. “Is that what this is about, Sarah?”
“Gabriel, please.”
“Because I’d feel bad if Mikhail got hurt in any way.”
“I’m sure I’m the only one who’ll get hurt.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
She smiled for the first time since Mikhail’s name had come up. “I was going to tell you tonight. We were just waiting until we knew it was…” Her voice trailed off.
“Until it was what?”
“Real.”
“And is it?”
She held his hand. “Don’t be upset, Gabriel. I was hoping this could be a celebration.”
“I’m not upset.”
She looked at his champagne glass. He hadn’t touched it.
“Do you want something else?”
“Nail polish remover. On the rocks, with a twist.”
SINCE GABRIEL had come to Washington with the full knowledge of the CIA, Housekeeping had assigned him a not-so-safe flat on Tunlaw Road north of Georgetown. In a somewhat curious twist of fate, the apartment overlooked the rear entrance of the Russian Embassy. As Gabriel was crossing the lobby, his secure mobile vibrated in his coat pocket. It was Adrian Carter.
“Where are you?”
Gabriel told him.
“I have something you need to see right away. We’ll pick you up.”
The connection went dead. Fifteen minutes later, Gabriel was climbing into the back of Carter’s black sedan on New Mexico Avenue. Carter handed him a single sheet of paper: a transcript of a National Security Agency communications intercept, dated the previous evening Moscow time. The target was Ivan Kharkov. He had been speaking to someone inside FSB Headquarters at Lubyanka Square. Though most of the conversation was conducted in coded colloquial Russian, it was clear Ivan had given something to the FSB and now he wanted it back. That something was Grigori Bulganov.
“You were right, Gabriel. Ivan handed Grigori over to the FSB so they could settle accounts, too. Apparently, the FSB interrogation is going too slowly for Ivan’s taste. He spent a great deal of money getting his hands on Grigori, and he’s tired of waiting. But the good news is Grigori’s alive.”
“Is there any way you can prevail upon the FSB to keep him that way?”
“Not a chance. Our relations with the Russian services are getting worse by the day. There’s no way they would tolerate our meddling in a strictly internal matter. And, frankly, if the roles were reversed, neither would we. From their point of view, Grigori is a defector and a traitor. You can be sure they want to kill him just as much as Ivan does.”
“Does the CIC have anything for me?”
“Not yet. Who knows? Maybe your friend Anatoly is a ghost.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts, Adrian. If there’s one thing we know about Ivan, he wouldn’t have entrusted Grigori’s kidnapping to someone he didn’t know.”
“That’s Ivan’s way. Everything is personal.”
“So it’s possible someone who’s spent a considerable amount of time around Ivan might have encountered this man at some point.” Gabriel paused. “Who knows, Adrian? She might even know his real name.”
Carter told the driver to head back to the safe flat, then looked at Gabriel.
“A car will pick you up at six o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m afraid we’ll have to play this one rather close to the vest. You won’t know where you’re going until you’re airborne.”
“How should I dress?”
Carter smiled.
“Warmly. Very warmly.”
32
THE ADIRONDACK PARK, a vast wilderness area sprawling over six million acres in northeastern New York, is the largest public land preserve in the contiguous United States. Roughly the size of Vermont, it is larger than seven other American states-so large, in fact, the national parks of Yellowstone, Yosemite, Glacier, the Grand Canyon, and the Great Smoky Mountains could all fit neatly within its boundaries. Gabriel had not known these facts until one hour after takeoff, when his pilot, a veteran of the CIA’s rendition program, had finally revealed their destination. The forecast was rather grim: clear skies with a high temperature of perhaps zero. Gabriel assumed the pilot had converted the temperature from Fahrenheit to centigrade for the benefit of his foreign-born passenger. He hadn’t.
It was a few minutes after ten when the plane touched down at the Adirondack Regional Airport outside Saranac Lake. Adrian Carter had arranged for a Ford Explorer to be left in the parking lot. By some miracle, the engine managed to start on the first attempt. Gabriel switched the heater to high and spent several deplorable minutes scraping ice from the windows. Climbing behind the wheel again, he could no longer feel his face. The temperature gauge of the Explorer indicated minus eight. Not possible, he thought. Surely it had to be instrument malfunction.
Carter, a cautious soul if ever there was one, had decreed no one could approach the site with anything that transmitted or received a signal, including GPS navigation systems. Gabriel followed a set of typewritten instructions he had been given on board the plane. Leaving the airport, he turned right and followed Route 186 to Lake Clear. He made another right at Route 30 and headed toward Upper St. Regis Lake. Spitfire Lake came next, then Lower St. Regis, then the small college town of Paul Smiths. A few yards beyond the entrance of the college was Keese Mills Road, a winding lane that ran eastward into one of the more remote corners of the preserve. Somewhere in this part of the Adirondacks, the Rockefellers had kept an immense summer retreat, complete with its own rail station to accommodate the private family train. Gabriel’s destination, though far smaller than the Rockefeller estate, was scarcely less secluded. The entrance was on the left side of the road and, as Carter had warned, it was easy to miss. Gabriel sped past it the first time and had to continue driving another quarter mile before finding a suitable place to execute a U-turn on the icy road.