Shamron knew time could be hard on Russian men. They tended to age in the blink of an eye-young and virile one minute, wrinkled paper the next. But the man who entered the salon of the Hôtel de Crillon shortly after three that afternoon was still the tall, erect figure Shamron had first met many years earlier. Two bodyguards trailed slowly behind him; two others had arrived an hour earlier and were seated not far from Shamron. They were drinking tea; Shamron, mineral water. Rami had delivered the bottle himself after instructing the bartender not to remove the cap and twice requesting clean glasses. Even so, Shamron had yet to touch it. He was wearing his dark suit and silver tie: Shamron the shady businessman who played baccarat well.
Like Shamron, Sergei Korovin could discuss matters of import in many different languages. Most of their meetings had been conducted in German, and it was German they spoke now. Korovin, after settling himself into a chair, immediately thumbed open his silver cigarette case. Shamron had to remind him smoking was no longer permitted in Paris. Korovin frowned.
“Do they still let you drink vodka?”
“If you ask nicely.”
“I’m like you, Ari. I don’t ask for anything.” He ordered a vodka, then looked at Shamron. “It was reassuring to hear your voice last night. I was afraid you might be dead. It’s the hardest thing about growing old, the death of one’s friends.”
“I never knew you had any.”
“Friends? A couple.” He gave a faint smile. “You always played the game well, Ari. You had many admirers at Yasenevo. We studied your operations. We even learned a thing or two.”
Yasenevo was the old headquarters of the First Chief Directorate, sometimes referred to as Moscow Center. It was now headquarters of the SVR.
“Where’s my file?” Shamron asked.
“Locked away where it belongs. For a time, I feared all our dirty laundry would be made public. Thankfully, the new regime put an end to that. Our president understands that he who controls history controls the future. He lauds the achievements of the Soviet Union while minimizing its so-called crimes and abuses.”
“And you approve?”
“Of course. Russia has no democratic tradition. To have democracy in Russia would be tantamount to imposing Islamic law in Israel. Do you see my point, Ari?”
“I believe I do, Sergei.”
The waiter presented the vodka with great ceremony and withdrew. Korovin drank without hesitation.
“So, Ari, now that we’re alone-”
“Are we alone, Sergei?”
“No one but my security.” He paused. “And you, Ari?”
Shamron glanced at Rami, who was seated near the entrance of the ornate salon, pretending to read the Herald Tribune.
“Just one?”
“Trust me, Sergei, one is all I need.”
“That’s not what I hear. I’m told a couple of your boys got themselves killed the other night, and the Italians are trying to keep it quiet for you. It won’t work, by the way. My sources tell me the story is going to blow up in your face tomorrow morning in one of the big Italian dailies.”
“Really? And what’s the story going to say?”
“That two Office agents were killed during a drive through the Italian countryside.”
“But nothing about an agent being kidnapped?”
“No.”
“And the perpetrators?”
“There will be speculation it was an Iranian job.” He paused, then said, “But we both know that’s not true.”
Korovin drank more of his vodka. The topic had been broached. Now both men would have to proceed carefully. Shamron knew that Korovin was in a position to admit little. It didn’t matter. The Russian could say more with a raised eyebrow than most men managed during an hour-long lecture. Shamron made the next move.
“We’ve always been honest with each other, Sergei.”
“As honest as two men can be in this business.”
“So let me be honest with you now. We believe our agent was taken by Ivan Kharkov. We believe it was in retaliation for an operation we ran against him last fall.”
“I know all about your operation, Ari. The whole world does. But Ivan Kharkov had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance of this woman.”
Shamron ignored everything about Korovin’s response except for a single word: woman. It was all he needed to know. The Russian had just laid his bona fides upon the table. The negotiation could now begin. It would follow a set of carefully prescribed guidelines and be conducted mainly with falsehoods and half-truths. Nothing would be admitted and no demands would ever be stated. It wasn’t necessary. Shamron and Korovin both spoke the language of lies.
“Are you sure, Sergei? Are you sure Ivan’s hands are clean?”
“I’ve spoken to representatives of Ivan personally.”
Another pause, then, “Have you heard anything about the condition of the woman?”
“Only that she’s alive and being well cared for.”
“That’s good to know, Sergei. If that could continue, we would be most grateful.”
“I’ll see what I can do. As you know, Ivan is very upset about his current circumstances.”
“He has no one to blame but himself.”
“Ivan doesn’t see it that way. He believes these charges and accusations in the West are all lies and fabrications. He would have never been so foolish as to enter into a deal to supply our missiles to al-Qaeda. In fact, he assures me he’s not even involved in the arms business.”
“I’ll make sure to pass that along to the Americans.”
“There’s something else you should pass along.”
“Anything, Sergei.”
“Ivan believes his children were taken from him illegally in France last summer. Ivan wants them back.”
Shamron shrugged his shoulders, feigning surprise. “I never knew the Americans had them.”
“We believe this to be the case, despite the official statements to the contrary. Perhaps someone could put in a good word with the Americans on Ivan’s behalf.” Now it was Korovin’s turn to shrug. “I couldn’t say for certain, but I believe it would go a long way toward helping you recover your missing agent.”
Korovin had just taken another step closer toward offering a quid pro quo. Shamron chose the path of prevarication.
“We’re not a large service like you, Sergei. We’re a small family. We want our agent back, and we’re willing to do whatever we can. But I have very little sway over the Americans. If they do have the children, it’s unlikely they would agree to hand them over to Ivan, even under circumstances such as these.”
“You give yourself too little credit, Ari. Go to the Americans. Talk some sense into them. Convince them to put Ivan’s children on a plane. Once they’re in Russia where they belong, I’m certain your agent will turn up.”
Korovin had laid a contract upon the table. Shamron did due diligence.
“Safe and sound?”
“Safe and sound.”
“There is one other matter, Sergei. We want Grigori Bulganov back as well.”
“Grigori Bulganov is none of your concern.”
Shamron conceded the point. “And if I’m able to convince the Americans to surrender the children? How long would we have to make the arrangements?”
“I couldn’t say for certain, but not terribly long.”
“I need to know, Sergei.”
“My response would only be hypothetical in nature.”
“All right, hypothetically speaking, how long do we have?”
Korovin sipped his vodka and said, “Seventy-two hours.”
“That’s not long, Sergei.”
“It is what it is.”
“How do I contact you?”
“You don’t. We’ll meet again on Tuesday at four in the afternoon. As one friend to another, I would strongly advise you to have an answer by then.”
“Where shall we meet?”
“Is one still permitted to smoke in the Jardin des Tuileries?”