45
THE HOUSE stood in the Haute-Savoie region of France, in an isolated valley above the shores of Lake Annecy. Neat and tidy, with a steeply pitched roof, it was more than a kilometer from its nearest neighbor. Yossi had moved in the previous evening, posing as a British writer of mysteries, and had carefully prepared the premises for the interrogation that was to come. He was standing outside as the two cars made their way slowly up the winding road, snow falling through the beams of their headlamps.
Gabriel emerged alone from the front passenger seat of the first car, a Renault station wagon, and followed Yossi into the sitting room of the house. The furniture was piled in one corner, the tile floor covered entirely in plastic drop cloths. In the open hearth burned a large fire, just as Gabriel had ordered. He added two more logs, then headed outside again. A third car had pulled into the drive. Eli Lavon was leaning against the hood.
“Were we followed?” Gabriel asked.
Lavon shook his head.
“You’re sure, Eli?”
“I’m sure.”
“Take Yossi. Go back to Geneva. Wait there with the others. We won’t be long.”
“I’m staying here with you.”
“You’re a watcher, Eli. The best there ever was. This isn’t for you.”
“Maybe it isn’t for you, either.”
Gabriel ignored the remark and glanced at Navot, who was behind the wheel of the Renault. A moment later, three Russians, sedated and trussed, were wobbling drunkenly toward the entrance of the house. Lavon placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder.
“Be careful in there, Gabriel. If you’re not, you might lose more than another wife.”
Lavon climbed behind the wheel of the car without another word and headed down the valley. Gabriel watched the red tail-lights disappear behind a veil of snow, then turned and headed into the house.
THEY STRIPPED them to their underwear and secured them to a trio of metal outdoor chairs. Gabriel gave each of the three men a shot of stimulant, small doses for the bodyguard and driver, a larger one for Vladimir Chernov. His head rose slowly from his chest, and, blinking rapidly, he surveyed his surroundings. His two men were seated directly in front of him, eyes wide with terror. Standing in a line behind them were Yaakov, Mikhail, Navot, and Gabriel. In Gabriel’s left hand was a.45 caliber Glock with a suppressor screwed onto the end of the barrel. In his right was a photograph: a man standing in the arrivals hall of Heathrow Airport. Gabriel glanced at Yaakov, who tore away the packing tape wrapped around the lower portion of Chernov’s head. Now missing a good deal of hair, Chernov screamed in pain. Gabriel hit him hard across the brow with the Glock and told him to shut his mouth. Chernov, blood streaming into his left eye, obeyed.
“Do you know who I am, Vladimir?”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life. Please, whoever you are, this is all some sort-”
“It’s no mistake, Vladimir. Take a good look at my face. You’ve seen it before, I’m sure.”
“No, never.”
“We’re getting off to a bad start, you and I. You’re lying to me. And if you continue to lie to me, you’ll never leave this place. Tell me the truth, Vladimir, and you and your men will be allowed to live.”
“I am telling you the truth! I’ve never seen your face before!”
“Not even in photographs? Surely they must have given you a photo of me.”
“Who?”
“The men who came to you when they wanted to hire Comrade Zhirlov to find me.”
“I’ve never heard of this man. I am a legitimate security consultant. I demand you release me and my men at once. Otherwise-”
“Otherwise what, Vladimir?”
Chernov fell silent.
“You have a narrow window of opportunity, Vladimir. A very narrow window. I am going to ask you a question, and you are going to tell me the truth.” Gabriel held the photograph in front of Chernov’s face. “Tell me where I can find this man.”
“I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Are you sure that’s the answer you want to give me, Vladimir?”
“It is the truth!”
Gabriel shook his head sadly and walked behind Chernov’s driver. Gabriel had been told his name. He had already forgotten it. His name didn’t matter. He didn’t need a name where he was going. Chernov, judging by his insolent expression, clearly thought Gabriel was bluffing. Obviously, the Russian had never heard of Ari Shamron’s twelfth commandment: We do not wave our guns around like gangsters and make idle threats. We draw our weapons in the field for one reason and one reason only. Gabriel placed the gun to the back of the man’s head and tilted the angle slightly downward. Then, with his eyes boring into Chernov’s face, he squeezed the trigger.
46
THERE IS a popular misconception about suppressors. They do not actually silence a weapon, especially when that weapon is a.45 caliber Glock. The hollow-tipped round entered the driver’s skull with a rather loud thump and exited through his mouth, taking much of his jaw and chin with it. Had the gun been level at the time of firing, the projectile might have continued into Vladimir Chernov. Instead, it slammed harmlessly into the floor. Chernov didn’t escape completely unscathed, though. His muscular torso was now splattered with blood, brain tissue, and bone fragments. A few seconds later came the contents of his own stomach: the fine meal he had shared with Ludmila Akulova a few hours earlier at Les Armures. It was a good sign. Chernov may have trafficked in death and violence, but the sight of a little blood made him sick. With luck, he might break soon. Gabriel held the photograph in front of his face again and posed the same question: “Who is this man, and where can I find him?” Unfortunately, Chernov’s response was the same.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of waterboarding, Vladimir. We have a different technique we use when we need information quickly.” Gabriel gazed into the fire for a moment. “We call it fireboard ing.” He looked at Chernov again. “Have you ever seen a man fireboarded before, Vladimir?”
When Chernov made no response, Gabriel shot a glance at the others. Navot and Yaakov seized hold of the second bodyguard and, still attached to the chair, rammed him face-first into the fire. They left him in no more than ten seconds. Even so, when he emerged his hair was smoking and his face blackened and blistered. He was also screaming in agony.
They set him directly in front of Chernov, so that the Russian could see the horrible result of his intransigence. Then Gabriel placed the Glock against the back of the bodyguard’s head and ended his suffering. Chernov, now drenched in blood, gazed in horror at the two dead men before him. Mikhail covered his mouth with duct tape and gave him a hard backhand across the cheek. Gabriel placed the photograph in his lap and said he would be back in five minutes.
HE RETURNED at the fifty-ninth second of the fourth minute and ripped the duct tape from Chernov’s mouth. Then he gave him a stark choice. They could have a pleasant conversation, one professional to another, or Chernov could go into the fire like his now-deceased bodyguard. It wouldn’t be a quick sear, Gabriel warned. It would be a slow roast. One limb at a time. And there would be no bullet to the back of the head to quell the pain.