“He had a job offer?”
“Two jobs, actually. Serious jobs. Serious money.”
“The first was Grigori Bulganov?”
“Correct.”
“And the second was me?”
“No, not you, Allon. The second job was your wife.”
48
GABRIEL FELT a wave of anger break over him. He wanted to drive his fist through the Russian’s face. He wanted to hit him so hard he would never get up again. Instead, he sat calmly, Glock in his hand, dead men over his shoulder, and asked Chernov to describe the genesis of the operation to kidnap Grigori.
“It was the challenge of a lifetime-at least, that’s how Petrov viewed it. Ivan wanted Bulganov taken from London and brought back to Russia. What’s more, it had to look as if Bulganov came home voluntarily. Otherwise, Ivan’s backers in the Kremlin wouldn’t give him the green light. They didn’t want another battle with the British like the one that followed Litvinenko’s poisoning.”
“How much?”
“Twenty million plus expenses, which were going to be substantial. Petrov had done jobs like this when he was with the KGB. He assembled a team of experienced operatives and put together a plan. Everything hinged on getting Bulganov into the car quietly. It couldn’t be a muscle job, not with the CCTV cameras looking over his shoulder. So he tricked Bulganov’s ex-wife into helping him.”
“Tell me about the people who work for him.”
“They’re all ex-KGB. And, like Petrov, they’re all very good.”
“Who pays them?”
“Petrov takes care of them out of his cut. I hear he’s very generous. He’s never had any trouble with his employees.”
Chernov had smoked the cigarette to the filter. He drew a last lungful and looked for a place to put the butt. Yaakov took it from Chernov’s fingers and tossed it into the fire. Gabriel refused a request for another cigarette and resumed the questioning.
“Someone took a wild shot at a Russian journalist the other night in Oxford.”
“You’re referring to Olga Sukhova?”
“I am. And I don’t suppose Petrov was there that night.”
“If he had been, Olga wouldn’t have survived. It was a rush job. He sent a couple of associates to handle it for him.”
“Where was Petrov?”
“He was in Italy preparing to kidnap your wife.”
Gabriel felt another wave of anger. He suppressed it and posed his next question.
“How did he find us?”
“He didn’t. The SVR did. They heard rumors you were in hiding in Italy and started leaning on their sources inside the Italian services. Eventually, one of them sold you out.”
“Do you know who?”
“Absolutely not.”
Gabriel didn’t make another run at him. He believed the Russian was telling the truth.
“What kind of information were you given about me?”
“Your name and the location of the estate where you were living.”
“Why did you wait so long to act?”
“Client’s instructions. The operation against your wife would go forward only if Bulganov’s abduction went smoothly-and only if the client gave a final order to proceed.”
“When did you receive such an order?”
“A week after Bulganov was taken.”
“Did it come from Malensky?”
“No, it was from the man himself. Ivan called my office in Geneva. In so many words, he made it clear Petrov was to move against the second target.” Chernov paused. “I saw a photograph of your wife, Allon. She’s a remarkably beautiful woman. I’m sorry we had to take her, but business is-”
Gabriel struck Chernov hard across the face with the Glock, reopening the gash over his eye.
“Where’s Petrov now?”
“I don’t know.”
Gabriel gazed at the fire. “Remember our agreement, Vladimir.”
“You could peel the flesh from my bones, Allon, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you where he is. I don’t know where he lives, and I don’t know where he is at any given time.”
“How do you make contact with him?”
“I don’t. He contacts me.”
“How?”
“Telephone. But don’t think about trying to track him. He switches phones constantly and never keeps one for long.”
“What are your financial arrangements?”
“Same as the old days in Moscow. The client pays me. I pay him.”
“Do you launder it through Regency Security?”
“The Europeans are too sophisticated for that. Here he’s paid in cash.”
“Where do you deliver the money?”
“We share several numbered accounts in Switzerland. I leave the cash in safe-deposit boxes, and he collects it when he feels like it.”
“When was the last time you filled a box?”
Chernov lapsed into silence. Gabriel gazed into the fire and repeated the question.
“I left five million euros in Zurich the day before yesterday.”
“What time?”
“Just before closing. I like to go when the bank is empty.”
“What’s the name of the bank?”
“Becker and Puhl.”
Gabriel knew it. He also happened to know the address. He asked for it now, just to make certain Chernov wasn’t lying. The Russian answered correctly. Becker & Puhl was located at Talstrasse 26.
“Account number?”
“Nine-seven-three-eight-three-six-two-four.”
“Repeat it.”
Chernov did. No mistakes.
“Password?”
“Balzac.”
“How poetic.”
“It was Petrov’s choice. He likes to read. I’ve never had time for it myself.” The Russian looked at the gun in Gabriel’s hand. “I suppose I never will.”
THERE WAS one final gunshot in the villa above Lake Annecy. Gabriel did not hear it. At the moment it was fired, he was seated next to Uzi Navot in the Renault station wagon, heading quickly down the valley through the gray light of morning. They stopped in Geneva long enough to collect Sarah Bancroft from the Hotel Bristol, then set out for Zurich.
49
THE ROOM in the cellar of the little dacha was not entirely cut off from the outside world. High in one corner was a tiny window, covered in a century of grime and, on the outside, by a snowbank. For a few moments each day, when the angle of the sun was just right, the snow would turn scarlet and fill the room with a faint light. They assumed it was sunrise but could not be certain. Along with their freedom, Ivan had robbed them of time.
Chiara cherished each second of the light, even if it meant she had no choice but to gaze directly into Grigori’s battered face. The cuts, the bruises, the disfiguring swelling: there were moments he scarcely looked human at all. She cared for him as best she could, and once, bravely, she asked Ivan’s guards for bandages and something for the pain. The guards found her request amusing. They had gone to a good deal of trouble getting Grigori into his present condition and weren’t about to let the new prisoner undo all their hard work with gauze and ointment.
Their hands were cuffed at all times, their legs shackled. They were given no pillows or blankets and, even during the bitter cold of night, no heat. Twice each day they were given a bit of food-coarse bread, a few slices of fatty sausage, weak tea in paper cups-and twice each day they were taken to a darkened, fetid toilet. Nights were passed side by side on the cold concrete floor. On the first night, Chiara dreamed she was searching for a child in an endless birch forest covered in snow. Forcing herself to wake, she found Grigori trying gently to comfort her. The next night she was awakened by a rush of warm fluid between her legs. This time, nothing he did could console her. She had just lost Gabriel’s child.
Mindful of Ivan’s microphones, they spoke of nothing of consequence. Finally, during the brief period of light on their third day together, Grigori asked about the circumstances of Chiara’s capture. She thought a moment before answering, then gave a carefully calibrated version of the truth. She told him she had been taken from a road in Italy and that two young men, good boys with bright futures, had been killed trying to protect her. She failed to mention, however, that for three days prior to her capture she had been in Lake Como participating in the interrogation of Grigori’s former wife, Irina. Or that she knew how Ivan’s operatives had deceived Irina into taking part in Grigori’s capture. Or that Gabriel’s team had loved Irina so much that sending her back to Russia after the debriefing had broken their hearts. Chiara wanted to tell Grigori these things but could not. Ivan was listening.