When it came time for Grigori to describe his ordeal, he made no such omissions. The story he told was the same one Chiara had heard in Lake Como a few days earlier, but from the other side of the looking glass. He had been on his way to a chess match against a man named Simon Finch, a devout Marxist who wanted to inflict Russia’s suffering on the West. During a brief stop at the Waterside Café, he had noticed he was being followed by a man and a woman. He assumed they were watchers from MI5 and that it was safe to continue. His opinion changed a few moments later when he noticed another man, a Russian, shadowing him along Harrow Road. Then he saw a woman walking toward him-a woman who carried no umbrella and was hatless in the rain-and realized he had seen her a few minutes before. He feared he was about to be killed and briefly considered making a mad dash across Harrow Road. Then a Mercedes sedan had appeared. And its door had swung open…
“I recognized the man holding the gun to my former wife’s head. His name is Petrov. Most people who encounter this man do not survive. I was told Irina would be an exception if I cooperated. I did everything they asked. But a few days into my captivity, while I was being interrogated in the cellars of Lubyanka, a man who had once been my friend told me Irina was dead. He said Ivan had killed her and buried her in an unmarked grave. He said I was next.”
Just then, the color retreated from the snowbank over the window, and the room was plunged once more into darkness. Chiara wept silently. She wanted desperately to tell Grigori his wife was still alive. She could not. Ivan was listening.
50
LATER, Shamron would refer to Konrad Becker as Gabriel’s one and only bit of good luck. Everything else Gabriel earned the hard way, or with blood. But not Becker. Becker was delivered to him gift-wrapped and tied with a bow.
His bank was not one of the cathedrals of Swiss finance that loom over the Paradeplatz or line the graceful curve of the Bahnhofstrasse. It was a private chapel, a place where clients were free to worship or confess their sins in secret. Swiss law forbids such banks from soliciting deposits. They are free to refer to themselves as banks if they wish but are not required to do so. Some employ several dozen officers and investment specialists; others, only a handful.
Becker & Puhl fell into the second category. It was located on the ground floor of a leaden old office building, on a quiet block of the Talstrasse. The entrance was marked only by a small brass plaque and was easy to miss, which was Konrad Becker’s intention. He was waiting in the gloomy vestibule at 7 a.m., a small bald figure with the pallor of one who spends his days beneath ground. As usual, he was wearing a somber dark suit and a pall-bearer’s gray tie. His eyes, sensitive to light, were concealed behind a pair of tinted glasses. The brevity of the handshake was a calculated insult.
“What an unpleasant surprise. What brings you to Zurich, Herr Allon?”
“Business.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
He turned without another word and led Gabriel down a thickly carpeted passage. The office they entered was of modest size and poorly lit. Becker walked slowly around his desk and settled himself tentatively in the executive leather chair, as though trying it out for the first time. He regarded Gabriel nervously for a moment, then started turning over the papers on his desk.
“I was assured by Herr Shamron that there would be no further contact between us. I fulfilled my end of our agreement, and I expect you to honor your word.”
“I need your help, Konrad.”
“And what sort of help do you require from me, Herr Allon? Would you like me to assist in a raid against Hamas targets in the Gaza Strip? Or perhaps you would like me to help you destroy the nuclear facilities of Iran?”
“Don’t be melodramatic.”
“Who’s being melodramatic? I’m lucky to be alive.” Becker folded his tiny hands and placed them carefully on the desk. “I am a man of weak physical and emotional constitution, Herr Allon. I am not ashamed to admit it. Nor am I ashamed to say that I still have nightmares about our last little adventure together in Vienna.”
For the first time since Chiara’s abduction, Gabriel was tempted to smile. Even he had trouble believing the little Swiss banker had played an operational role in one of the greatest coups the Office had ever engineered: the capture of Nazi war criminal Erich Radek. Technically, Becker’s actions had been a violation of Switzerland’s sacrosanct banking-secrecy laws. Indeed, if his role in Radek’s capture ever became public, he faced the distinct possibility of prosecution, or, even worse, financial ruin. All of which explained why Gabriel was confident that Becker, after a predictable protest, would agree to help. He had no choice.
“It has come to our attention you are the holder of a numbered account that is of interest to us. A safe-deposit box associated with this account is linked to a matter of extreme urgency. It is not an exaggeration to say it is a matter of life and death.”
“As you know, it would be a crime under Swiss banking law for me to reveal that information to you.”
Gabriel sighed heavily. “It would be a shame, Konrad.”
“What’s that, Herr Allon?”
“If our past work together ever become public.”
“You are a cheap extortionist, Herr Allon.”
“An extortionist but not cheap.”
“And the trouble with paying money to an extortionist is that he always comes back for more.”
“Can I give you the account number, Konrad?”
“If you must.”
Gabriel recited it rapidly. Becker didn’t bother to write it down.
“Password?” he asked.
“Balzac.”
“And the name associated with the account?”
“Vladimir Chernov of Regency Security Services, Geneva. We’re not sure if he’s the primary account holder or merely a signatory.”
The banker made no movement.
“Don’t you need to go check your records, Konrad?”
He didn’t. “Vladimir Chernov is the primary name on the account. One other person has access to the safe-deposit box.”
Gabriel held up the photograph of Anton Petrov. “This man?”
Becker nodded.
“If he has access, I assume you have a name on file.”
“I have a name. Whether it is accurate…”
“May I have it, please?”
“He calls himself Wolfe. Otto Wolfe.”
“German speaker?”
“Fluent.”
“Accent?”
“He doesn’t talk a great deal, but I’d say he came originally from the East.”
“Do you have an address and telephone number on file?”
“I do. But I don’t believe they’re accurate, either.”
“But you give him access to a safe-deposit box anyway?”
Becker made no response. Gabriel put away the photo.
“It is my understanding Vladimir Chernov left something in the box two days ago.”
“To be precise, Herr Chernov accessed the box two days ago. Whether he added something or removed something, I cannot say. Clients are given complete privacy when they’re in the vault room.”
“Except when you’re watching them with your concealed cameras. He left cash in the box, didn’t he?”