“In the interest of full disclosure, we worked on a similar device. But to be honest with you, I’ve never really cared for poisons. They’re for cheap hoods like you, Anton. I’ve always preferred to do my killing with one of these.”
Gabriel removed the.45 caliber Glock from the waistband of his trousers and pointed it at Petrov’s face. The suppressor was no longer screwed into the end of the barrel. It wasn’t necessary here.
“One meter, Anton. That’s how I prefer to kill. One meter. That way I can see my enemy’s eyes before he dies. Vyshaya mera: the highest measure of punishment.” Gabriel pressed the barrel of the gun against the base of the Russian’s chin. “A grave without a marker. A corpse without a face.”
Gabriel used the barrel of the gun to open the front of Petrov’s shirt. The shoulder wound didn’t look good: bone fragments, threads of clothing. No doubt the hip was just as bad. Gabriel closed the shirt and looked directly into Petrov’s eyes.
“You’re here because your friend Vladimir Chernov betrayed you. We didn’t have to hurt him. In fact, we didn’t even have to threaten him. We just gave him a bit of money, and he told us everything we needed to know. Now it’s your turn, Anton. If you cooperate, you will be given medical attention and treated humanely. If not…”
Gabriel placed the barrel against Petrov’s shoulder and corkscrewed it into the wound. Petrov’s screams echoed off the stone walls of the cellar. Gabriel stopped before the Russian could pass out.
“Do you understand, Anton?”
The Russian nodded.
“If I stay in your presence much longer, I’m going to beat you to death with my bare hands.” He glanced at Navot. “I’m going to let my friend handle the questioning. Since you tried to kill him with your ring back in Zurich, it only seems fair. Wouldn’t you agree, Anton?”
The Russian was silent.
Gabriel stood and headed upstairs without another word. The rest of the team was sprawled in the sitting room in various states of exhaustion. Gabriel’s gaze immediately settled on the newest member of the group, a doctor who had been dispatched by King Saul Boulevard to treat Petrov’s injuries. In the lexicon of the Office, he was a sayan, a volunteer helper. Gabriel recognized him. He was a Jew from Paris who had once treated Gabriel for a severe gash to his hand.
“How’s the patient?” the doctor asked in French.
“He’s not a patient,” Gabriel responded in the same language. “He’s a KGB hood.”
“He’s still a human being.”
“I’d withhold judgment until you have a chance to meet him.”
“When will that be?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Tell me about the wounds.”
Gabriel did.
“When were they inflicted?”
Gabriel glanced at his watch. “Nearly eight hours ago.”
“Those bullets need to come out. Otherwise-”
“They come out when I say they come out.”
“I swore an oath, monsieur. I will not forsake that oath because I am performing a service for you.”
“I swore an oath, too. And tonight, my oath trumps yours.”
Gabriel turned and went upstairs to his room. He stretched out on the bed, but each time he closed his eyes he saw only blood. Unable to drive the image from his thoughts, he reached out and turned the familiar dial of the radio. A German woman with a sultry voice bade him a good evening and began reading the news. The chancellor was proposing a new era of dialogue and cooperation between Europe and Russia. She planned to unveil her proposal at the upcoming emergency G-8 summit in Moscow.
LIKE A NIGHT FEVER, Petrov broke at dawn. He did not walk a straight line during his journey to the truth, but then Gabriel had not expected he would. Petrov was a professional. He led them into culs-de-sac of illusion and down dead-end roads of deception. And though he had worked only for money, he tried admirably to keep faith with Russia and his patron saint, Ivan Kharkov. Navot had been patient but firm. It was not necessary to inflict additional pain or even threaten it. Petrov was in enough pain already. All they had to do was keep him conscious. The two bullet wounds and broken jaw did the rest.
Finally, exhausted and shaking from the onset of infection, the Russian capitulated. He said there was a dacha northeast of Moscow, in Vladimirskaya Oblast. It was isolated, hidden, protected. There were four streams converging into a great marsh. There was a vast birch forest. It was the place where Ivan did his blood work. It was Ivan’s prison. Ivan’s hell on earth. Navot located the parcel of land using ordinary commercial-grade software. The image on his screen matched Petrov’s description perfectly. He sent for the doctor and headed upstairs to brief Gabriel.
HE WAS lying in darkness, fingers interlaced at the back of his neck, ankles crossed. Hearing the news, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. Then he used his secure PDA to send a secure flash transmission to three points around the globe: King Saul Boulevard, Thames House, and Langley. An hour after sunrise, he set out alone for Hamburg. At 2 p.m., he boarded British Airways Flight 969, and by 3:15 he was seated in the back of an MI5 sedan, heading toward the center of London.
55
IN THE DARK DAYS after the attacks of 9/11, the American Embassy at Grosvenor Square was transformed into a high-security eyesore. Almost overnight, barricades and blast walls sprouted along the perimeter, and, much to the ire of Londoners, a busy street along one side of the embassy was permanently closed to traffic. But there were other changes the public could not see, including the construction of a secret CIA annex far beneath the square itself. Linked to the Global Ops Center in Langley, the annex served as a forward command post for operations in Europe and the Middle East and was so secret only a handful of British ministers and intelligence officials knew of its existence. During a visit the previous summer, Graham Seymour had been depressed to find it dwarfed the primary ops rooms of both MI5 and MI6. It was typical of the Americans, he thought. Confronted by the threat of Islamic terrorism, they had dug a deep hole for themselves and filled it with high-tech toys. And they wondered why they were losing.
Seymour arrived shortly after eight that evening and was escorted to the “fishbowl,” a secure conference room with walls of soundproof glass. Gabriel and Ari Shamron were seated along one flank of the table; Adrian Carter was standing at the head of the room, a laser pointer in hand. On the projection screen was an image, captured by an American spy satellite, that provided coverage of western Russia. It showed a small dacha, located precisely one hundred twenty-eight miles northeast of the Kremlin’s Trinity Tower. Carter’s red dot was focused on a pair of Range Rovers parked outside the house. Two men stood next to them.
“Our photo analysts believe there are more security guards posted on the back side of the dacha”-the red dot moved three times-“here, here, and here. They also say it’s clear those Range Rovers are coming and going. Two days ago, the area received several inches of snowfall. But this image shows fresh tire tracks.”
“When was it taken?”
“Midday. The analysts can see tracks going in both directions.”
“Shift changes?”
“I suppose so. Or reinforcements.”
“What about communications?”
“The dacha is electrified, but NSA is having trouble locating a landline telephone. They’re certain someone in there is using a sat phone. They’re also picking up cellular transmissions.”
“Can they get to them?”
“They’re working on it.”
“What do we know about the property itself?”