Gabriel ignored the question and asked one of his own.
“What caused the depressions in the woods, Ivan?”
Ivan seemed taken aback. He recovered quickly, though, a boxer shaking off the effects of a punch.
“You’ll know soon enough. But we need to talk more first. Let’s do it upstairs, shall we? This place smells like shit.”
Ivan departed. Only his scent remained. Sandalwood and smoke. The smell of power. The smell of the devil.
69
THE MESSAGE from Uzi Navot’s secure PDA appeared in the London annex and King Saul Boulevard simultaneously at 10:17 Moscow time.
IVAN’S BIRDS ON THE GROUND AT DACHA… ADVISE…
Shamron snatched up the phone to Tel Aviv.
“What does he mean, advise?”
“Uzi’s asking if you want them to go back to the dacha.”
“I thought I made my wishes unambiguously clear.”
“Continue back to Moscow?”
“Correct.”
“But-”
“This is not a debate.”
“Right, boss.”
Shamron slammed down the phone. Adrian Carter did the same.
“The president’s national security adviser just spoke with his Russian counterpart inside the Kremlin.”
“And?”
“The FSB is close. Alpha Group troops, plus two senior men from Lubyanka.”
“Estimated time of arrival?”
“They expect to be on the ground at 10:45 Moscow time.”
Shamron looked at the clock: 10:19:49.
He slipped a cigarette between his lips. His lighter flared. Nothing to do now but wait. And pray that Gabriel could think of some way to stay alive for another twenty-five minutes.
AT THAT same moment, an aged Lada bearing Yaakov, Oded, and Navot was parked along the shoulder of a frozen two-lane highway. Behind them was a string of villages. Ahead was the M7 and Moscow. Oded was behind the wheel, Yaakov was huddled in the back, Navot was in the front passenger seat. The little wipers of the Lada were scraping at the snow now accumulating on the windshield. The defroster, a euphemism if there ever was one, was doing more harm than good. Navot was oblivious. He was staring at the screen of his secure PDA and watching the seconds tick away on its digital clock. Finally, at 10:20, a message. Reading it, he swore softly to himself and turned to Oded.
“The Old Man wants us to go back to Moscow.”
“What do we do?”
Navot folded his arms across his chest.
“Don’t move.”
THE HELICOPTER was a reconfigured M-8, maximum speed of one hundred sixty miles per hour, a bit slower when the wind was howling out of Siberia and visibility was a half mile at best. It carried a crew of three and a passenger complement of just two: Colonel Leonid Milchenko and Major Vadim Strelkin, both of the FSB’s Department of Coordination. Strelkin, a poor flier, was trying very hard not to be sick. Milchenko, headset over his ears, was listening to the cockpit chatter and peering out the window.
They had cleared the outer ring five minutes after leaving Lubyanka and were now streaking eastward, using the M7 as a rough guide. Milchenko knew the towns well-Bezmenkovo, Chudinka, Obukhovo-and his mood darkened with each mile they moved beyond Moscow. Russia as viewed from the air was not much better than Russia on the ground. Look at it, Milchenko thought. It didn’t happen overnight. It took centuries of tsars, general secretaries, and presidents to produce a wreck like this, and now it was Milchenko’s job to hide its dirty secrets.
He keyed open his microphone and asked for an estimated arrival time. Fifteen minutes, came the reply. Twenty at most.
Twenty at most… But what would he find when he got there? And what would he take away? The president had made his wishes clear.
“It is imperative the Israelis leave there alive. But if Ivan needs to shed a little blood, give him your friend, Bulganov. He’s a dog. Let him die a dog’s death.”
But what if Ivan didn’t wish to surrender his Jews? What then, Mr. President? What then, indeed.
Milchenko stared morosely out the window. The towns were getting farther and farther apart now. More fields of snow. More birch trees. More places to die… Milchenko was about to find himself in an unenviable position, caught between Ivan Kharkov and the Russian president. It was a fool’s errand, this. And if he wasn’t careful, he might die a dog’s death, too.
70
THE DEAD were stacked like cordwood at the edge of the trees, several with neat bullet holes in their foreheads, the rest bloody messes. Ivan paid them no heed as he stepped through the ruined entrance and made his way to the side of the dacha. Gabriel, Chiara, Grigori, and Mikhail followed, hands still trussed at their backs, a bodyguard holding each arm. They were made to stand against the exterior wall, Gabriel at one end, Mikhail at the other. The snow was knee-deep and more was falling. Ivan paced slowly in it, a large Makarov pistol in his hand. The fact his costly trousers and shoes were being ruined seemed to be the only dark spot on what was an otherwise festive occasion.
Ivan’s hero, Stalin, liked to toy with his victims. The doomed were showered with special privileges, comforted with promotions and with promises of new opportunities to serve their master and the Motherland. Ivan made no such pretense of compassion, no efforts to deceive the soon-to-be dead. Ivan was Fifth Directorate. A breaker of bones, a smasher of heads. After making one final pass before his prisoners, he selected his first victim.
“Did you enjoy the time you spent with my wife?” he asked Mikhail in Russian.
“Former wife,” replied Mikhail in the same language. “And, yes, I enjoyed my time with her very much. She’s a remarkable woman. You should have treated her better.”
“Is that why you took her from me?”
“I didn’t have to take her. She staggered into our arms.”
Mikhail never saw the blow coming. A backhand, low at the start, high at the finish. Somehow he managed to stay on his feet. Ivan’s guards, who were standing in a semicircle in the snow, found it amusing. Chiara closed her eyes and began to shake with fear. Gabriel pressed his shoulder lightly against hers. In Hebrew, he murmured, “Try to stay calm. Mikhail’s doing the right thing.”
“He’s just making him angrier.”
“Exactly, my love. Exactly.”
Ivan was now rubbing the back of his hand, as if to show he had feelings, too. “I trusted you, Mikhail. I allowed you into my home. You betrayed me.”
“It was just business, Ivan.”
“Really? Just business? Elena told me about that shitty little villa in the hills above Saint-Tropez. She told me about the lunch you had waiting. And the wine. Bandol rosé. Elena’s favorite.”
“Very cold. Just the way she likes it.”
Another backhand, hard enough to send Mikhail crashing into the side of the dacha. With his hands still bound, he was unable to stand on his own. Ivan seized the front of his parka and lifted him effortlessly to his feet.
“She told me about the shitty little room where you made love. She even told me about the Monet prints hanging on the wall. Funny, don’t you think? Elena had two real Monets of her own. And yet you took her to a room with Monet posters on the wall. Do you remember them, Mikhail?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“I was too busy looking at your wife.”