The Defector Read online

  “Not a fool, Vladimir—just an ex-KGB hood who somehow managed to claw his way out of the gutter. But let’s keep this civil, shall we? You were just about to tell me when you first met the man in that photograph.” A pause, then, “The man known as Comrade Zhirlov.”

  The cocktail of narcotics coursing through Chernov’s bloodstream left him unable to mount another campaign of denial. Nor was he able to conceal his surprise over the fact that Gabriel knew the code name of one of the KGB’s most secretive black operators.

  “It was ’ninety-five or ’ninety-six. I had a small security company. I didn’t land the likes of Ivan Kharkov and Viktor Orlov, but I was doing quite nicely for myself. Comrade Zhirlov approached me with a lucrative offer. He’d acquired a reputation in Moscow. It was getting much too dangerous for him to be in direct contact with his customers. He needed someone to act as a middleman—a booking agent, if you will. Otherwise, he wasn’t going to live to enjoy the fruits of his labor.”

  “And you volunteered to be that person—for a commission, of course.”

  “Ten percent. When someone needed a job done, they came to me, and I took the proposal to him. If he felt like doing it, he would name a price. Then I would go back to the client and negotiate the final deal. All money flowed through me. I laundered it through my consulting business and paid Comrade Zhirlov a fee for services rendered. You might find this hard to believe, but he actually paid taxes on income he earned killing and kidnapping people.”

  “Only in Russia.”

  “They were crazy times, Allon. It’s easy to sit in judgment of us, but you’ve never seen your country and your money disappear in the blink of an eye. People did what they had to do in order to survive. It was the law of the jungle. Truly.”

  “Spare me the sad story, Vladimir. It wouldn’t have been a jungle if not for you and your fellow travelers in the Russian mafia. But I digress. You were telling me about Comrade Zhirlov. In fact, you were about to tell me his real name.”

  “I’d like a cigarette.”

  “You are in no position to make demands.”

  “Please, Allon. I had a pack in the pocket of my overcoat last night. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I would like one now. I swear I won’t try anything.”

  Gabriel glanced at Yaakov. The cigarette, when it came, was already lit. Chernov took a long pull, then told Gabriel the name he wanted to hear. It was Petrov. Anton Dmitrievich Petrov.

  NOT THAT it mattered, Chernov added quickly. Petrov hadn’t used the name in years. The son of a KGB colonel assigned to the East Berlin rezidentura, he had been born in the German Democratic Republic during the darkest days of the Cold War. An only child, he had been permitted to play with German children and was completely bilingual at an early age. Indeed, Petrov’s German was so good he was able to pass himself off as a native on the streets of East Berlin. The KGB quietly encouraged Petrov’s linguistic skills by allowing him to remain in the DDR for his schooling rather than return to the Soviet Union. After graduating with honors from a gymnasium in East Berlin, he attended the prestigious University of Leipzig, where he earned a degree in chemistry. Petrov briefly considered pursuing an advanced degree or even a career in medicine. Moscow Center, however, had other plans.

  Within days of graduation, he was summoned to Moscow and offered a job with the KGB. Few young men were foolish enough to refuse such an offer, and Petrov, a member of the KGB’s extended family, entertained no such thoughts. After undergoing two years of training at the KGB’s Red Banner Institute at Yasenevo, he was given the code name Comrade Zhirlov and sent back to East Berlin. A month later, with the help of a Soviet spy inside the West German intelligence service, he slipped through the Iron Curtain and established himself as an “illegal” agent in the West German city of Hamburg.

  Petrov’s very existence was known only to a select group of senior generals inside the First Chief Directorate. His assignment was not to conduct espionage against America and its NATO allies but to wage war on dissidents, defectors, and other assorted troublemakers who dared to challenge the authority of the Soviet state. Armed with a half dozen false passports and a limitless supply of money, he hunted his quarry and meticulously planned their demise. He specialized in the use of poisons and other deadly toxins, some that produced near-instantaneous death, others that took weeks or months to prove lethal. Because he was a chemist, Petrov was able to assist in the design of his poisons and the weapons that delivered them. His favorite device was a ring, worn on his right hand, that injected the victim with a small dose of a deadly nerve toxin. One handshake, one clap on the back, was all it took to kill.

  “As you might expect, Petrov didn’t take the fall of the Soviet Union well. He never had any qualms about killing dissidents and traitors. He was a believer.”

  “What happened to all his KGB-issued passports?”

  “He kept them. They came in handy when he moved to the West.”

  “And you came with him?”

  “Actually, I came first. Petrov followed a month or two later, and our partnership resumed. Business was brisk. Russians were pouring into Western Europe, and they brought the old ways with them. Within a few months, we had more clients than we could handle.”

  “And one of these clients was Ivan Kharkov?”

  The Russian hesitated, then nodded his head. “Ivan trusted him. Their fathers were both KGB, and they were both KGB.”

  “Did you deal with Ivan directly?”

  “Never. Only with Arkady Medvedev.”

  “And after Arkady was killed?”

  “Ivan sent someone else. Called himself Malensky.”

  “Do you remember the date?”

  “It was sometime last October.”

  “After Ivan’s missile deal was made public?”

  “Definitely after.”

  “Did you meet in Geneva?”

  “He was afraid I was being watched in Geneva. He insisted I come to Vienna.”

  “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

  HAUTE-SAVOIE, FRANCE

  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 t
he 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.

  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 ret
reated 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

  ZURICH

  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.