GRAYSWOOD, SURREY
T
he summons arrived via the secure link late the following afternoon. Gabriel considered ignoring it, but the message made it clear that a failure to appear would result in the immediate revocation of his operational charter. And so, at six that evening, he reluctantly drove to central London and slipped into the Israeli Embassy through the back door. The station chief, a battle-scarred careerist named Natan, waited tensely in the foyer. He escorted Gabriel downstairs to the Holy of Holies and then quickly fled, as though he feared being injured by flying debris. The room was unoccupied, but resting upon the table was a tray of tea sandwiches and Viennese butter cookies. There was also a bottle of mineral water, which Gabriel locked in a cabinet. He did so out of habit. Office doctrine dictated that the site of a potentially hostile encounter be cleared of any object that could be used as a weapon.
For twenty minutes no one else entered the room. Then, finally, there appeared a man with the thick physique of a wrestler. He wore a dark suit that seemed a size too small and a fashionable high-collared dress shirt that left the impression his head was bolted onto his shoulders. His hair had once been strawberry blond in color; now it was silver gray and cropped short to conceal the fact it was falling out at an alarming rate. He stared at Gabriel for a moment through a pair of narrow spectacles, as though he were debating whether to shoot him now or at dawn. Then he walked over to the tray of food and shook his head slowly.
“Do you think my enemies know?”
“What’s that, Uzi?”
“That I am incapable of resisting food. Especially these,” Navot added, snatching one of the butter cookies from the tray. “I suppose it’s genetic. My grandfather loved nothing better than a butter cookie and a good cup of Viennese coffee.”
“Better to have a problem with sweets than gambling or women.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Navot replied resentfully. “You’re like Shamron. You don’t have any weaknesses. You’re incorruptible.” He paused, then added, “You’re perfect.”
Gabriel could see where this was headed. He remained silent while Navot stared at the butter cookie in his hand as though it were the source of all his problems.
“I suppose you do have
one
weakness,” Navot said at last. “You’ve always allowed personal feelings to enter into your decision making. You’ll have to rid yourself of that when you become chief.”
“This isn’t personal, Uzi.”
Navot gave an artificial smile. “So you’re not going to deny that Shamron has talked to you about becoming the next chief?”
“No,” replied Gabriel, “I’m not going to deny it.”
Navot was still smiling, though barely. “You have one other weakness, Gabriel. You’re honest. Far too honest for a spy.”
Navot finally sat down and placed his heavy forearms upon the tabletop. The surface seemed to settle beneath the weight. Watching him, Gabriel recalled an unpleasant afternoon, many years earlier, when he had been paired with Navot for a session of silent-killing training. Gabriel lost count of how many times he died that day.
“How long do I have?” Navot asked.
“Come on, Uzi. Let’s not do this.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not going to do either one of us any good.”
“You must be feeling guilty then.”
“Not at all.”
“How long have you been planning to take my job?”
“You know me better than that, Uzi.”
“I thought I did.”
Navot pushed the tray of food away and looked around the room. “Would it kill them to leave me a bottle of water?”
“I locked it in the cabinet.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want you to hit me with it.”
Navot placed his hand on Gabriel’s elbow and squeezed. Instantly, Gabriel felt his hand go numb.
“Get it for me,” Navot said. “It’s the least you can do.”
Gabriel rose and retrieved the bottle. When he sat down again, Navot’s anger seemed to have subsided, but only slightly. He unscrewed the aluminum cap using only his thumb and forefinger and slowly poured several inches of the effervescent water into a clear plastic cup. He offered none to Gabriel.
“What did I do to deserve this?” he asked, more of himself than of Gabriel. “I’ve been a good chief, a damn good chief. I’ve managed the affairs of the Office with dignity and kept my country out of any major foreign entanglements. Have I been able to shut down the Iranian nuclear program? No, I haven’t. But I didn’t get us into a catastrophic war, either. That’s the first job of the chief, to make certain the prime minister doesn’t go off half-cocked and drag the country into a needless conflict. You’ll learn that once you settle into my chair.”
When Gabriel offered no reply, Navot drank some of the water, deliberately, as though it were the last on earth. He was right about one thing; he
had
been a good chief. Unfortunately, the successes that had occurred under his watch had all been Gabriel’s.
“There’s something else you’ll learn quickly,” Navot resumed. “It’s very difficult to run an intelligence service with a man like Shamron looking over your shoulder.”
“It’s his service. He built it from the ground up and turned it into what it is today.”
“The old man is just that—an old man. The world has changed in the century since Shamron was chief.”
“You don’t really mean that, Uzi.”
“Forgive me, Gabriel, but I’m not feeling terribly charitable toward Shamron at the moment. Or you, for that matter.”
Navot lapsed into a sulky silence. Natan, the station chief, peered through the soundproof glass walls, saw two men glaring at one another over a table, and returned to his bunker.
“How long do I have?” Navot asked.
“Uzi . . .”
“Am I going to be allowed to finish my term?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, Gabriel. Because from where I sit, nothing seems terribly obvious at the moment.”
“You’ve been a fine chief, Uzi. The best since Shamron.”
“And what is my reward? I’ll be put out to pasture before my time. Because heaven knows we can’t have a chief and a former chief inside King Saul Boulevard at the same time.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no precedent for it.”
“There’s no precedent for any of this.”
“Sorry, Gabriel, but I’d rather not end my career as a sympathy case.”
“Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, Uzi.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“How is she?”
“Good days and bad.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Go see her the next time you’re in town. She always loved you, Gabriel. Everyone loves you.”
Navot treated himself to another butter cookie. Then another.
“By my calculation,” he said, brushing the crumbs from his thick fingers, “I have fourteen months remaining in my term, which means I’m the one who gets to decide whether to send several of our best people to the most dangerous city in the world.”
“You gave me the authority to run the operation.”
“I had a gun to my head at the time.”
“It’s still there.”
“I realize that, which is why I would never dream of pulling the plug on your little gambit. Instead, I’m going to ask you to take a deep breath and come to your senses.”
Greeted by silence, Navot leaned forward across the table and stared directly into Gabriel’s eyes. Absent from his face was any trace of anger.
“Do you remember what it was like the last time we went to Moscow, Gabriel, or have you managed to repress it?”
“I remember it all, Uzi.”
“So do I,” Navot replied distantly. “It was the worst day of my life.”
“Mine, too.”
Navot narrowed his eyes, as if truly perplexed. “So why in God’s name do you want to go back there?”
When Gabriel offered no answer, Navot removed his spectacles thoughtfully and massaged the spot on the bridge of his nose where the pads carved into his skin. The eyeglasses, like everything else he was wearing, had been chosen by his demanding wife, Bella. She had worked for the Office briefly as an analyst on the Syria desk and loved the status that came with being the wife of the chief. Gabriel had always suspected her influence extended far beyond her husband’s wardrobe.
“It’s over,” Navot said finally. “You beat him. You won.”
“Beat who?”
“Ivan,” replied Navot.
“This has nothing to do with Ivan.”
“Of course it does. And if you can’t see that, maybe you’re not fit to run this operation after all.”
“So pull my charter.”
“I’d love to. But if I do, it will start a war I can’t possibly win.” Navot slipped on his glasses and smiled briefly. “That’s the other thing you’ll have to learn when you become chief, Gabriel. You have to choose your battles carefully.”
“I already have.”
“Since I’m still the chief for fourteen more months, why don’t you do me the courtesy of giving me the broad strokes of your plan.”
“I’m going to pull Pavel Zhirov aside for a chat. He’s going to tell me why he kidnapped and murdered an innocent young woman for the sake of Volgatek’s bottom line. He’s also going to explain how Volgatek is nothing more than a front for the KGB. And then I’m going to burn them to a crisp, Uzi. I’m going to prove to the civilized world once and for all that the current crowd sitting in the Kremlin isn’t much better than the one that came before them.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Gabriel. The civilized world already knows, and it couldn’t care less. In fact, it’s so broke and frightened about the future that it’s about to allow the mullahs to realize their nuclear dreams.”
Gabriel said nothing. Navot exhaled heavily in capitulation.
“A confession? Is that what you’re saying?”
“On camera,” added Gabriel. “Just like the one he forced Madeline to make before he killed her.”
“And what if he doesn’t talk?”
“Everyone talks, Uzi.”
“What are you going to do about Keller?”
“He’s coming with me.”
“He’s a professional assassin who once tried to kill you.”
“We’ve let bygones be bygones. Besides,” Gabriel added, “I’m going to need a bit of extra muscle.”
“What else do you need?”
“Passports, visas, travel, accommodations—the usual, Uzi. And I also need Moscow Station to put Pavel Zhirov under immediate full-time surveillance.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” said Gabriel. “I need you, too.”
Navot was silent.
“I didn’t ask for this, Uzi.”
“I know,” Navot replied. “But that still doesn’t make it any easier.”
I
t was nearly midnight by the time Gabriel returned to the Grayswood safe house. Entering the room he shared with Chiara, he found her seated upright in bed, with a cup of herbal tea on the bedside table and a stack of glossy magazines on her lap. Her hair was arranged into a careless bun with many stray tendrils, and she was wearing the stylish new glasses she required for reading. Chiara was self-conscious about the glasses, but Gabriel took secret pleasure in the slight weakening of her vision. It gave him hope that perhaps one day she might look less like his daughter and more like his wife.
“How did it go?” she asked without looking up.
“With rest and proper rehabilitation, there’s a chance I might regain partial use of my left hand.”
“That bad?”
“He’s angry. And I don’t blame him.”
Gabriel removed his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. Chiara rolled her eyes in disapproval. Then she licked the tip of her finger and turned the page of the magazine.
“He’ll get over it,” she said.
“It’s not the sort of thing that one gets over, Chiara. And it would have never happened if you and Shamron hadn’t conspired behind my back.”
“It wasn’t like that, darling.”
“How was it exactly?”
“Shamron came to see me when you were in France looking for Madeline. He said he wanted to put the screws to you one last time about becoming chief, and he wanted my blessing.”
“It was nice of him to ask.”
“Don’t be angry, Gabriel. It’s what he wants.” She paused, then added, “And it’s what I want, too.”
“You?” asked Gabriel, surprised. “Do you realize what it’s going to be like after I take my oath?”
“We’re sharing a room in a safe house with eight other people, including a man who once tried to kill you. I think I can handle your being chief.”
Gabriel walked over to the bed and leafed through the stack of magazines lying next to Chiara. One was devoted to women who were pregnant. He held it up for her to see and asked, “Is there something you want to tell me?”
She snatched the magazine from his grasp without responding. Gabriel scrutinized her for a moment with his head tilted to one side and his hand resting against his chin.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a painting.”
“I can’t help it.”
She smiled. Then she asked, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that I wish we were alone instead of in a safe house surrounded by eight other people.”
“Including a man who once tried to kill you,” she added. “But what are you
really
thinking?”
“I’m wondering why you haven’t asked me not to go to Moscow.”
“So am I.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Because they locked her in a car and burned her to death.”
“No other reason?”
“None,” she replied. “And if you’re wondering whether I want to go to Moscow with the rest of the team, the answer is no. I don’t think I’d be able to handle being back there. I might make a mistake.”
Without a word, Gabriel crawled into bed and laid his head upon Chiara’s womb.
“Aren’t you going to take off your clothes?” she asked.
“I’m too tired to take off my clothes.”
“Do you mind if I read a little longer?”
“You can do anything you want.”
Gabriel closed his eyes. The sound of Chiara gently turning the pages of her magazine nudged him toward sleep.
“Are you still awake?” she asked suddenly.
“No,” he murmured.