When not tending to his far-flung business empire, Ivan juggled his many women. There was Yekatarina, the supermodel whom he kept for personal viewing in an apartment in Paris. There was Tatyana, the Aeroflot flight attendant who saw to his needs each time their paths happened to intersect. And there was poor Ludmila, who had come to London looking for a way out of her dreary Siberian village and had found Ivan instead. She had believed Ivan’s lies and, when cast aside, had threatened to tell Elena everything. Another man might have tried to defuse the situation with expensive gifts or money. But not Ivan. Ivan threatened to have her killed. And then he threatened to kill her parents in Russia as well.
Occasionally, they would be granted a reprieve from Ivan by the voice of Elena. Though not an official target of NSA surveillance, she became ensnared in NSA’s net each time she used one of Ivan’s phones. She was silk to Ivan’s steel, decency to Ivan’s decadence. She had everything money could buy but seemed to want nothing more than a husband with an ounce of integrity. She raised their two children without Ivan’s help and, for the most part, passed her days free of Ivan’s boorish company. Ivan bought her large houses and gave her endless piles of money to fill them with expensive things. In return, she was permitted to ask nothing of his business or personal affairs. With the help of NSA’s satellites, Gabriel and Lavon became privy to Ivan’s many lies. When Ivan told Elena he was in Geneva for a meeting with his Swiss bankers, Gabriel and Lavon knew he was actually in Paris partaking in the delights of Yekatarina. And when Ivan told Elena he was in Düsseldorf meeting with a German industrialist, Gabriel and Lavon knew he was actually in Frankfurt helping Tatyana pass a long layover in an airport hotel room. Lavon’s loathing of him grew with each passing hour. “Lots of women make deals with the Devil,” he said. “But poor Elena was foolish enough to actually marry him.”
An hour before dawn, Gabriel was reading an excruciatingly dull cable by the CIA station chief in Angola when Lavon poked his head in the door.
“I think you need to come and listen to something.”
Gabriel set aside the cable and followed Lavon into the drawing room. The anonymous air of a hotel hospitality suite had been replaced by that of a university common room on the night before a final exam. Lavon sat down before a laptop computer and, with a click of the mouse, played a series of fourteen intercepts, each featuring the voice of Elena Kharkov. None required translation because in each conversation she was speaking fluent English and addressing the same man. The last intercept was only two months old. Gabriel listened to it three times, then looked at Lavon and smiled.
“What do you think?” Lavon asked.
"I think you may have just found a way for us to talk to Ivan’s wife.”
25 DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETOWN
She’s obsessed with Mary Cassatt.” "Is that one of Ivan’s girlfriends?”
“She’s a painter, Adrian. An Impressionist painter. A rather good one, actually.”
“Forgive me, Gabriel. I’ve been somewhat busy since 9/11. I can give you chapter and verse on the one hundred most dangerous terrorists in the world, but I can’t tell you the title of the last movie I saw.”
“You need to get out more, Adrian.”
“Tell that to al-Qaeda.”
They were walking along the dirt-and-gravel towpath at the edge of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. It was early morning, but the sun had yet to burn its way through the layer of gauzy gray cloud that had settled over Washington during the night. On their left, the wide green waters of the Potomac River flowed listlessly toward Georgetown, while, on their right, warring motorists sped toward the same destination along Canal Road. Gabriel wore faded jeans and a plain white pullover; Carter, a nylon tracksuit and a pair of pristine running shoes.
“I take it Mary Cassatt was French?”
“American, actually. She moved to Paris in 1865 and eventually fell under the spell of the Impressionists. Her specialty was tender portraits of women and children-intriguing, since she was unmarried and childless herself. Her work is a bit too sentimental for my taste, but it’s extremely popular among a certain type of collector.”
“Like Elena Kharkov?”
Gabriel nodded. “Based on what we heard in the NSA intercepts, she owns at least six Cassatts already and is in the market for more. She’s on a first-name basis with every significant dealer in Paris, London, and New York. She’s also got excellent contacts at the big auction houses, including the director of the Impressionist and Modern Art department at Christie’s in London.”
“Know him?”
“In another life.”
“I take it you’re planning to renew your professional relationship?”
“One step at a time, Adrian.”
Carter walked in silence for a moment, with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes cast downward. “I had a chance to peruse her file. Elena’s an interesting woman, to say the least. She’s a Leningrad girl. Did you notice that, Gabriel?”
“Yes, Adrian, I did notice that.”
“Her father was a Party muckety-muck. Worked for Gosplan, the central planning bureaucracy that oversaw the Rube Goldberg contraption once known as the Soviet economy. She went to Leningrad State University and was supposed to be an economist like her father. But apparently she had a change of heart and decided to study languages and art instead. It seems she was working at the Hermitage when she met Ivan. One wonders what she saw in him.”
“They had similar backgrounds. Both were children of the elite.”
“There’s a big difference between Gosplan and the KGB.”
Gabriel heard footfalls and looked up to see a floppy-haired runner bounding toward them with headphones over his ears. He envied those innocent souls who could go out in public deprived of a vital sense. When they were alone again, Carter asked, “How do you intend to play this?”
“After listening to those intercepts, I’m convinced that if a painting by Mary Cassatt were to come quietly onto the market Elena Kharkov would jump at the opportunity to have a look.”
“And you would be standing next to it when she did?”
“Or one of my associates. Someone with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for the paintings of Mary Cassatt. Someone who won’t make Elena’s bodyguards nervous.”
Carter absently patted his right pocket, as if looking for his pipe. “Should I assume this encounter would take place on British soil?”
“You should.”
“That means you’re going to have to bring the British into the picture. Ivan and his entourage are under full-time MI5 surveillance whenever they’re in London. I suspect our British cousins will be more than willing to cooperate. The British have been pressing us to do something about Ivan for years.”
Twenty yards ahead, a young woman was being pulled along the towpath by a panting Siberian husky. Gabriel, whose fear of dogs was legendary in the trade, deftly switched places with Carter and watched with a certain professional satisfaction as the dog pressed its dripping muzzle against the leg of Carter’s tracksuit.
“This agent with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for Mary Cassatt,” Carter said as he wiped away the spittle. “Do you have someone in mind for the job yet?”
“I’m inclined to use a woman. She would have to be able to pass as an American or a Brit. We have several suitable candidates but none with any real expertise when it comes to art. Which means I’d have to start from scratch to get them ready.”
“That’s a shame. After all, the clock is ticking.”
“Yes, Adrian, I realize that.”
“As you may recall, we have someone who might fit the bill. She has a Ph.D. in art history from Harvard and she’s done a job like this before. She’s even operated with your service on a couple of occasions, which means she understands your rather archaic Hebrew-based lexicon.”