“Good afternoon, Elena,” said Gabriel. “It’s so good to see you again.”

54 MOSCOW

Arkady Medvedev’s was a uniquely Russian story. A former breaker of dissident heads from the Fifth Main Directorate of the KGB, he had been going to seed in the shattered remnants of his former service when, in 1994, he received a telephone call from an old underling named Ivan Kharkov. Ivan had a proposition: he wanted Medvedev to construct and oversee a private security service to protect his family and his burgeoning global financial empire. Medvedev accepted the offer without bothering to ask the salary. He knew enough about business in the newly capitalistic Russia to realize that a salary-at least the one listed on an employment contract-didn’t much matter.

For fifteen years, Arkady Medvedev had served Ivan well, and Ivan had been more than generous in return. Arkady Medvedev’s base earnings now stood at more than one million dollars a year, not bad for a former secret policeman who hadn’t had two rubles to rub together after the fall of communism. But the money was only part of his compensation package. There was a generous expense account and clothing allowance. There was a Bentley automobile, apartments in London, the South of France, and the exclusive Sparrow Hills of Moscow. And then there were the women-women like Oxana, a twenty-three-year-old beauty from the provinces whom Medvedev had plucked from a sushi bar two weeks earlier. She had been living at his apartment ever since, in varying states of undress.

If there was one drawback to working for Ivan, it was his knack for telephoning at the absolutely worst moments. True to form, the call came just as Medvedev and Oxana were about to jointly scale a summit of pleasure. Medvedev reached for the phone, bathed in sweat, and brought the receiver reluctantly to his ear. The conversation that followed, though brief, thoroughly spoiled the mood. When the call was over, Oxana resumed where she had left off, but for Medvedev it was no good. She finally collapsed forward onto his chest and sunk her teeth into his ear in frustration.

“You’re tired of me already?”

“Of course not.”

“So what’s the problem, Arkady?”

The problem, he thought, was Elena Kharkov. She was arriving in Moscow that evening for an emergency visit. Ivan was suspicious about her motives. Ivan wanted her under full-time watch. Ivan wanted no more stunts like the one in Saint-Tropez. And neither did Arkady Medvedev. He looked at Oxana and told her to get dressed. Five minutes later, as she was slipping out of his apartment, he snatched up the phone again and started moving his teams into place.

Elena ordered white wine; Gabriel, black coffee. They both decided to try the ravioli with wild mushroom reduction. Elena took a single bite and nibbled on her bread instead.

“You don’t like the food?” Gabriel asked.

“It’s not very good.”

“It’s actually much better than the usual fare. When was the last time you flew commercial?”

“It’s been a while.” She gazed out the window. “I suppose I’m a little like Russia itself. I went from having almost nothing to having almost everything. We Russians lurch from one extreme to the other. We never seem to get it just right.”

She turned and looked at him.

“May I speak honestly without hurting your feelings?”

“If you must.”

“You look quite ridiculous in that disguise. I like you much better with your short hair. And those glasses…” She shook her head. “They’re atrocious. You shouldn’t wear tinted lenses. They hide the color of your eyes.”

“I’m afraid that’s the point, Elena.”

She brushed a strand of hair from her face and asked where she was to be hidden after the defection. Her tone was casual, as though she were making polite conversation with a complete stranger. Gabriel answered in the same manner.

“On Sunday night, instead of boarding your flight back to Geneva and Nice, you’re going to board a plane to Tel Aviv. Your stay in Israel will be brief, a day or two at most.”

“And then?”

“The Americans have assumed responsibility for your resettlement. It’s a bigger country with far more places to hide than Israel. The man who is in charge of the case is a friend of mine. I’d trust him with my life, Elena, and I know he’ll take very good care of you and the children. But I’m afraid it won’t be anything like the lifestyle to which you’ve become accustomed.”

“Thank God for that.”

“You might think that now, but it’s going to be a rude awakening. You should anticipate that Ivan will file for divorce in a Russian court. Because you won’t be able to appear to contest the case, he’ll be able to divorce you in absentia and leave you and the children penniless.” He paused. “Unless we can lay our hands on a bit of his money in the next two days.”

“I don’t want any of Ivan’s money. It’s blood money.”

“Then do it for your children, Elena.”

She looked at the sketch he had given her-the two children on a beach. “I have access to joint accounts in London and Moscow,” she said softly. “But if I make any large withdrawals, Ivan will know about it.”

“He didn’t salt away any funds in Switzerland for a rainy day?”

“There’s a safe-deposit box in Zurich where he usually keeps a couple of million in cash. You would have to empty it out for me before Ivan has a chance to put a freeze on it.”

“Do you know the number and password?”

She nodded her head.

“Give them to me, Elena-for the children.”

She recited them slowly, then looked at him curiously.

“Don’t you want to write them down?”

“It’s not necessary.”

“You have a spy’s memory, just like Ivan.”

She picked at her food without appetite.

“I must say, your performance today was quite extraordinary. You should have seen Ivan’s face when he was informed his plane couldn’t take off.” She looked at him. “I assume you have the next act well choreographed, too?”

“We do, but all the choreography in the world isn’t worth a damn if the performer can’t pull it off.” A pause. “Last chance to bow out, Elena. And no hard feelings if you do.”

“I’m going to finish what I started,” she said. “For Aleksandr Lubin. For Boris Ostrovsky. And for Olga.”

Gabriel signaled the flight attendant and asked her to remove their food. Then he placed his briefcase on the tray table and opened the combination locks. He removed four items: a small plastic spray bottle, a device that looked like an ordinary MP3 player, a second rectangular device with a short USB connector cord, and a boarding pass for El Al Flight 1612, departing Moscow for Tel Aviv at 6:15 P.M. on Sunday.

“As you can probably tell by now, Elena, timing is everything. We’ve put together a schedule for your final hours in Moscow and it is important you adhere to it rigorously. Pay close attention to everything I tell you. We have a lot of ground to cover and very little time.”

The flight touched down at Sheremetyevo punctually at 8:05 P.M. Elena left the plane first and walked a few paces ahead through the terminal, with her handbag over her left shoulder and her overnight bag rolling along the cracked floor at her side. Arriving at passport control, Gabriel joined a line for unwanted foreigners, and by the time he was finally admitted into the country Elena was gone. Outside the terminal, he joined another endless line, this one for a taxi. He eventually climbed into the back of a rattling Lada, driven by a juvenile in mirrored sunglasses. Uzi Navot climbed into the car behind him.

“Where are you going?” asked Gabriel’s driver.

“Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”

“Your first time in Moscow?”

“Yes.”

“Some music?”

“No, I have a terrible headache.”

“How about a girl instead?”

“The hotel would be just fine, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”