“Technically,” snapped Ivan, “that is correct, but these sorts of arrangements are common in private aviation.”

“Common, perhaps, but not entirely honest. Before we continue with this inquiry, I must insist you prove that you are the actual owner of the Boeing Business Jet with the tail number N7287IK. Perhaps the easiest way for you to do that would be to telephone your attorney and put him on the phone with me?”

“But it’s Sunday morning in America.”

“Then I suspect he’ll be at home.”

Ivan swore in Russian and picked up his mobile phone. The call failed to go through. After two more futile attempts, he looked at Boisson in frustration.

“I sometimes have trouble in this part of the building myself,” the Frenchman said apologetically. He pointed toward the telephone at the opposite end of the conference table. “Feel free to use ours. I’m sure it’s working just fine.”

Arkady Medvedev received the call from an obviously dazed Anton Ulyanov while he was relaxing in the study of his apartment in the Sparrow Hills. After hanging up, he immediately dialed the number for Elena’s driver and received no answer. After a second unsuccessful attempt, he twice tried to reach Luka Osipov, the head of Elena’s small security detail, but with the same result. He slammed down the receiver in frustration and stared glumly out the window toward central Moscow. A summons to appear at Nice airport… a crash on the Kutuzovsky Prospekt… and now Elena’s bodyguards weren’t answering their phones… It wasn’t a coincidence. Something was going on. But for the moment, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

The departure of the Kharkov children from Pampelonne Beach did not go according to schedule, which surely would come as no surprise to any parent of small children. First there were the demands for a final swim. Then there was the struggle to get two sand-covered seven-year-olds into dry clothing suitable for the journey home. And finally there were the obligatory histrionics during the long walk to the cars. For Sonia Cherkasov, the Kharkov ’s long-suffering nanny, the task was not made any easier by the fact that she was accompanied by four armed bodyguards. Experience had taught her that, at times like these, the bodyguards were usually more trouble than the children themselves.

As a result of the delays, it was 1:45 P.M. before the Kharkov party had boarded their cars. They followed their usual course: inland on the Route des Tamaris, then south along the D93 toward the Baie de Cavalaire. As they emerged from the traffic circle east of Ramatuelle, a gendarme stepped suddenly into the roadway ahead of them and raised a white-gloved hand. The driver of the lead car briefly considered ignoring the command, but when the gendarme gave two fierce blasts on his whistle, the driver thought better of it and pulled onto the shoulder, followed by the second car.

The gendarme, a veteran of the Saint-Tropez post, knew it was pointless to address the Russian in French. In heavily accented English, he informed the driver that he had been traveling well in excess of the posted speed limit. The driver’s response-that everyone speeds in the South of France in summer-did not sit well with the gendarme, who immediately demanded to see the driver’s operating permit, along with the passports of every occupant of the two vehicles.

“We didn’t bring the passports.”

“Why not?”

“Because we were at the beach.”

“As visitors to France, you are required to carry your passports with you at all times.”

“Why don’t you follow us home? We can show you our passports and be done with this nonsense.”

The gendarme peered into the backseat.

“Are these your children, Monsieur?”

“No, they are the children of Ivan Kharkov.”

The gendarme made a face to indicate the name was not familiar to him.

“And who are you?”

“I work for Mr. Kharkov. So do my colleagues in the second car.”

“In what capacity?”

“Security.”

“Am I to assume that you are carrying weapons?”

The Russian driver nodded his head.

“May I see your permits, please?”

“We don’t have the permits with us. They’re with the passports at Mr. Kharkov’s villa.”

“And where is this villa?”

The gendarme, upon hearing the answer, walked back to his car and lifted his radio to his lips. A second vehicle, a Renault minivan, had already arrived on the scene and shortly thereafter was joined by what appeared to be most of the Saint-Tropez force. The Russian driver, watching this scene in his rearview mirror, sensed the situation was deteriorating rapidly. He drew a mobile phone from his pocket and tried to call the chief of Ivan’s detail, but the call failed to go through. After three more attempts, he gave up in frustration and looked out the window. The gendarme was now standing there, with the flap of his holster undone and his hand wrapped around the grip of his sidearm.

“Where is your weapon, Monsieur?”

The driver reached down and silently patted his hip.

“Please remove it and place it carefully on the dash of the car.” He looked at the bodyguard in the passenger seat. “You, too, Monsieur. Gun on the dash. Then I’d like you both to step out of the car very slowly and place your hands on the roof.”

“What is this all about?”

“I’m afraid we have no choice but to detain you until we can sort out the matter of your passports and weapons permits. The children and their nanny can travel together in one car. You and your three colleagues will be driven separately. We can do this in a civilized manner or, if you prefer, we can do it in handcuffs. The choice is yours, Messieurs.”

57 MOSCOW

On the western side of the House on the Embankment was a small park with a pretty red church in the center. It was not popular under normal circumstances, and now, with the clouds low and heavy with rain, it was largely deserted. A few yards from the church was a coppice of trees, and amid the trees was a bench with much Russian obscenity carved into its wood. Gabriel sat at one end; Shmuel Peled, embassy driver and clandestine officer of Israeli intelligence, sat at the other. Shmuel was chattering away in fluent Russian. Gabriel was not listening. He was focused instead on the voices emanating from his miniature earpiece. The voice of Yaakov Rossman, who reported that Elena Kharkov’s car was now free of opposition surveillance. The voice of Eli Lavon, who reported that Elena Kharkov’s car was now approaching the House on the Embankment at high speed. The voice of Uzi Navot, who reported that Elena Kharkov was now leaving her car and proceeding into the building with Luka Osipov at her shoulder. Gabriel marked the time on his wristwatch: 3:54… They were already nine minutes behind schedule.

Better hurry, Elena. We all have a plane to catch.

Word of Elena Kharkov’s arrival reached London ten seconds later, not by voice but by a terse message that flashed across the billboard-sized video screen at the front of the room. Adrian Carter had been anxiously awaiting the alert and had the handset of a dedicated line to Langley pressed tightly to his ear. “She’s heading into the building,” he said calmly. “Take down the phones. Everything from the Moscow River south to the Garden Ring.”

She crossed the lobby with Luka Osipov at her heels and entered a small foyer with a single elevator. He attempted to follow her into the waiting car but she froze him with a wave of her hand. “Wait here,” she ordered, inserting a security keycard into the slot. She removed the card and pressed the button for the ninth floor. Luka Osipov stood motionless for several seconds, watching the elevator’s ascent play out on the red lights of the control panel. Then he opened his mobile and tried to call the driver outside. Hearing nothing, he snapped the phone shut and swore softly. The whole Moscow network must have crashed, he thought. We Russians can’t do anything right.