“Of course not, Sergei. Why would I think a thing like that?”

“I’m sure you have a few questions.”

“A couple thousand, actually.”

“We’ll have time for that later. Get back in the car and pretend your hands are still cuffed.”

67 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA

Gabriel peered out the car window at the dachas in the trees. He did not see them. Instead, he saw a man who looked like Lenin, seated behind an interrogation table at Lubyanka. It was possible Bulganov was playing some sort of game. Possible, thought Gabriel, but not likely. The colonel had just freed his hands and given him a loaded gun-a gun he could use, if he were so inclined, to splatter the colonel’s brains across the windshield.

“What were you and Arkady talking about in Russian?”

“He told me he wanted information from you.”

“Did he tell you what it was?”

“No, he wanted me to take you into the woods and put a gun to your head. I was supposed to give you one more chance to talk before killing you.”

“And you agreed to this?”

“It’s a long story. The point is, we can use it to our advantage. We’ll walk in the same door we just walked out. I’ll tell Arkady you’ve had a change of heart. That you’re willing to tell him anything he wants to know. Then, when we’re close enough, I’ll shoot him.”

"Arkady?”

“Yes, I’ll take care of Arkady. That leaves the two other gorillas. They’re both ex-special forces. They know how to handle guns. I’m just an FSB counterintelligence officer. I watch spies.”

Bulganov glanced into the rearview mirror.

“You can’t walk into the building with the gun in your hand, Allon. You’ll have to hide it somewhere you can get to it quickly. I hear you’re not bad with a gun. Do you think you can get that Makarov out in time to keep those goons from killing us?”

Gabriel inserted the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers and concealed it with his coat. “Keep your gun pointed at me until you’re ready. When I see it move toward Arkady, I’ll take that as my cue.”

“That leaves the three boys outside.”

“They won’t stay outside for long-not when they hear the sound of gunfire inside the warehouse. Whatever you do, don’t offer them a chance to lay down their weapons and surrender. It doesn’t work that way in the real world. Just turn around and start shooting. And don’t miss. We won’t have time to reload.”

“You’ve only got eight rounds in that magazine.”

“If I have to use more than five, we’re in trouble.”

“Can you see well enough?”

“I can see just fine.”

“I have to admit something to you, Allon.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve never shot anyone before.”

“Just remember to pull the trigger, Grigori. The gun works much better when you pull the trigger.”

The three security guards were still milling about the entrance of the warehouse when Gabriel and Bulganov returned. Someone must have found where Ivan kept the beer because all three were drinking from enormous bottles of Baltika. As Gabriel walked toward the guards, he held his right wrist in his left hand to create the illusion his hands were still cuffed. Bulganov walked a half step behind, Makarov pointed at the center of Gabriel’s back. The guards seemed only moderately interested in their reappearance. Obviously, they were used to seeing condemned men being led around at the point of a gun.

It was precisely forty-two paces from the open loading door to the spot where Elena Kharkov sat chained to her metal chair. Gabriel knew this because he counted the steps in his head as he covered the distance now, with Colonel Grigori Bulganov at his side. Colonel Bulganov, who two months earlier had ordered Gabriel to be thrown down two flights of steps in Lubyanka. Colonel Bulganov, who had called himself Sergei that night and said he would kill Gabriel if he ever returned to Russia. Colonel Bulganov, who had never fired a gun in anger before and in whose hands Gabriel’s life now resided.

Arkady Medvedev was standing before Elena in his shirtsleeves and screaming obscenities into her face. As Bulganov and Gabriel approached, he turned to face them, hands on his hips, Stechkin shoved down the front of his trousers. Luka Osipov and the bald giant were standing directly behind Elena, each to one side. It was hardly optimal, Gabriel thought, but because Elena was still handcuffed to the chair, there was no chance of her getting into his line of fire. Bulganov spoke in Russian to Medvedev as they moved into point-blank range. Medvedev smiled and looked at Gabriel.

“So, you’ve come to your senses.”

“Yes, Arkady. I’ve come to my senses.”

“Tell me then. Where are Ivan’s children?”

“What children?”

Medvedev frowned and looked at Bulganov. Bulganov frowned in return and pointed his gun at Medvedev’s heart. Gabriel took a step to his right while simultaneously reaching beneath his coat for the Makarov. They fired their first shots simultaneously, Bulganov into Medvedev’s chest, Gabriel into the flat forehead of the bald giant. Luka Osipov responded with a futile attempt to draw his weapon. Gabriel’s shot caught him just beneath the chin and exited at the base of his skull.

At that instant, Gabriel heard the sound of shattering glass: the sound of three men simultaneously dropping three bottles of Baltika beer. They came in through the doorway neatly spaced, like little floating ducklings in an arcade shooting gallery. Gabriel took them down in order: head shot, head shot, torso shot.

He spun round and looked at Elena. She was desperately trying to pull her wrists through her handcuffs, her mouth wide in a silent scream. Gabriel wanted to comfort her but could not; Arkady Medvedev was still alive and was struggling to get the Stechkin out of the front of his trousers. Gabriel kicked the gun out of Medvedev’s hands and stood over him. The Russian began to pant, pink blood frothing at the side of his mouth.

“I’d like you to give Ivan a message,” Gabriel said. “Will you do that for me, Arkady?”

Medvedev nodded, his breathing rapid and shallow. Gabriel raised the Makarov and fired his last three shots into the Russian’s face. Message delivered.

Gabriel held Elena tightly while Bulganov searched the bodies for a key to the handcuffs. He found one, a universal, on Luka Osipov. He freed Elena’s hands first, then removed the cuffs from Gabriel’s hands.

“Take her out to the car,” Gabriel said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Be quick about it.”

“Just go.”

As Bulganov led Elena toward the door, Gabriel searched the corpse of Arkady Medvedev. He found keys, passports, and a wallet filled with cash. He ignored the money and removed a single item: a plastic card embossed with the image of a large apartment house on the banks of the Moscow River.

Bulganov had the Volga ’s engine running by the time Gabriel stepped outside. He climbed into the back next to Elena, whose screams were no longer silent. Gabriel held her tightly to his chest as Bulganov drove away.

Her wailing had ceased by the time they saw the sign. It stood at the intersection of two dreadful roads, rusted, crooked, and pierced by bullet holes. Two arrows pointed in opposite directions. To the left was MOCKBA, the Cyrillic spelling of Moscow. Bulganov explained what lay to the right.

“ Ukraine.”

“How long?”

“We can be over the border before dawn.”

“We?”

“I just helped an Israeli agent kill Arkady Medvedev and five of his security men. How long do you think I’ll live if I stay in Moscow? A week, if I’m lucky. I’m coming with you.”

“Another defector? That’s all we need.”

“I suspect you’ll find I’m worth my weight in gold. You see, I’ve been privately investigating the ties between men like Ivan Kharkov and the FSB for years. I also know a great deal about Ivan’s little arms-trafficking network. Much more than you, I suspect. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to come with you, Allon?”