“I’d feel better if we could take him to another country.”
“So would I, Eli. But we can’t.”
“How far is it to Mongolia?”
“Too far to drive,” said Gabriel. “And the food is terrible.”
Five minutes later, as Gabriel entered the Metropol’s overheated lobby, Yossi Gavish stepped from his fourth-floor room at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel dressed in a banker’s gray suit and a silver necktie. In his left hand was a gold name tag that read ALEXANDER—a student of history, Yossi had chosen it himself—and in his right was a glossy blue gift bag bearing the hotel’s logo. The bag was heavier than Yossi made it appear, for it contained a Makarov 9mm pistol, one of several weapons that Moscow Station had acquired from illicit local sources before the team’s arrival. For three days the weapon had been concealed between the mattress and box spring in Yossi’s room. He was understandably relieved to finally be rid of it.
Yossi waited until he was certain the corridor was unoccupied before quickly affixing the name tag to his lapel. Then he made his way to the doorway of Room 421. From the opposite side he could hear a man singing “Penny Lane” quite well. He knocked twice, firm but polite, the knock of a concierge. Then, upon receiving no answer, he knocked again, louder. This time a man in a white toweling robe answered. He was tall, impossibly fit, and pink from his bath.
“I’m busy,” he snapped.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Mr. Avedon,” replied Yossi in a neutral cosmopolitan accent, “but management would like to offer you a small gift of our appreciation.”
“Tell management thanks but no thanks.”
“Management would be disappointed.”
“It’s not more bloody caviar, is it?”
“I’m afraid management didn’t say.”
The pink man in the white robe snatched the gift bag and slammed the door on Yossi’s false hotelier’s smile. With that, Yossi turned on his heel and, after plucking the name tag from his lapel, headed back to his own room. There he quickly removed his suit and changed into a pair of jeans and a heavy woolen sweater. His suitcase stood at the foot of the bed; if everything went according to plan, a courier from Moscow Station would collect it in a few hours and destroy the contents. Yossi stuffed the suit into a side pocket and pulled the zipper closed. Then he wiped down every object he had touched in the room and left it for what he hoped would be the last time.
Downstairs in the lobby, he saw Dina leafing skeptically through an English-language Moscow newspaper. He walked past her as though they were unacquainted and stepped outside. A Range Rover waited at the curb, its tailpipe sending a plume of vaporous exhaust into the bitterly cold night. Seated behind the wheel was Christopher Keller. He pulled into the evening rush-hour traffic on Tverskaya Street even before Yossi had closed the door. Directly before them rose the Kremlin’s Corner Arsenal Tower, its red star glowing like a warning light. Keller whistled tunelessly as he drove.
“Do you know the way?” asked Yossi.
“Left on Okhotnyy Ryad Street, left on Bol’shaya Dmitrovka Street, and then another left on the Boulevard Ring.”
“Spend much time in Moscow, do you?”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“Can you at least pretend to be nervous?”
“Why should I be nervous?”
“Because we’re about to kidnap a KGB officer in the middle of Moscow.”
Keller smiled as he made the first left turn. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
It took Keller and Yossi the better part of twenty minutes to make the short drive to their holding point on the Boulevard Ring. Upon arrival, Yossi fired off a secure message to Gabriel at the Metropol, and Gabriel in turn bounced it to King Saul Boulevard, where it flashed across the status screen in the Op Center. Seated in his usual chair was Uzi Navot. He was staring at a live video image of the Ritz-Carlton’s lobby, courtesy of the miniature transmitter concealed in Dina’s handbag. The time was 7:36 in Moscow, 6:36 in Tel Aviv. At 6:38 the phone at Navot’s elbow rang. He brought the receiver swiftly to his ear, grunted something that sounded like his own name, and heard the voice of Orit, his executive secretary. Inside King Saul Boulevard, she was known as “the Iron Dome” because of her unrivaled ability to shoot down requests for a moment with the chief.
“No way,” responded Navot. “Not a chance.”
“He’s made it clear he’s not going to leave.”
Navot sighed heavily. “All right,” he said. “Send him down, if you have to.”
Navot hung up the phone and stared at the image of the hotel lobby. Two minutes later he heard the sound of the Op Center door opening and closing behind him. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a liver-spotted hand place two packs of Turkish cigarettes on the tabletop, along with a battered old Zippo. The lighter flared. A cloud of smoke blurred the image on the screen.
“I thought I pulled all your passes,” Navot said quietly, still staring straight ahead.