“The Americans?”
“You were the ones who approached me, remember, Pavel? It happened in Copenhagen, at the
oil forum. We met at the house in the middle of nowhere. I’m sure you were
there.”
“Who are you working for?” Zhirov asked again, a
teacher to a dull pupil.
“Stop the car. Let me out.”
“Who?”
“Stop the fucking car.”
It did stop, but not because of Zhirov; they had
reached Petrovka Street. It was a large intersection, with streets leading away
in several different directions. The light had just turned red. Directly in
front of them was a Land Rover with two men in front. Mikhail shot a glance over
his shoulder and saw a second Rover behind them. Then he felt his mobile phone
give three short bursts of vibration.
“What was that?” asked Zhirov.
“Just my mobile.”
“Turn it off and remove the battery.”
“You can never be too careful, right, Pavel?”
“Turn it off,” Zhirov snapped.
Mikhail reached into his overcoat, drew the
Makarov, and screwed the barrel hard into Zhirov’s ribs. The Russian’s eyes
widened, but he said nothing. He looked at Mikhail for a few seconds, then his
gaze moved toward Yaakov, who was climbing out of the Land Rover in front of
them. Keller had already climbed out of the second Land Rover and was
approaching the Mercedes from behind.
“Tell the driver to put the car in park,” Mikhail
said quietly. “Otherwise, I’m going to put a bullet in your heart. Tell him,
Pavel, or you’re going to die right now.”
When Zhirov made no response, Mikhail thumbed back
the hammer of the weapon. Keller was now standing at Zhirov’s window.
“Tell him, Pavel.”
The traffic light turned green. Somewhere a car
horn sounded. Then another.
“Tell him!” Mikhail barked in Russian.
Zhirov glanced into the rearview mirror, met the
driver’s gaze, and nodded once. The driver slipped the car into park and placed
his hands atop the wheel.
“Tell him to get out of the car and do exactly as
he’s told.”
Another glance into the mirror, another nod of the
head. The driver responded by opening the door and climbing slowly out. Yaakov
waited there to take possession of him. After murmuring a few words into the
driver’s ear, he led him to the Land Rover, shoved him into the backseat, and
slid in after him. By then, Keller had taken the driver’s place behind the wheel
of the Mercedes. When the Land Rover moved off, he slipped the car into gear and
followed after it. Mikhail still had the Makarov to Zhirov’s ribs.
“Who are you?” Zhirov asked.
“I’m Nicholas Avedon,” Mikhail answered.
“Who are you?” Zhirov repeated.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” said Mikhail. “And if
you don’t shut your mouth, I’m going to kill you.”
In the
Op Center at King Saul Boulevard, the lights of the team were moving vertically
up the video map of Moscow—all but one, which was motionless on Teatralny
Prospekt, just down the hill from Lubyanka Square. There were no celebrations,
no congratulations on a job well done. The setting wouldn’t allow it. Moscow had
a way of fighting back.
“Thirty seconds from start to finish,” Navot said,
his eyes fixed on the screen. “Not bad.”
“Thirty-three,” said Shamron. “But who’s
counting?”
“You were.”
Shamron gave a faint smile; he had been counting. In fact, he had been counting his entire life.
The number of family members lost to the fires of the Holocaust. The number of
countrymen lost to the bullets and the bombs. The number of times he had cheated
death.
“How far is it to the safe house?”
“One hundred and forty-seven miles from the Outer
Ring.”
“What’s the weather forecast?”
“Horrendous,” replied Navot, “but they can handle
it.”
Shamron said nothing more. Navot stared at the
lights moving across Moscow.
“Thirty seconds,” he repeated. “Not bad.”
“Thirty-three,” said Shamron. “And let’s hope no
one else was watching.”
Though
Shamron did not know it, those were the same thoughts running through the head
of the man standing in the window of his fourth-floor room at the Hotel
Metropol. He was gazing down the curve of Teatralny Prospekt, toward the yellow
fortress looming over Lubyanka Square. He wondered whether he would be able to
detect some sort of reaction—lights coming on in the upper floors, cars
careening out of the garage—but decided it was unlikely. Lubyanka had always
been good at hiding her emotions, just as Russia had always been good at hiding
her dead.
He turned away from the window, switched off his
computer, and stuffed it into the side pocket of his overnight bag. Then he rode
the elevator down to the lobby, accompanied by a pair of prostitutes, seventeen
going on forty-five. Outside a Volvo SUV idled at the curb, watched over by a