miserable-looking valet. He gave the valet a large tip, climbed behind the
wheel, and drove away. Twenty minutes later, having rounded the walls of the
Kremlin, he joined the river of steel and light flowing north out of Moscow. In
the Op Center at King Saul Boulevard, however, he was but a single red light, an
angel of vengeance alone in the city of heretics.
51
TVER OBLAST, RUSSIA It was once the dacha of a powerful man—a member of the Central Committee, maybe even the Politburo. No one could say for certain, for in the chaotic days after the collapse all had been lost. State-owned factories had remained shuttered because no one could find the keys; government computers had slept because no one could remember the codes. Russia had stumbled into the brave new millennium without a map or a memory. There were some who said it had no memory still, though now its amnesia was deliberate.
For several years, the forgotten dacha sat empty and derelict, until a newly well-to-do Moscow developer named Bloch acquired it for a song and rebuilt it from the ground up. Eventually, like many of Russia’s early rich, Bloch ran afoul of the new crowd in the Kremlin and decided to leave the country while he still could. He settled in Israel, in part because he thought he might be a little bit Jewish, but mainly because no other country would have him. Over time, he sold off his Russian assets, but not the dacha in Tver Oblast. He gave that to Ari Shamron and told him to use it in good health.
It stood by a lake with no name and was reached by a road that appeared on no map. It was not truly a road, more like a groove that had been beaten into the birch forest long before anyone had ever heard of a place called Russia. The dacha’s original gate remained, as did the old Soviet NO TRESPASSING sign that Bloch, a child of the Stalinist era, had been too terrified to remove. It flashed briefly through Gabriel’s headlamps as he came bumping up the snowbound drive. Then the dacha appeared, heavy and timbered, with a peaked roof and broad porches all around. Parked outside were several vehicles, including an S-Class Mercedes owned by Volgatek Oil & Gas. As Gabriel climbed out of the Volvo SUV, a cigarette flared in the darkness.
“Welcome to Shangri-La,” said Christopher Keller. He was wearing a heavy down parka and holding a Makarov pistol.
“How’s the perimeter?” asked Gabriel.
“Cold as hell, but clean.”
“How long can you stay out here?”
Keller smiled. “I’m Regiment, luv.”
Gabriel slipped past Keller and entered the dacha. The rest of the team were scattered in various states of repose across the rustic furnishings in the great room. Mikhail was still dressed for dinner at Café Pushkin. He was soaking his right hand in a bowl of ice water.
“What happened?” Gabriel asked.
“I bumped it.”
“Against what?”
“Another man’s face.”
Gabriel asked to see the hand. It was badly swollen, and three of the knuckles had no skin.
“How many times did you bump it?” asked Gabriel.
“Once or twice. Or maybe it was more like ten or twelve.”
“How’s the face?”
“See for yourself.”
“Where is he?”
Mikhail pointed toward the floor.
Among the dacha’s many luxury features was a nuclear fallout shelter. It had once contained a year’s worth of food, water, and supplies. Now it contained two men. Both were heavily trussed in duct tape: hands, feet, knees, mouths, eyes. Even so, it was obvious that the face of the elder man had suffered significant damage as a result of repeated collisions against Mikhail’s dangerous right hand. He was propped against one wall, with his legs stretched before him across the floor. Upon hearing the opening of the door, his head began to swivel from side to side, a radar dish in search of an invading aircraft. Gabriel crouched before him and tore away the duct tape covering the eyes, taking part of one brow with it, which left him with an expression of permanent surprise. There was a deep gash on one cheek and dried blood around the nostrils of his now-crooked nose. Gabriel smiled and removed the duct tape from the mouth.
“Hello, Pavel,” he said. “Or should I call you Paul?”
Zhirov said nothing. Gabriel scrutinized the broken nose.
“That must hurt,” he said. “But these things happen in a place like Russia.”
“I look forward to returning the favor, Allon.”
“So you do recognize me.”
“Of course,” Zhirov said a little too confidently. “We’ve been watching you since the moment you set foot in Russia.”
“Who’s we?” asked Gabriel. “Volgatek? The SVR? The FSB? Or shall we just put aside the niceties and call you the KGB, which is exactly what you are.”
“You’re dead, Allon—you and all your people. You’ll never leave Russia alive.”
Gabriel’s smile was still firmly in place. “I’ve always found it best not to make hollow threats, Pavel.”