you’ll have another child.”
“Is there something I should know, Ari?”
Shamron’s lighter flared again. His next words were spoken not to Gabriel but the floodlit dome of Sacre-Coeur. “Come home, Gabriel. Take control of the Office. It is what you were born to do. Your future was determined when your mother named you Gabriel.”
“That was the same thing you said when you recruited me for Operation Wrath of God.”
“Was it?” Shamron gave a faint smile of remembrance. “No wonder you said yes to me then.”
Shamron had been hinting at a scenario like this for years, but never before had he stated it so unequivocally. Gabriel, were he foolish enough to accept the offer, knew only too well how he would spend the rest of his life. Indeed, he had to look no further than the man standing before him. Running the Office had ruined Shamron’s health and wreaked havoc with his family. The country regarded him as a national treasure, but as far as his children were concerned, Shamron was the father who had never been there. The father who had missed birthdays and anniversaries. The father who traveled in armored cars, surrounded by men with guns. It was not the life Gabriel wanted, nor did he intend to inflict it on his loved ones. To say those words to Shamron now was not an option. Better to hold out a glimmer of hope and use the situation to his advantage. Shamron would understand that. It was exactly the way he would have played it if the roles were reversed.
“How long before I would have to take control?”
“Does that mean you’ll take the job?”
“No, it means I’ll consider the offer-on two conditions.”
“I don’t like ultimatums. The PLO learned that lesson the hard way.”
“Do you want to hear my terms?”
“If you insist.”
“Number one, I get to finish my painting.”
Shamron closed his eyes and nodded. “And the second?”
“I’m going to get Grigori Bulganov out of Russia before Ivan kills him.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Shamron took a final pull at his cigarette and ground it out slowly in the ashtray. “See if there’s some coffee in this place. You know I’m incapable of discussing an operation without coffee.”
22
GABRIEL SPOONED coffee into the French press and briefed Shamron while waiting for the water to boil. Shamron sat motionless at the small table in his shirtsleeves, his liver-spotted hands bunched thoughtfully beneath his chin. He moved for the first time to read the letter Grigori had left with Olga Sukhova in Oxford, then a moment later to accept his first cup of coffee. He was pouring sugar into it when he announced his verdict.
“It’s clear Ivan is planning to hunt down and kill everyone who was involved in the operation against him. First he went after Grigori. Then Olga. But the person he really wants is
“So what do you want me to do? Spend the rest of my life hiding?” Gabriel shook his head. “To quote the great Ari Shamron, I don’t believe in sitting around while others plot my destruction. It seems to me we have a choice. We can live in fear. Or we can fight back.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?”
“By treating Ivan and his operators as though they are terrorists. By putting them out of business before they can go after anyone else. And if we’re lucky, we might be able to get Grigori back.”
“Where do you plan to start?”
Gabriel unzipped the side compartment of his overnight bag and withdrew an enlarged photograph of a Mercedes sedan with two people in the backseat. Shamron slipped on a pair of battered half-moon reading glasses and examined the image. Then Gabriel placed another photograph before him: the photo that had been attached to the letter in Oxford. Grigori and Irina in happier times…
“I suppose we know how they got him into the car so quietly,” Shamron said. “Did you share this with your British friends?”
“It might have slipped my mind while I was fleeing the country one step ahead of a Russian hit squad.”
“Accompanied by Graham Seymour’s defector.” Shamron spent a moment scrutinizing the photograph. “Tell me what you have in mind, my son.”
“I made a promise to Grigori the night he saved my life. I intend to keep that promise.”
“Grigori Bulganov has a British passport. That makes him a British problem.”
“Graham Seymour made one thing abundantly clear to me in London, Ari. As far as the British are concerned, Grigori is my defector, not theirs. And if I don’t try to get him back, no one will.”
Shamron tapped the photograph. “And you think she can help you?”
“She saw their faces. Heard their voices. If we can get to her, she can help us.”
“And what if she’s not willing to help you? What if she willingly took part in the operation?”
“I suppose anything is possible…”
“But?”
“I doubt it very seriously. Based on what Grigori told me, Irina hated the FSB and everything it stood for. It was one of the reasons their marriage came apart.”
“Were there any other reasons?”
“She was ashamed of Grigori for taking money from Ivan Kharkov. She called it blood money. She wouldn’t touch it.”
“Perhaps Irina had a change of heart. Russians can be very persuasive, Gabriel. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that everyone has a price.”
“You might be right, Ari. But we won’t know for sure until we ask her.”
“A conversation? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“Something like that.”
“What makes you think they haven’t killed her?”
“I called her office this morning. She answered the phone.”
Shamron drank some of his coffee and pondered the implications of Gabriel’s statement. “Let me make one thing clear from the outset. Under no circumstances are you or anyone else from the original operation against Ivan going back to Moscow.
“I have no intention of going back.”
“So how are you going to arrange a meeting with her?”
Gabriel gave the rough outlines of his plan. Shamron twirled his lighter between his fingertips while he listened: two turns to the right, two turns to the left.
“It has one flaw. You’re assuming she’ll cooperate.”
“I’m assuming nothing.”
“She’ll have to be handled carefully until you’re certain of her true loyalties.”
“And after that as well.”
“I suppose you’d like to use your old team.”
“It saves time having to get acquainted.”
“How much money is this going to cost me?”
Gabriel added coffee to Shamron’s cup and smiled. The Old Man had worked for the Office during a time when it counted every shekel, and he still acted as if operational funds came directly from his own pocket.
“A hundred thousand should cover it.”
“A hundred thousand!”
“I was going to ask for two.”
“I’ll transfer the funds into your account in Zurich tomorrow morning. As soon as you’ve established a base of operations, I’ll dispatch the team.”
