Within days of graduation, he was summoned to Moscow and offered a job with the KGB. Few young men were foolish enough to refuse such an offer, and Petrov, a member of the KGB’s extended family, entertained no such thoughts. After undergoing two years of training at the KGB’s Red Banner Institute at Yasenevo, he was given the code name Comrade Zhirlov and sent back to East Berlin. A month later, with the help of a Soviet spy inside the West German intelligence service, he slipped through the Iron Curtain and established himself as an “illegal” agent in the West German city of Hamburg.
Petrov’s very existence was known only to a select group of senior generals inside the First Chief Directorate. His assignment was not to conduct espionage against America and its NATO allies but to wage war on dissidents, defectors, and other assorted troublemakers who dared to challenge the authority of the Soviet state. Armed with a half dozen false passports and a limitless supply of money, he hunted his quarry and meticulously planned their demise. He specialized in the use of poisons and other deadly toxins, some that produced near-instantaneous death, others that took weeks or months to prove lethal. Because he was a chemist, Petrov was able to assist in the design of his poisons and the weapons that delivered them. His favorite device was a ring, worn on his right hand, that injected the victim with a small dose of a deadly nerve toxin. One handshake, one clap on the back, was all it took to kill.
“As you might expect, Petrov didn’t take the fall of the Soviet Union well. He never had any qualms about killing dissidents and traitors. He was a believer.”
“What happened to all his KGB-issued passports?”
“He kept them. They came in handy when he moved to the West.”
“And you came with him?”
“Actually, I came first. Petrov followed a month or two later, and our partnership resumed. Business was brisk. Russians were pouring into Western Europe, and they brought the old ways with them. Within a few months, we had more clients than we could handle.”
“And one of these clients was Ivan Kharkov?”
The Russian hesitated, then nodded his head. “Ivan trusted him. Their fathers were both KGB, and
“Did you deal with Ivan directly?”
“Never. Only with Arkady Medvedev.”
“And after Arkady was killed?”
“Ivan sent someone else. Called himself Malensky.”
“Do you remember the date?”
“It was sometime last October.”
“After Ivan’s missile deal was made public?”
“Definitely after.”
“Did you meet in Geneva?”
“He was afraid I was being watched in Geneva. He insisted I come to Vienna.”
“He had a job offer?”
“
“The first was Grigori Bulganov?”
“Correct.”
“And the second was me?”
“No, not
48
GABRIEL FELT a wave of anger break over him. He wanted to drive his fist through the Russian’s face. He wanted to hit him so hard he would never get up again. Instead, he sat calmly, Glock in his hand, dead men over his shoulder, and asked Chernov to describe the genesis of the operation to kidnap Grigori.
“It was the challenge of a lifetime-at least, that’s how Petrov viewed it. Ivan wanted Bulganov taken from London and brought back to Russia. What’s more, it had to look as if Bulganov came home voluntarily. Otherwise, Ivan’s backers in the Kremlin wouldn’t give him the green light. They didn’t want another battle with the British like the one that followed Litvinenko’s poisoning.”
“How much?”
“Twenty million plus expenses, which were going to be substantial. Petrov had done jobs like this when he was with the KGB. He assembled a team of experienced operatives and put together a plan. Everything hinged on getting Bulganov into the car quietly. It couldn’t be a muscle job, not with the CCTV cameras looking over his shoulder. So he tricked Bulganov’s ex-wife into helping him.”
“Tell me about the people who work for him.”
“They’re all ex-KGB. And, like Petrov, they’re all very good.”
“Who pays them?”
“Petrov takes care of them out of his cut. I hear he’s very generous. He’s never had any trouble with his employees.”
Chernov had smoked the cigarette to the filter. He drew a last lungful and looked for a place to put the butt. Yaakov took it from Chernov’s fingers and tossed it into the fire. Gabriel refused a request for another cigarette and resumed the questioning.
“Someone took a wild shot at a Russian journalist the other night in Oxford.”
“You’re referring to Olga Sukhova?”
“I am. And I don’t suppose Petrov was there that night.”
“If he had been, Olga wouldn’t have survived. It was a rush job. He sent a couple of associates to handle it for him.”
“Where was Petrov?”
“He was in Italy preparing to kidnap your wife.”
Gabriel felt another wave of anger. He suppressed it and posed his next question.
“How did he find us?”
“He didn’t. The SVR did. They heard rumors you were in hiding in Italy and started leaning on their sources inside the Italian services. Eventually, one of them sold you out.”
“Do you know who?”
“Absolutely not.”
Gabriel didn’t make another run at him. He believed the Russian was telling the truth.
“What kind of information were you given about me?”
“Your name and the location of the estate where you were living.”
“Why did you wait so long to act?”
“Client’s instructions. The operation against your wife would go forward only if Bulganov’s abduction went smoothly-and only if the client gave a final order to proceed.”
“When did you receive such an order?”
“A week after Bulganov was taken.”
“Did it come from Malensky?”
“No, it was from the man himself. Ivan called my office in Geneva. In so many words, he made it clear Petrov was to move against the second target.” Chernov paused. “I saw a photograph of your wife, Allon. She’s a remarkably beautiful woman. I’m sorry we had to take her, but business is-”
Gabriel struck Chernov hard across the face with the Glock, reopening the gash over his eye.
“Where’s Petrov now?”
“I don’t know.”
Gabriel gazed at the fire. “Remember our agreement, Vladimir.”
“You could peel the flesh from my bones, Allon, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you where he is. I don’t know
