65
AFTERWARD, there would be a debate as to precisely how long it took Gabriel and Mikhail to perform their assignment. Total time was three minutes and twelve seconds-an impressive feat, made more so by the fact it took well over a minute just to drive the half mile from the first guard post to the dacha itself. From entry to rescue was an astonishing twenty-two seconds. Silence, speed, timing… And courage, of course. If Chiara had not decided to stand and fight for her life, both she and Grigori would surely have been dead by the time Gabriel and Mikhail reached the cellar.
Due to the miracle of advanced secure satellite communications, King Saul Boulevard was able to hear Gabriel whispering soothingly to Chiara in Italian. No one on the Operations Desk understood what was being said. It wasn’t necessary. The very fact Gabriel was speaking Italian to a hysterical woman told them everything they needed to know. The first phase of the operation had been a success. Mikhail confirmed it for them at 9:09:12 Moscow time. He also confirmed that Grigori Bulganov, though badly injured, was alive as well.
There arose in Tel Aviv a great roar as days of stress and sadness were released like steam from a valve. The cheering was so loud that ten long seconds elapsed before Shamron understood precisely what had transpired. When he broke the news to Adrian Carter and Graham Seymour, a second cheer erupted in the London annex, followed by a third at the Global Ops Center at Langley. Only Shamron refused to take part. And with good reason. The numbers told him everything he needed to know.
Five agents.
Two weakened hostages.
One thousand yards from the dacha to the road.
One hundred twenty-eight miles to Moscow.
And Ivan in the air.
Shamron twirled his old Zippo lighter between his fingertips and looked at the clock:
The numbers…
Unlike people, numbers never lied. And the numbers didn’t look good.
GABRIEL CUT away the cuffs and shackles and lifted Chiara to her feet.
“Can you walk?”
“Don’t leave me, Gabriel!”
“I’ll never leave you.”
“Stay with me!”
“Can you walk?”
“I think so.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist and helped her up the stairs.
“You have to hurry, Chiara.”
“Don’t leave me, Gabriel.”
“I’ll never leave you.”
“Don’t leave me here with them.”
“Everyone’s gone, my love. But we have to hurry.”
They reached the top of the stairs. Navot was standing in the center hall, bodies at his feet, blood on the walls.
“Grigori’s a mess,” Gabriel snapped in Hebrew. “Bring him up.”
Gabriel helped Chiara around the bodies and headed toward the hole where the door had once been. Chiara saw more bodies. Bodies everywhere. Bodies and blood.
“Oh, God.”
“Don’t look, my love. Just walk.”
“Oh, God.”
“Walk, Chiara. Walk.”
“Did you kill them, Gabriel? Did you do this?”
“Just keep walking, my love.”
NAVOT ENTERED the cell and saw Grigori’s face.
Bastards!
He looked at Mikhail.
“Let’s get him on his feet.”
“He’s in bad shape.”
“I don’t care. Just get him on his feet.”
Grigori screamed in agony as Mikhail and Navot pulled him upright.
“I don’t think I can walk.”
“You don’t have to.”
Navot hoisted the Russian over one shoulder and nodded to Mikhail.
“Let’s go.”
THE BACK DOORS of the Range Rover were now open. Yaakov was standing on one side, Oded on the other. A few feet away were two Russian corpses, arms flung wide, heads surrounded by halos of blood. Gabriel led Chiara past the bodies and lifted her into the back. Then he turned and saw Navot coming out of the dacha, Grigori draped over one shoulder.
“Put him in the back with Chiara and get out of here.”
Navot eased Grigori into the car while Gabriel climbed into the front passenger seat. Mikhail dug the keys from the pocket of his parka and fired the engine. As the Rover shot forward, Gabriel glanced back a final time.
Three men. Running for the trees.
He inserted a fresh magazine into the Mini-Uzi and looked at his watch:
“Faster, Mikhail. Drive faster.”
THEY WERE doing just under a hundred along the deserted road, two black Range Rovers, both filled with former Russian special forces now employed by the private security service of Ivan Kharkov. In the front seat of the first vehicle, a cell phone trilled. It was Oleg Rudenko, calling from the helicopter.
“Where are you?”
“Close.”
“How close?”
Very…
FOR REASONS that would be made clear to Gabriel in short order, the track from the dacha to the road did not run in a straight line. Viewed from an American spy satellite, it looked rather like an inverted S rendered by the hand of a young child. Viewed from the front passenger seat of a speeding Range Rover in late winter, it was a sea of white. White snow. White birch trees. And, just around the second bend, a pair of white headlamps approaching at an alarmingly rapid rate.
Mikhail instinctively hit the brakes-in hindsight, a mistake, since it gave a slight advantage on impact to the other vehicle. The air bags spared them serious injury but left Gabriel and Mikhail too dazed to resist when the Rover was stormed by several men. Gabriel briefly glimpsed the butt of a Russian pistol arcing toward the side of his head. Then there was only white. White snow. White birch trees. Chiara floating away from him, dressed all in white.
