Like all those who had heard the dreaded knock, she entertained thoughts of not answering it. But she did answer. Everyone answered eventually. She did so not in fear but in a fit of feigned outrage, with her handbag over her left shoulder and her right hand wrapped around the plastic spray bottle in her coat pocket. Standing in the vestibule, his face pale with anger and damp with sweat, was Luka Osipov. A gun was in his hand and it was pointed directly at Elena’s heart. She feared the gun might go off if she attempted to deploy the spray bottle, so she drew her empty hand slowly from her pocket and placed it on her hip, frowning at her bodyguard in bewilderment.
“Luka Ustinovich,” she said, using his patronymic. “Whatever’s gotten into you?”
“Where’s Pyotr?”
“Who’s Pyotr?”
“The guard who’s supposed to be on duty at this flat.”
“There was no one here when I arrived, you idiot. Now, let’s go.”
She tried to step into the vestibule. The bodyguard blocked her path.
“What game do you think you’re playing, Luka? We have to get to the airport. Trust me, Luka Ustinovich, the last thing you want is for me to miss my plane.”
The bodyguard said nothing. Instead, he reached into the elevator, with the gun still aimed at her abdomen, and sent the carriage back down to the lobby. Then he pushed her into the apartment and slammed the door.
59 GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
Shamron’s lighter flared in the gloom of the ops center, briefly illuminating his face. His eyes were focused on the large central display screen at the front of room, where Uzi Navot’s last transmission from Moscow flashed with all the allure of a dead body lying in a gutter.
BG ENTERING HOTE… TROUBLE…
BG stood for bodyguard. HOTE for House on the Embankment. TROUBLE required no translation. Trouble was trouble.
The screen went black. A new message appeared.
AM ENTERING HOTE… ADVISE…
The initials AM stood for Arkady Medvedev. The word ADVISE meant that Gabriel’s meticulously planned operation was in serious danger of crashing and burning, with significant loss of life a distinct possibility.
“They’re your boys,” Carter said. “It’s your call.”
Shamron flicked ash into his coffee cup. “We sit tight. We give her a chance.”
Carter looked at the digital clock. “It is now four-fifteen, Ari. If your team is to have any chance of getting on that plane, they need to be in their cars and heading to the airport in the next ten minutes.”
“Airplanes are complicated machines, Adrian. A lot of little things can go wrong with an airplane.”
“It might be a good idea to get that over and done with.” Shamron picked up a secure telephone connected to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard. A few terse words in Hebrew. A calm glance at Carter.
“It appears a cabin pressure warning light is now flashing in the cockpit of El Al Flight 1612. Until that problem is resolved to the satisfaction of the captain, a man who happens to be a decorated former IAF fighter pilot, that aircraft isn’t going anywhere.”
“Well played,” said Carter.
“How long can our French friends keep Ivan tied up in Nice?”
“Monsieur Boisson is just getting started. The children, however, are another matter entirely. We have a decision to make, Ari. What do we do about the children?”
“I wouldn’t want my children sitting around a gendarmerie station, would you, Adrian?”
“Can’t say I would.”
“Then let’s take them. Who knows? Depending on what happens inside the apartment building in the next ten minutes, we may need them.”
“For what?”
“I’m not going to give her up without a fight, Adrian, and you can be sure Gabriel isn’t either.” Shamron dropped his cigarette into his coffee cup and gave it a swirl. “Call the French. Get me Ivan’s children.”
Carter picked up the secure line connected to the French ops center in Paris. Shamron looked at the message screen, where Uzi Navot’s last message flashed incessantly.
AM ENTERING HOTE… ADVISE…
AM ENTERING HOTE… ADVISE…
AM ENTERING HOTE… ADVISE…
They had placed Sonia and the children in a pleasant holding room and plied them with cold fruit juice and ice cream. A pretty young female gendarme remained with them at all times, more for company than for reasons of security. They watched cartoons and played a noisy game of cards that made no sense to anyone, least of all the children themselves. The chief duty officer made them honorary gendarmes for the day and even allowed Nikolai to inspect his firearm. Later, he would tell his colleagues that the boy knew rather too much about guns for a child of seven.
After receiving a telephone call from headquarters in Paris, the duty officer returned to the holding room and announced that it was time for everyone to go home. Anna and Nikolai greeted this news not with joy but tears; for them, the arrest and detention had been a great adventure and they were in no hurry to return home to their palace by the sea. They were finally coaxed into leaving with a promise they could come back to play anytime they wished. As they headed down the central corridor of the station, Anna held the hand of the female gendarme while Nikolai lectured the duty officer about the superiority of Russian-made weapons. Sonia asked after the whereabouts of the bodyguards but received no response.
They left the station not through the front entrance but through a rear door that gave onto an enclosed courtyard. Several official Renaults were parked there, along with an older-model Peugeot wagon. Seated behind the wheel, wearing a white Lacoste polo, was a man with gray hair. Seeing the children, he climbed out of the car with a tranquil smile on his face and opened the rear door. Sonia froze and turned to the duty officer in confusion.
“What’s going on? Who is this man?”
“This is Monsieur Henri. He’s a good man. He’s going to take you and the children somewhere safe.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Kharkov is in a bit of trouble at the moment. Mrs. Kharkov has made arrangements to place the children in the care of Monsieur Henri until she returns. She has asked that you remain with them. She promises you will be extremely well compensated. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Mademoiselle?”
“I think so.”
“Very good. Now, get into the car, please. And try not to look so frightened. It will only upset the children. And that is the last thing they need at a time like this.”
At Moscow ’s Sheremetyevo 2 Airport, Chiara was standing at her post at the check-in counter when the status window on the departure board switched from ON TIME to DELAYED. Ten feet away, in the crowded passenger lounge, 187 weary voices groaned in unison. One brave soul, a bearded Orthodox Jew in a dark suit, approached the counter and demanded an explanation. “It’s a minor mechanical problem, ” Chiara explained calmly. “The delay shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.” The man returned to his seat, skeptical he had been told the truth. Chiara turned and looked up at the board: DELAYED…
60 MOSCOW
The clouds opened up at the same instant Gabriel’s earpiece crackled with the sound of Uzi Navot’s voice.
