“Aren’t you going to kill me anyway?”
“Of course we are, Allon. We just need a little bit of information from you first.”
“And who said former KGB hoods didn’t have any manners?”
Medvedev finished applying the bandage and regarded Gabriel in silence. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I know your real name?” he asked finally.
“I assume you could have got it from your friends at the FSB. Or, it’s possible you saved yourself a phone call by simply beating it out of Elena Kharkov. You strike me as the type who enjoys hitting women.”
“Keep that up and I’ll bring Dmitri back for another go at you. You’re not some kid anymore, Allon. One or two blows from Dmitri and you might not come to again.”
“He has a lot of wasted motion in his punch. Why don’t you let me give him a couple of pointers?”
“Are you serious or is that just your Jewish sense of humor talking?”
“Our sense of humor came from living with Russians as neighbors. It helps to have a sense of humor during a pogrom. It takes the sting out of having your village burned down.”
“You have a choice, Allon. You can lie there and tell jokes all night or you can start talking.” The Russian removed a cigarette from a silver case and ignited it with a matching silver lighter. “You don’t need this shit and neither do I. Let’s just settle this like professionals.”
“By professional, I suppose you mean I should tell you everything I know, so then you can kill me.”
“Something like that.” The Russian held the cigarette case toward Gabriel. “Would you like one?”
“They’re bad for your health.”
Medvedev closed the case. “Are you up for a little walk, Allon? I think you might find this place quite interesting.”
“Any chance of taking off these handcuffs?”
“None whatsoever.”
“I thought you would say that. Help me up, will you? Just try not to pull my shoulders out of their sockets.”
Medvedev hoisted him effortlessly to his feet. Gabriel felt the room spin and for an instant thought he might topple over. Medvedev must have been thinking the same thing because he placed a steadying hand on his elbow.
“You sure you’re up for this, Allon?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”
“I’ll be fine, Arkady.”
Medvedev dropped his cigarette and crushed it carefully with the toe of an expensive-looking Italian loafer. Everything Medvedev was wearing looked expensive: the French suit, the English raincoat, the Swiss wristwatch. But none of it could conceal the fact that, underneath it all, he was still just a cheap KGB hood.
They set out together between the crates. There were more than Gabriel could have imagined. They seemed to go on forever, like the warehouse itself. Hardly surprising, he thought. This was Russia, after all. World’s largest country. World’s largest hotel. World’s largest swimming pool. World’s largest warehouse.
“What’s in the boxes?”
“Food.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Medvedev pointed toward a skyscraper of wooden crates. “That’s canned tuna. Over there are canned carrots. A little farther on is the canned beef. We even have chicken soup.”
“That’s very impressive. Fifteen years ago, Russia was living on American handouts. Now you’re feeding the world.”
“We’ve made great strides since the fall of communism.”
“What’s really in the boxes, Arkady?”
Medvedev pointed toward the same skyscraper. “Those are bullets. Fifty million rounds, to be precise. Enough to kill a good portion of the Third World. There’s not much chance of that, though. Your average freedom fighter isn’t terribly disciplined. We don’t complain. It’s good for business.”
Medvedev pointed to another stack. “Those are RPG-7s. Pound for pound, one of the best weapons money can buy. A great equalizer. With proper training, any twelve-year-old kid can take out a tank or an armored personnel carrier.”
“And the rest?”
“Over there are mortars. Next to the mortars is our bread and butter: the AK-47. It helped us beat the Germans, then it helped us change the world. The Kalashnikov gave power to the powerless. Voice to the voiceless.”
“I hear it’s very popular in the rougher neighborhoods of Los Angeles, too.”
Medvedev twisted his face into an expression of mock horror. “Criminals? No, Allon, we don’t sell to
“I never had you figured for a true believer, Arkady.”
“I’m not, really. I’m just in it for the money. Just like Ivan.”
They walked on in silence. Gabriel knew this wasn’t a tour but a death march. Arkady Medvedev wanted something from Gabriel before they reached their destination. He wanted Ivan’s children.
“You should know, Allon, that everything I am showing you is completely
“Congratulations, Arkady. Are profits still strong or did you grow too quickly?”
“Profits are fine, thank you. Despite Western claims to the contrary, arms trafficking is still a growth industry.”
“How did you make out on the missile deal?”
Medvedev was silent for a moment. “What missiles are you referring to, Allon?”
“The SA-18s, Arkady. The Iglas.”
“The Igla is one of the most accurate and lethal antiaircraft missiles ever produced.” Medvedev’s tone now had a briefing-room quality. “It is far too dangerous a system ever to be let loose into the free market. We don’t deal in Iglas. Only a madman would.”
“That’s not what I’m told, Arkady. I hear you sold several hundred to an African country. A country that was planning to forward them at a substantial markup to some friends at al-Qaeda.”
Gabriel lapsed into silence. When he spoke again, his tone was confiding rather than confrontational.
“We know all about the Iglas, Arkady. We also know that you were against the sale from the beginning. It’s not too late to help us. Tell me where those missiles are.”
Medvedev made no response, other than to lead Gabriel to an empty space in the center of the warehouse floor. The area was illuminated by a light burning high in the rafters overhead. Medvedev stood there, a performer on a stage, and extended his arms.
“I’m afraid it
“Where are they now, Arkady?”
“In the hands of a very satisfied customer.”
Medvedev stepped out of the light and gave Gabriel a firm shove in the back. Apparently, there was one more thing they had to see.
65 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
She was secured to a straight-backed metal chair at the far end of the vast warehouse. Luka Osipov, her former bodyguard, was standing to one side, the bald giant on the other. Her blouse was torn, her cheeks aflame from repeated slaps. She stared at Gabriel’s damaged eye in horror, then lowered her gaze to the floor. Medvedev took a fistful of her dark hair. It was not the sort of gesture that suggested he intended to let her live.
