The Defector (27 page)

49

THE ROOM in the cellar of the little dacha was not entirely cut off from the outside world. High in one corner was a tiny window, covered in a century of grime and, on the outside, by a snowbank. For a few moments each day, when the angle of the sun was just right, the snow would turn scarlet and fill the room with a faint light. They assumed it was sunrise but could not be certain. Along with their freedom, Ivan had robbed them of time.

Chiara cherished each second of the light, even if it meant she had no choice but to gaze directly into Grigori’s battered face. The cuts, the bruises, the disfiguring swelling: there were moments he scarcely looked human at all. She cared for him as best she could, and once, bravely, she asked Ivan’s guards for bandages and something for the pain. The guards found her request amusing. They had gone to a good deal of trouble getting Grigori into his present condition and weren’t about to let the new prisoner undo all their hard work with gauze and ointment.

Their hands were cuffed at all times, their legs shackled. They were given no pillows or blankets and, even during the bitter cold of night, no heat. Twice each day they were given a bit of food—coarse bread, a few slices of fatty sausage, weak tea in paper cups—and twice each day they were taken to a darkened, fetid toilet. Nights were passed side by side on the cold concrete floor. On the first night, Chiara dreamed she was searching for a child in an endless birch forest covered in snow. Forcing herself to wake, she found Grigori trying gently to comfort her. The next night she was awakened by a rush of warm fluid between her legs. This time, nothing he did could console her. She had just lost Gabriel’s child.

Mindful of Ivan’s microphones, they spoke of nothing of consequence. Finally, during the brief period of light on their third day together, Grigori asked about the circumstances of Chiara’s capture. She thought a moment before answering, then gave a carefully calibrated version of the truth. She told him she had been taken from a road in Italy and that two young men, good boys with bright futures, had been killed trying to protect her. She failed to mention, however, that for three days prior to her capture she had been in Lake Como participating in the interrogation of Grigori’s former wife, Irina. Or that she knew how Ivan’s operatives had deceived Irina into taking part in Grigori’s capture. Or that Gabriel’s team had loved Irina so much that sending her back to Russia after the debriefing had broken their hearts. Chiara wanted to tell Grigori these things but could not. Ivan was listening.

When it came time for Grigori to describe his ordeal, he made no such omissions. The story he told was the same one Chiara had heard in Lake Como a few days earlier, but from the other side of the looking glass. He had been on his way to a chess match against a man named Simon Finch, a devout Marxist who wanted to inflict Russia’s suffering on the West. During a brief stop at the Waterside Café, he had noticed he was being followed by a man and a woman. He assumed they were watchers from MI5 and that it was safe to continue. His opinion changed a few moments later when he noticed another man, a Russian, shadowing him along Harrow Road. Then he saw a woman walking toward him—a woman who carried no umbrella and was hatless in the rain—and realized he had seen her a few minutes before. He feared he was about to be killed and briefly considered making a mad dash across Harrow Road. Then a Mercedes sedan had appeared. And its door had swung open . . .

“I recognized the man holding the gun to my former wife’s head. His name is Petrov. Most people who encounter this man do not survive. I was told Irina would be an exception if I cooperated. I did everything they asked. But a few days into my captivity, while I was being interrogated in the cellars of Lubyanka, a man who had once been my friend told me Irina was dead. He said Ivan had killed her and buried her in an unmarked grave. He said I was next.”

Just then, the color retreated from the snowbank over the window, and the room was plunged once more into darkness. Chiara wept silently. She wanted desperately to tell Grigori his wife was still alive. She could not. Ivan was listening.

50

ZURICH

LATER, Shamron would refer to Konrad Becker as Gabriel’s one and only bit of good luck. Everything else Gabriel earned the hard way, or with blood. But not Becker. Becker was delivered to him gift-wrapped and tied with a bow.

His bank was not one of the cathedrals of Swiss finance that loom over the Paradeplatz or line the graceful curve of the Bahnhofstrasse. It was a private chapel, a place where clients were free to worship or confess their sins in secret. Swiss law forbids such banks from soliciting deposits. They are free to refer to themselves as banks if they wish but are not required to do so. Some employ several dozen officers and investment specialists; others, only a handful.

Becker & Puhl fell into the second category. It was located on the ground floor of a leaden old office building, on a quiet block of the Talstrasse. The entrance was marked only by a small brass plaque and was easy to miss, which was Konrad Becker’s intention. He was waiting in the gloomy vestibule at 7 a.m., a small bald figure with the pallor of one who spends his days beneath ground. As usual, he was wearing a somber dark suit and a pall-bearer’s gray tie. His eyes, sensitive to light, were concealed behind a pair of tinted glasses. The brevity of the handshake was a calculated insult.

“What an unpleasant surprise. What brings you to Zurich, Herr Allon?”

“Business.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

He turned without another word and led Gabriel down a thickly carpeted passage. The office they entered was of modest size and poorly lit. Becker walked slowly around his desk and settled himself tentatively in the executive leather chair, as though trying it out for the first time. He regarded Gabriel nervously for a moment, then started turning over the papers on his desk.

“I was assured by Herr Shamron that there would be no further contact between us. I fulfilled my end of our agreement, and I expect you to honor your word.”

“I need your help, Konrad.”

“And what sort of help do you require from me, Herr Allon? Would you like me to assist in a raid against Hamas targets in the Gaza Strip? Or perhaps you would like me to help you destroy the nuclear facilities of Iran?”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Who’s being melodramatic? I’m lucky to be alive.” Becker folded his tiny hands and placed them carefully on the desk. “I am a man of weak physical and emotional constitution, Herr Allon. I am not ashamed to admit it. Nor am I ashamed to say that I still have nightmares about our last little adventure together in Vienna.”

For the first time since Chiara’s abduction, Gabriel was tempted to smile. Even he had trouble believing the little Swiss banker had played an operational role in one of the greatest coups the Office had ever engineered: the capture of Nazi war criminal Erich Radek. Technically, Becker’s actions had been a violation of Switzerland’s sacrosanct banking-secrecy laws. Indeed, if his role in Radek’s capture ever became public, he faced the distinct possibility of prosecution, or, even worse, financial ruin. All of which explained why Gabriel was confident that Becker, after a predictable protest, would agree to help. He had no choice.

“It has come to our attention you are the holder of a numbered account that is of interest to us. A safe-deposit box associated with this account is linked to a matter of extreme urgency. It is not an exaggeration to say it is a matter of life and death.”

“As you know, it would be a crime under Swiss banking law for me to reveal that information to you.”

Gabriel sighed heavily. “It would be a shame, Konrad.”

“What’s that, Herr Allon?”

“If our past work together ever become public.”

“You are a cheap extortionist, Herr Allon.”

“An extortionist but not cheap.”

“And the trouble with paying money to an extortionist is that he always comes back for more.”

“Can I give you the account number, Konrad?”

“If you must.”

Gabriel recited it rapidly. Becker didn’t bother to write it down.

“Password?” he asked.

“Balzac.”

“And the name associated with the account?”

“Vladimir Chernov of Regency Security Services, Geneva. We’re not sure if he’s the primary account holder or merely a signatory.”

The banker made no movement.

“Don’t you need to go check your records, Konrad?”

He didn’t. “Vladimir Chernov is the primary name on the account. One other person has access to the safe-deposit box.”

Gabriel held up the photograph of Anton Petrov. “This man?”

Becker nodded.

“If he has access, I assume you have a name on file.”

“I have a name. Whether it is accurate . . .”

“May I have it, please?”

“He calls himself Wolfe. Otto Wolfe.”

“German speaker?”

“Fluent.”

“Accent?”

“He doesn’t talk a great deal, but I’d say he came originally from the East.”

“Do you have an address and telephone number on file?”

“I do. But I don’t believe they’re accurate, either.”

“But you give him access to a safe-deposit box anyway?”

Becker made no response. Gabriel put away the photo.

“It is my understanding Vladimir Chernov left something in the box two days ago.”

“To be precise, Herr Chernov accessed the box two days ago. Whether he added something or removed something, I cannot say. Clients are given complete privacy when they’re in the vault room.”

“Except when you’re watching them with your concealed cameras. He left cash in the box, didn’t he?”

“A great deal of cash, actually.”

“Has Wolfe collected it?”

“Not yet.”

Gabriel’s heart gave a sideways lurch.

“How long does he usually wait after Chernov fills the box?”

“I would expect him today. Tomorrow at the latest. He’s not the kind of man to leave money sitting around.”

“I’d like to see the vault room.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Konrad, please. We don’t have much time.”

THE OUTER door was stainless steel and had a circular latch the size of a captain’s wheel. Inside was a second door, also stainless steel, with a small window of reinforced glass. The outer door was closed only at night, explained Becker, while the interior door was used during business hours.

“Tell me the procedures when a customer wants access to a box.”

“After being admitted through the front door on the Talstrasse, the client checks in with the receptionist. The receptionist then sends the client to my secretary. I’m the only one who deals with numbered accounts. The client must provide two pieces of information.”

“The number and corresponding password?”

Becker nodded his bald head. “In most cases, it’s a formality, since I know virtually all our clients on sight. I make an entry in the logbook, then escort the client into the vault room. It takes two keys to open the box, mine and the client’s. Generally, I remove the box and place it on the table. At which point I depart.”

“Closing the door behind you?”

“Of course.”

“And locking it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you and the client enter the vault alone?”

“Never. I’m always accompanied by our security guard.”

“Does the guard leave the room, too?”

“Yes.”

“What happens when the client is ready to depart?”

“He summons the guard by pressing the buzzer.”

“Is there any other way out of the bank besides the Talstrasse?”

“There’s a service door leading to a back alleyway and parking spaces. We share them with the other tenants in the building. They’re all assigned.”

Gabriel looked around at the gleaming stainless steel boxes, then at Becker. The tinted lenses of his spectacles shone with the reflection of the bright fluorescent lights, rendering his small dark eyes invisible.

“I’m going to need a favor from you, Konrad. A very big favor.”

“Since I would like to keep my bank, Herr Allon, how can I help?”

“Call your security guard and your secretary. Tell them to take the next couple of days off.”

“I assume you’re going to replace them?”

“I wouldn’t want to leave you in the lurch, Konrad.”

“Anyone I know?”

“The secretary will be new to you. But you may recall the security guard from another life.”

“Herr Lange, I take it?”

“You do have a good memory, Konrad.”

“That’s true. But then a man like Oskar Lange is not so easy to forget.”

51

ZURICH

GABRIEL LEFT the bank shortly after eight and walked to a busy café on the Bahnhofstrasse. Seated at a cramped table in the back, surrounded by depressed-looking Swiss moneymen, were Sarah and Uzi Navot. Sarah was drinking coffee; Navot was working his way through a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. The smell of the food turned Gabriel’s stomach as he lowered himself into an empty chair. It was going to be a long time before he felt like eating again.

“The maids arrived an hour after we left,” Navot murmured in Hebrew. “The bodies have been removed, and they’re giving the entire house a good scrubbing.”

“Tell them to make sure those bodies never turn up. I don’t want Ivan to know Chernov has been taken out of circulation.”

“Ivan won’t know a thing. And neither will Petrov.” Navot put a forkful of eggs on his toast and switched from Hebrew to German, which he spoke with a slight Viennese accent. “How’s my old friend Herr Becker?”

“He sends his best.”

“Is he willing to help?”

“Willing might be too strong a word, but we’re in.”

In rapid German, Gabriel described the procedures for client access to safe-deposit boxes at Becker & Puhl. The briefing complete, he signaled the waiter and asked for coffee. Then he requested that Navot’s dishes be removed. Navot snatched a last morsel of toast as the plate floated away.

“Which girl gets the secretary job?”