The Defector

sanctums of power and prestige. Gabriel’s credentials were blue, which signified he had access mere mortals did not. They were hanging around his neck as he took a light breakfast beneath the vaulted stained-glass ceiling in the famed Metropol restaurant, wielding his BlackBerry throughout the meal like a shield. Leaving the restaurant, he was cornered by a group of French reporters who demanded to know his opinion of the new American stimulus plan. Though Gabriel evaded their questions, the French were clearly impressed by the fact he addressed them fluently in their native language.
    In the lobby, Gabriel noticed several American reporters clustered around the Teatralnyy Prospekt entrance and quickly slipped out the back door into Revolution Square. In summer, the espla nade was crowded with market stalls where it was possible to buy anything from fur hats and nesting dolls to busts of the murderers Lenin and Stalin. Now, in the depths of winter, only the bravest dared to venture there. Remarkably, it was clear of snow and ice. When the wind briefly subsided, Gabriel caught a whiff of the deicer the Russians used to achieve this result. He remembered stories Mikhail had told him about the powerful chemicals Russians poured onto their streets and sidewalks. The stuff could destroy a pair of shoes in a matter of days. Even the dogs refused to walk on it. In springtime, the streetcars used to burst into flames because their wiring had been eaten away by months of exposure. That was how Mikhail had celebrated the arrival of spring as a child in Russia—with the burning of the trams.
    Gabriel spotted him a moment later, standing next to Eli Lavon just outside Resurrection Gate. Lavon was holding a briefcase in his right hand, meaning Gabriel had not been followed leaving the Metropol. Moscow Rules . . . Gabriel headed left through the shadowed archway of the gate and entered the vast expanse of Red Square. Standing at the foot of Savior Tower, wearing a heavy overcoat and fur hat, was Uzi Navot. The tower’s gold-and-black clock face read 11:23. Navot pretended to set his watch by it.
    “How was the entry at Sheremetyevo?”
    “No problem.”
    “And the hotel?”
    “No problem.”
    “Good.” Navot shoved his hands into his pocket. “Let’s take a walk, Mr. Davis. It’s better if we walk.”

    THEY HEADED toward St. Basil’s, heads down, shoulders hunched against the biting wind: the Moscow shuffle. Navot wished to spend as little time as possible in Gabriel’s presence. He wasted no time getting down to business.
    “We went onto the property last night to have a look around.”
    “Who’s we?”
    “Mikhail and Shmuel Peled from Moscow Station.” He paused, then added, “And me.”
    Gabriel gave him a sideways glance. “You’re here to supervise, Uzi. Shamron made it clear he didn’t want you involved in any direct operational way. You’re too senior to get arrested.”
    “Let me see if I understand this correctly. It’s all right for me to tangle with a Russian assassin in a Swiss bank, but it’s verboten for me to take a walk in the woods?”
    “Is that what it was, Uzi? A walk in the woods?”
    “Not quite. The dacha is set a kilometer back from the road. The track leading to it is bordered by birch forest on both sides. It’s tight. Only one vehicle can get through at a time.”
    “Is there a gate?”
    “No gate, but the track is always blocked by security guards in a Range Rover.”
    “How close were you able to get to the dacha?”
    “Close enough to see that Ivan makes two poor bastards stand outside all the time. And close enough to plant a wireless camera.”
    “How’s the signal?”
    “Not bad. We’ll be fine as long as we don’t get six feet of snow tonight. We can see the front door, which means we can see if anyone’s coming or going.”
    “Who’s monitoring the shot?”
    “Shmuel and a girl from Moscow Station.”
    “Where are they?”
    “Holed up in a crummy little hotel in the nearest town. They’re pretending to be lovers. Apparently, the girl’s husband likes to knock her around. Shmuel wants to take her away and start a new life. You know the story, Gabriel.”
    “The satellite photos show guards behind the house.”
    “We saw them, too. They keep at least three men back there at all times. They’re static, spaced about a hundred yards apart. With night-vision goggles, we had no trouble seeing them. In daylight”—Navot shrugged his heavy