The Defector

extended his hand.
    “Go back to the Metropol. Keep your head down. And try not to worry. We’ll get her back.”
    Gabriel shook Navot’s hand, then turned and headed back toward Resurrection Gate.

    THOUGH NAVOT did not know it, Gabriel disobeyed the order to return to his room at the Hotel Metropol and made his way to Tverskaya Street instead. Pausing outside the office building at No. 6, he stared at the posters in the window of Galaxy Travel. One showed a Russian couple sharing a champagne lunch along the ski slopes of Courchevel; the other, a pair of Russian nymphs tanning themselves on the beaches of the Côte d’Azur. The irony seemed lost on Irina Bulganova, former wife of the defector Grigori Bulganov, who was seated primly at her desk, telephone to her ear. There were many things Gabriel wanted to tell her but couldn’t. Not yet. And so he stood there alone, watching her through the frosted glass. Reality is a state of mind, he thought. Reality can be whatever you want it to be.

59
    GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
    IF GABRIEL earned high marks for his grace under pressure during the final hours before the operation, the same, unfortunately, could not be said of Ari Shamron. Upon his return to London, he made a base camp for himself inside the Israeli Embassy in Kensington and used it to launch raids on targets stretching from Tel Aviv to Langley. The officers on the Ops Desk at King Saul Boulevard grew so weary of Shamron’s outbursts, they drew lots to determine who would have the misfortune of taking his calls. Only Adrian Carter managed not to lose patience with him. As a grounded fieldman himself, he knew the feeling of utter helplessness Shamron was experiencing. The extraction plan was Gabriel’s; Shamron could only operate the levers and pull the strings. And even then, he was heavily dependent on Carter and the Agency. It violated Shamron’s core faith in the principles of kachol v’lavan . Left to his own devices, the Old Man would have walked into Ivan’s dacha in the woods and done the job himself. And only a fool would have bet against him. “He’s done things none of us can imagine,” Carter said in Shamron’s defense. “And he’s got the scars to prove it.”
    At 6 p.m. that evening, Shamron headed to the American Embassy in Mayfair for the opening act. A young CIA officer, a fresh-faced girl who looked as though she had just finished her junior year abroad, greeted him in Upper Brook Street. She escorted him past the Marine Guard, then into a secure elevator that bore him downward into the bowels of the annex. Adrian Carter and Graham Seymour were already there, seated on the top deck of the amphitheater-shaped Ops Center. Shamron took a seat at Carter’s right and looked at one of the large screens at the front of the room. It showed two aircraft sitting on a tarmac outside Washington, D.C. Both belonged to the 89th Airlift Wing based at Andrews Air Force Base. Both were fueled and ready for departure.
    At 7 p.m., Carter’s telephone rang. He brought the receiver swiftly to his ear, listened in silence for a few seconds, then hung up.
    “He’s pulling up to the gate. It looks like we’re on, gentlemen.”

    THERE WAS a time in Washington when everyone in government and journalism could recite the name of the Soviet ambassador to the United States. But these days few people outside Foggy Bottom and the State Department press corps had ever heard of Konstantin Tretyakov. Though fluent in English, the Russian Federation’s ambassador rarely appeared on television and never threw parties anyone would bother to attend. He was a forgotten man in a city where Moscow’s envoy had once been treated almost like a head of state. Tretyakov was the worst thing a person could be in Washington. He was irrelevant.
    The ambassador’s official CV described him as an “America expert” and career diplomat who had served in many important Western posts. It left out the fact his career had nearly been derailed in Oslo when he was caught with his hand in the embassy’s petty-cash drawer. Nor did it mention that he occasionally drank too much. Or that he had one brother who worked as a spy for the SVR and another who was part of the Russian president’s inner circle of siloviki at the Kremlin. All this unflattering material, however, was contained in the CIA’s dossier, a copy of which had been given to Ed Fielding to assist in his preparation for the Andrews end of the operation. The CIA