The Defector

Global Ops Center at Langley. Shamron had a phone to his ear as well, though his was connected to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard. He was staring at the clock while at the same time battling a crippling craving for nicotine. Smoking was strictly forbidden in the annex. So, apparently, was speaking because Carter had not uttered a word in several minutes.
    “Well, Adrian? Is he there or not?”
    Carter nodded his head vigorously. “The spotter just confirmed it. Ivan’s birds are on the ground.”
    “How long until the plane gets there?”
    “Seven minutes.”
    Shamron looked at the Moscow clock: 8:53.
    “Cutting it a little close, aren’t they?”
    “We’re fine, Ari.”
    “Just make sure they switch on those jammers at 9:05, Adrian. Not a second sooner, not a second later.”
    “Don’t worry, Ari. No phone calls for Ivan. No phone calls for anyone.”
    Shamron looked at the clock: 8:54.
    Silence, speed, timing . . .
    All they needed now was a bit of luck.

    HAD UZI Navot been privy to Shamron’s thoughts, he would have surely recited the Office maxim that luck is always earned, never bestowed. He would have done so because at that moment he was lying on his face in the snow, one hundred yards behind the dacha, a weapon bearing his name cradled in his arms. Fifty yards to his right, in precisely the same position, was Yaakov. And fifty yards to his left was Oded. Standing directly in front of each of them was a Russian. It had been five hours since Navot and the others had crept into position through the birch forest. In that time, two shifts of guards had come and gone. There had been no relief, of course, for the visiting team. Navot, though properly outfitted for such an operation, was trembling with cold. He assumed Yaakov and Oded were suffering as well, though he had not spoken to either man in several hours. Radio silence was the order of the morning.
    Navot was tempted to feel sorry for himself, but his mind would not allow it. Whenever the cold started to eat at his bones, he thought about the camps and the ghettos and terrible winters his people had endured during the Shoah. Like Gabriel, Navot owed his very existence to someone who had summoned the courage, the will, to survive those winters—a paternal grandfather who had spent five years toiling in the Nazi labor camps. Five years living on starvation rations. Five years sleeping in the cold. It was because of his grandfather that Navot had joined the Office. And it was because of his grandfather that he was lying in the snow, one hundred yards behind a dacha, surrounded by birch trees. The Russian standing before him would soon be dead. Though Navot was not an expert like Gabriel and Mikhail, he had done his obligatory time in the army and had undergone extensive weapons training at the Academy. So, too, had Yaakov and Oded. For them, fifty yards was nothing, even with frozen hands, even with suppressors. And there would be no going for the comfort zone of the torso. Only head shots. No dying calls on the radio.
    Navot rolled his left wrist toward him a few degrees and glanced at his digital watch: 8:59 . Six more minutes to contend with the cold. He flexed his fingers and waited for the sound of Gabriel’s voice in his miniature earpiece.
    . . .

    THE SECOND and final session of the emergency G-8 summit convened at the stroke of nine in the ornate St. George’s Hall of the Great Kremlin Palace. As always, the American president arrived precisely on time and settled into his place at the breakfast table. As luck would have it, the British prime minister had been placed to his right. The Russian president was seated opposite between the German chancellor and the Italian prime minister, his two closest allies in Western Europe. His attention, however, was clearly focused on the Anglo-American side of the table. Indeed, he had fixed both English-speaking leaders with his trademark stare, the one he always adopted when he was trying to look tough and decisive to the Russian people.
    “Do you think he knows?” asked the British prime minister.
    “Are you kidding? He knows everything.”
    “Will it work?”
    “We’ll know soon enough.”
    “I only hope no harm comes to that woman.”
    The president sipped his coffee. “What woman?”

    STALIN WAS never quite able to get his hands on Zamoskvorechye. The streets of his pleasant old quarter just south of the Kremlin were largely spared the horror of Soviet replanning and are