The Defector

still lined with grand imperial houses and onion-domed churches. The district is also home to the embassy of the State of Israel, which stands at Bolshaya Ordynka 56. Rimona was waiting just inside the security gate, flanked by a pair of Shin Bet embassy guards. Like Uzi Navot, she was watching a single object: an S-Class Mercedes sedan, which had pulled to the curb outside the embassy at the stroke of nine.
    The car was crouched low over its wheels, weighed down by armor plating and bulletproof windows. The glass was also blacked out, which made it impossible for Rimona to see into the passenger seats. All she could make out was the driver’s chin, and a pair of hands resting calmly on the wheel.
    Rimona raised her secure cell phone to her ear and heard the cacophony of the Ops Desk at King Saul Boulevard. Then the voice of a desk officer, pleading for information. “The plane is on the ground. Tell us if she’s there. Tell us what you see.” Rimona complied with the order. She saw a Mercedes car with blacked-out windows. And she saw a pair of hands resting on the wheel. And then, in her mind, she saw a pair of angels sitting in a Range Rover. A pair of angels who would create hell on earth unless Chiara got out of that car.

62
    GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
    THERE WERE no pictures, only distant voices on secure phones and words that flashed and blinked on the billboard-sized communications screens. At 9:00 a.m. Moscow time, the screens told Shamron that the children’s plane was safely on the ground. At 9:01, that the plane was taxiing toward the control tower. At 9:03, that the plane was being approached by ground crew and motorized passenger-boarding stairs. A few seconds later, he was informed by telephone transmission from King Saul Boulevard that “Joshua” was proceeding to the target—Joshua being the Office code name for Gabriel and Mikhail. And finally, at 9:04, he was notified by Adrian Carter that the forward cabin door was now open.
    “Where’s Ivan?”
    “Approaching the plane.”
    “Is he alone?”
    “Full entourage. The wife, the muscle, the thug.”
    “By that you mean Oleg Rudenko?”
    Carter nodded. “He’s on his cell.”
    “He’d better not be for long.”
    “Don’t worry, Ari.”
    Shamron looked at the clock: 9:04:17 . Squeezing the telephone to his ear, he asked King Saul Boulevard for an update on the car parked outside the embassy gate. The desk officer reported no change.
    “Perhaps we should force the issue,” Shamron said.
    “How, boss?”
    “That’s my niece standing out there. Tell her to improvise.”
    Shamron listened while the desk officer relayed the order. Then he looked at the message flashing on the screen: AIRCRAFT DOOR OPEN . . . ADVISE . . .

    Be careful, Rimona. Be very careful .

    “THE MEMUNEH wants you to force the issue.”
    “Does the Memuneh have any suggestions?”
    “He suggests you improvise.”
    “Really?”
    Thank you, Uncle Ari.
    Rimona stared at the Mercedes. Same chin. Same hands on the wheel. But now the fingers were in motion. Tapping a nervous rhythm.
    He suggests you improvise . . .
    But how? During the pre-op briefings, Uzi Navot had been resolute on one key point: under no circumstances were they going to give Ivan the opportunity to kidnap another Office agent, especially another woman. Rimona was to remain on embassy grounds at all times because, technically, the grounds were Israeli soil. Unfortunately, there was no way to force the issue in fifteen seconds by remaining behind the safety of the gate. Only by approaching the car could she do that. And to approach the car she had to leave Israel and enter Russia. She glanced at her watch, then turned to one of the Shin Bet security guards.
    “Open the gate.”
    “We were ordered to keep it closed.”
    “Do you know who my uncle is?”
    “Everyone knows who your uncle is, Rimona.”
    “So what are you waiting for?”
    The guard did as he was told and followed Rimona into Bolshaya Ordynka, gun drawn in violation of all diplomatic protocol, written and unwritten. Rimona went without hesitation to the rear passenger door of the Mercedes and rapped on the heavy bulletproof glass. Receiving no response, she gave the window two more firm knocks. This time, the glass slid down. No Chiara, only a well-dressed Russian in his late twenties wearing sunglasses in spite of the overcast weather. He was holding two things: a Makarov pistol and an envelope. He used the gun to keep the Shin