The Defector

corpse of one less fortunate.
    It was not a pleasant exchange, but this, too, was to be expected. Viktor Orlov was hardly a pleasant person, even under the best of circumstances. Voices were raised, threats issued. Orlov’s household staff, though discreet to a fault, could not help but overhear. They heard words such as duty and honor . They clearly heard the word extradition and then, a few beats later, arrest warrant . They heard a pair of names, Sukhova and Chernov , and thought they heard the British visitor say something about a review of Mr. Orlov’s political and business activities on British soil. And, finally, they heard the visitor say very clearly: “Will you just do the decent thing for once in your life? My God, Viktor! Four lives are at stake! And one of them is Grigori’s!”
    At which point there was a heavy silence. The British visitor emerged from the office a moment later, a tight expression on his face, his eyes focused on his wristwatch. He took the stairs two at a time and climbed into the back of his waiting Jaguar. As the car shot away from the curb, he placed a call to an emergency line at Downing Street. Two minutes after that, he was speaking directly with the prime minister, who had excused himself from the summit breakfast to take the call. It was 6:42 a.m. in London and 9:42 a.m. at the isolated dacha in the birch forest east of Moscow.

    THE BRITISH prime minister returned to the table.
    “I believe it’s time for a trilateral with our friend over there.”
    “I hope you have something good to offer him.”
    “I do. The only question is, will he be able to fulfill his end of the bargain?”
    The sight of the two leaders rising in unison sent a murmur of anxiety through the Kremlin functionaries posted around the hall as they watched their carefully planned breakfast veering dangerously toward an unscripted moment. The only person who seemed not to be surprised was the Russian president, who was on his feet by the time the British and American leaders arrived at his side of the table.
    “We need to have a word,” the prime minister said. “In private.”

    THEY SLIPPED quietly into an antechamber off St. George’s Hall with only their closest aides present. Like the meeting that had just taken place in Viktor Orlov’s study, it was not pleasant. Once again, voices were raised, though no one outside the room heard them. When the leaders emerged, the Russian president was smiling visibly, a rare occurrence. He was also holding a mobile phone to his ear.
    Later, under questioning from the press, spokesmen for all three leaders would use precisely the same language to describe what had taken place. It was a routine scheduling matter, nothing more. Scheduling, perhaps, but hardly routine.

67
    LUBYANKA SQUARE, MOSCOW
    ON THE fourth floor of FSB Headquarters is a suite of rooms occupied by the organization’s smallest and most secretive unit. Known as the Department of Coordination, its staff of veteran officers handles only cases of extreme political sensitivity. Shortly before ten that morning, its chief, Colonel Leonid Milchenko, was standing rigidly next to his Finnish-made desk, a telephone to his ear. Though Milchenko effectively worked for the Russian president, direct conversations between the two were rare. This one was brief and tense. “Get it done, Milchenko. No fuckups. Are we clear?” The colonel said “Da” several times and hung up the phone.
    “Vadim!”
    Vadim Strelkin, his number two, poked a bald head into the room.
    “What’s the problem?”
    “Ivan Kharkov.”
    “What now?”
    Milchenko explained.
    “Shit!”
    “I couldn’t have said it any better myself.”
    “Where’s the dacha?”
    “Vladimirskaya Oblast.”
    “How far out?”
    “Far enough that we’re going to need a helicopter. Tell them to drop it into the square.”
    “Can’t. Not today.”
    “Why not?”
    Strelkin nodded toward the Kremlin. “All airspace inside the outer ring road is closed because of the summit.”
    “Not anymore.”
    Strelkin picked up the phone on Milchenko’s desk and ordered the helicopter. “I know about the closure, idiot! Just do it!”
    He slammed down the phone. Milchenko was standing at the map.
    “How long before it arrives?”
    “Five minutes.”
    Milchenko calculated the travel time.
    “We can’t possibly get there before Ivan.”
    “Let me call Rudenko directly.”
    “Who?”
    “Oleg Rudenko. Ivan’s security chief. He used to be one