The Defector

need a meat locker this big.”
    “You have another theory?”
    “I used a couple of pounds of explosive to blow open the front door. If I’d placed a charge that big in front of our old dacha, it would have brought the entire place down.”
    “I’m not sure I understand.”
    “This place was well built. Purpose-built. Look at the concrete, Grigori. This is the good stuff. Not the crap they gave the rest of us. The crap that used to fall away in chunks and turn to powder after one winter.”
    “It’s old, this place. The rot hadn’t set into the system when they built it.”
    “How old?”
    “Thirties, I’d say.”
    “Stalin’s time?”
    “May he rest in peace.”
    Gabriel lifted his chin from his chest. In Hebrew, he asked, “What in God’s name are the two of you talking about?”
    “Architecture,” Mikhail said. “The architecture of dachas, to be precise.”
    “Is there something you want to tell me, Mikhail?”
    “Something’s not right about this place.” Mikhail moved his foot. “Why is there a drain in the middle of this floor, Gabriel? And what are those depressions out back?”
    “You tell me, Mikhail.”
    Mikhail was silent for a moment. Then he changed the subject.
    “How’s your head?”
    “I’m still hearing things.”
    “Still the bells?”
    Gabriel closed his eyes and sat very still.
    “No, not bells.”
    Helicopters .

68
    VLADIMIRSKAYA OBLAST, RUSSIA
    SOMEWHERE DURING his rise to wealth and power, Ivan Kharkov learned how to make an entrance. He knew how to enter a restaurant or the lobby of a luxury hotel. He knew how to enter a boardroom filled with rivals or the bed of a lover. And he certainly knew how to enter a dank cell filled with four people he intended to kill with his own hand. Intriguing was how little the performance varied from venue to venue. Indeed, to watch Ivan now was to imagine him standing at the doorway of Le Grand Joseph or Villa Romana, his old haunts in Saint-Tropez. Though he was a man with many enemies, Ivan never liked to rush things. He preferred to survey the room and allow the room to survey him in return. He liked to flaunt his clothing. And his sundial-sized wristwatch, which, for reasons known only to him, he was looking at now, as if annoyed at a maître d’ for making him wait five minutes for a promised table.
    Ivan lowered his arm and inserted his hand into the pocket of his overcoat. It was unbuttoned, as if he were anticipating physical exertion. His gaze drifted slowly around the cell, settling first on Grigori, then Chiara, then Gabriel, and, finally, on Mikhail. Mikhail’s presence seemed to lift Ivan’s spirits. Mikhail was a bonus, a windfall profit. Mikhail and Ivan had a history. Mikhail had dined with Ivan. Mikhail had been invited to Ivan’s home. And Mikhail had had an affair with Ivan’s wife. At least, that’s what Ivan believed. Shortly before Ivan’s fall, two of his thugs had given Mikhail a good thrashing at a café along the Old Port in Saint-Tropez. It was but an aperitif. Judging from Ivan’s expression, a banquet of pain was being prepared. He and Mikhail were going to partake of it together.
    His gaze swept slowly back and forth, a searchlight over an open field, and came to rest once more on Gabriel. Then he spoke for the first time. Gabriel had spent hours listening to recordings of Ivan’s voice, but never had he heard it in person. Ivan’s English, while perfect, was spoken with the accent of a Cold War propagandist on old Radio Moscow. His rich baritone caused the walls of the cell to vibrate.
    “I’m so pleased I was able to reunite you with your wife, Allon. At least one of us kept up his end of the bargain.”
    “And what bargain was that?”
    “I release your wife, you return my children.”
    “Anna and Nikolai were on the ground at Konakovo at nine o’clock this morning.”
    “I didn’t realize you were on a first-name basis with my children.”
    Gabriel looked at Chiara, then stared directly into Ivan’s iron gaze. “If my wife had been outside the embassy at nine o’clock, your children would be with you right now. But my wife wasn’t there. And so your children are heading back to America.”
    “Do you take me for a fool, Allon? You never intended to let my children off that plane.”
    “It was their decision, Ivan. I hear they even gave you a note.”
    “It was an obvious forgery, just like that painting you sold my wife. Which reminds me: you owe me two and a half