The Defector

land.”
    “By whom?”
    “My father, of course.”
    Ivan had answered without hesitation. Annoyed by Gabriel’s inquiries at first, he now actually seemed to be enjoying the exchange. Gabriel reckoned it must be easy to unburden one’s secrets to a man who would soon be dead. He tried to frame another question that would keep Ivan talking, but it wasn’t necessary. Ivan resumed his lecture without further prompting.
    “When the Soviet Union collapsed, it was a dangerous time for the KGB. There was talk about throwing open the archives. Airing dirty laundry. Naming names. The old guard was horrified. They didn’t want the KGB dragged through the mud of history. But they had other motivations for keeping the secrets, too. You see, Allon, they weren’t planning to stay out of power for long. Even then, they were plotting their comeback. They succeeded, of course. The KGB, by another name, is once again running Russia.”
    “And you preside over the last mass grave of the Great Terror.”
    “The last? Hardly. You can’t put a shovel in the soil of Russia without hitting bone. But this one is quite large. Apparently, there are seventy thousand souls buried beneath these trees. Seventy thousand . If it ever became public . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he were momentarily at a loss for words. “Let us say it might cause considerable embarrassment inside the Kremlin.”
    “Is that why the president is so willing to tolerate your activities?”
    “He gets his cut. The tsar takes a cut of everything.”
    “How much did you have to pay him for the right to kidnap my wife?”
    Ivan made no response. Gabriel pressed him to see if he could provoke another outburst of anger.
    “How much, Ivan? Five million? Ten? Twenty?”
    Ivan wheeled around. “I’m tired of your questions, Allon. Besides, we haven’t much farther to go. Your unmarked grave awaits you.”
    Gabriel looked beyond Chiara’s shoulder and saw a mound of fresh earth, covered by a dusting of snow. He told her he loved her. Then he closed his eyes. He was hearing things again.
    Helicopters.

72
    VLADIMIRSKAYA OBLAST, RUSSIA
    COLONEL LEONID Milchenko could finally see the property: four frozen streams meeting in a frozen marsh, a small dacha with a hole blown in the front door, a line of people walking slowly through a birch forest.
    He opened the mic on his headset.
    “Do you see them?”
    The pilot’s helmet moved up and down rapidly.
    “How close can you get?”
    “Edge of the marsh.”
    “That’s at least three hundred meters away.”
    “That’s as close as I can put this thing down, Colonel.”
    “What about the Alphas?”
    “Fast rope insertion. Right into the trees.”
    “Nobody dies.”
    “Yes, Colonel.”
    Nobody dies . . .
    Who was he kidding? This was Russia. Someone always died.
    . . .

    TEN MORE paces through the snow. Then Ivan heard the helicopters, too. He stopped. Cocked his head, doglike. Shot a glance at Rudenko. Started walking again.
    Time . . . Precious time . . .

    NAVOT’S MESSAGE flashed across the screens of the annex.
    HELICOPTERS INBOUND . . .

    Carter covered his telephone and looked at Shamron.
    “The FSB team confirms a line of people walking into the trees. It looks as if they’re alive, Ari!”
    “They won’t be for long. When will those Alpha Group forces be on the ground?”
    “Ninety seconds.”
    Shamron closed his eyes.
    Two turns to the right, two turns to the left . . .

    THE BURIAL pit opened before them, a wound in the flesh of Mother Russia. The ashen sky wept snow as they filed slowly toward it, accompanied by the thumping of distant rotors. Big rotors , thought Gabriel. Big enough to make the forest shake. Big enough to make Ivan’s men restless. Ivan, too. Suddenly he was shouting at Grigori in Russian, exhorting him to walk faster to his death. But Gabriel, in his thoughts, was pleading for Grigori to slow his pace. To stumble. To do anything possible to allow the helicopters time to arrive.
    Just then, the first swept in at treetop level, leaving a temporary blizzard in its wake. Ivan was briefly lost in the whiteout. When he reemerged, his face was contorted with rage. He shoved Grigori toward the edge of the pit and began screaming at his guards in Russian. Most were no longer paying attention. A few of his mutinous legion were watching the helicopter settling at the edge of the marshland. The others had their eyes on the western sky, where two more helicopters had