The Defector

worst thing we can do is let him sit around. He needs to get back on the horse.”
    “I take it you have an idea?”
    “How’s the interrogation of Petrov coming along?”
    “He’s putting up a good fight.”
    “Go down to the Negev, Uzi. Light a fire under the interrogators.”
    “What do you want?”
    “I want the names. All of them.”

74
    JERUSALEM
    BY THEN it was late March. The cold winter rains had come and gone, and the spring weather was warm and fine. At the suggestion of the doctors, they tried to get out of the apartment at least once a day. They reveled in the mundane: a trip to the bustling Makhane Yehuda Market, a stroll through the narrow streets of the Old City, a quiet lunch in one of their favorite restaurants. At Shamron’s insistence, they were accompanied always by a pair of bodyguards, young boys with cropped hair and sunglasses who reminded them both too much of Lior and Motti. Chiara said she wanted to visit the memorial north of Tel Aviv. Seeing the bodyguards’ names engraved in stone left her so distraught Gabriel had to practically carry her back to the car. Two days later, on the Mount of Olives, it was his turn to collapse in grief. Lior and Motti had been buried only a few yards from his son.
    Gabriel felt an unusually strong desire to spend time with Leah, and Chiara, unable to bear his absence, had no choice but to go with him. They would sit with Leah for hours in the garden of the hospital and listen patiently while she wandered through time, now in the present, now in the past. With each visit she grew more comfortable in Chiara’s company, and, in moments of lucidity, the two women compared notes on what it was like to live with Gabriel Allon. They talked about his idiosyncrasies and his mood swings, and his need for absolute silence while he was working. And when they were feeling generous, they talked about his incredible gifts. Then the light would go out in Leah’s eyes, and she would return once more to her own private hell. And sometimes Gabriel and Chiara would return to theirs. Leah’s doctor seemed to sense something was amiss. During a visit in early April, he pulled Gabriel and Chiara aside and quietly asked whether they needed professional help.
    “You both look as if you haven’t slept in weeks.”
    “We haven’t,” said Gabriel.
    “Do you want to talk to someone?”
    “We’re not allowed.”
    “Trouble at work?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Can I give you something to help you sleep?”
    “We have a pharmacy in our medicine cabinet.”
    “I don’t want to see you back here for at least a week. Take a trip. Get some sun. You look like ghosts.”
    The next morning, shadowed by bodyguards, they drove to Eilat. For three days, they managed not to speak about Russia, or Ivan, or Grigori, or the birch forest outside Moscow. They spent their time sunning themselves on the beach or snorkeling amid the coral reefs of the Red Sea. They ate too much food, drank too much wine, and made love until they were overcome by exhaustion. On their last night, they talked about the future, about the promise Gabriel had made to leave the Office, and about where they might live. For the moment, they had no choice but to remain in Israel. To leave the country and the protective cocoon of the Office was not possible so long as Ivan was still walking the face of the earth.
    “And if he wasn’t?” asked Chiara.
    “We can live wherever we like—within reason, of course.”
    “Then I suppose you’ll just have to kill him.”
    They left Eilat the next morning and set out for Jerusalem. While crossing the Negev, Gabriel decided quite spontaneously to make a brief detour near Beersheba. His destination was a prison and interrogation center, located in the center of a restricted military zone. It housed only a handful of inmates, the so-called worst of the worst. Included in this select group was Prisoner 6754, also known as Anton Petrov, the man Ivan had hired to kidnap Grigori and Chiara. The commander of the facility arranged for Petrov to be brought to the exercise yard so Gabriel and Chiara could see him. He wore a blue-and-white tracksuit. His muscle was gone, along with most of his hair. He walked with a heavy limp.
    “Too bad you didn’t kill him,” Chiara said.
    “Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind.”
    “How long will we keep him?”
    “As long as we need to.”
    “And then?”
    “The Americans would like a word with him.”
    “Someone