The Defector

a glimmer of hope and use the situation to his advantage. Shamron would understand that. It was exactly the way he would have played it if the roles were reversed.
    “How long before I would have to take control?”
    “Does that mean you’ll take the job?”
    “No, it means I’ll consider the offer—on two conditions.”
    “I don’t like ultimatums. The PLO learned that lesson the hard way.”
    “Do you want to hear my terms?”
    “If you insist.”
    “Number one, I get to finish my painting.”
    Shamron closed his eyes and nodded. “And the second?”
    “I’m going to get Grigori Bulganov out of Russia before Ivan kills him.”
    “I was afraid you were going to say that.” Shamron took a final pull at his cigarette and ground it out slowly in the ashtray. “See if there’s some coffee in this place. You know I’m incapable of discussing an operation without coffee.”

22
    MONTMARTRE, PARIS
    GABRIEL SPOONED coffee into the French press and briefed Shamron while waiting for the water to boil. Shamron sat motionless at the small table in his shirtsleeves, his liver-spotted hands bunched thoughtfully beneath his chin. He moved for the first time to read the letter Grigori had left with Olga Sukhova in Oxford, then a moment later to accept his first cup of coffee. He was pouring sugar into it when he announced his verdict.
    “It’s clear Ivan is planning to hunt down and kill everyone who was involved in the operation against him. First he went after Grigori. Then Olga. But the person he really wants is you .”
    “So what do you want me to do? Spend the rest of my life hiding?” Gabriel shook his head. “To quote the great Ari Shamron, I don’t believe in sitting around while others plot my destruction. It seems to me we have a choice. We can live in fear. Or we can fight back.”
    “And how do you suggest we do that?”
    “By treating Ivan and his operators as though they are terrorists. By putting them out of business before they can go after anyone else. And if we’re lucky, we might be able to get Grigori back.”
    “Where do you plan to start?”
    Gabriel unzipped the side compartment of his overnight bag and withdrew an enlarged photograph of a Mercedes sedan with two people in the backseat. Shamron slipped on a pair of battered half-moon reading glasses and examined the image. Then Gabriel placed another photograph before him: the photo that had been attached to the letter in Oxford. Grigori and Irina in happier times . . .
    “I suppose we know how they got him into the car so quietly,” Shamron said. “Did you share this with your British friends?”
    “It might have slipped my mind while I was fleeing the country one step ahead of a Russian hit squad.”
    “Accompanied by Graham Seymour’s defector.” Shamron spent a moment scrutinizing the photograph. “Tell me what you have in mind, my son.”
    “I made a promise to Grigori the night he saved my life. I intend to keep that promise.”
    “Grigori Bulganov has a British passport. That makes him a British problem.”
    “Graham Seymour made one thing abundantly clear to me in London, Ari. As far as the British are concerned, Grigori is my defector, not theirs. And if I don’t try to get him back, no one will.”
    Shamron tapped the photograph. “And you think she can help you?”
    “She saw their faces. Heard their voices. If we can get to her, she can help us.”
    “And what if she’s not willing to help you? What if she willingly took part in the operation?”
    “I suppose anything is possible . . .”
    “But?”
    “I doubt it very seriously. Based on what Grigori told me, Irina hated the FSB and everything it stood for. It was one of the reasons their marriage came apart.”
    “Were there any other reasons?”
    “She was ashamed of Grigori for taking money from Ivan Kharkov. She called it blood money. She wouldn’t touch it.”
    “Perhaps Irina had a change of heart. Russians can be very persuasive, Gabriel. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that everyone has a price.”
    “You might be right, Ari. But we won’t know for sure until we ask her.”
    “A conversation? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
    “Something like that.”
    “What makes you think they haven’t killed her?”
    “I called her office this morning. She answered the phone.”
    Shamron drank some of his coffee and pondered the implications of Gabriel’s statement. “Let me make one thing clear from the