The Defector

Militia, for a reasonable bribe, of course, allowed Muscovites to park all day without fear of a ticket. The militiaman on duty was a pimply child of twenty who looked as though he was frozen solid from the cold. Still feeling the effects of the alcohol, Irina had tried to give him a generous handful of rubles. But the boy stepped away and made a vast show of refusing to accept the money. At first, Irina found the display rather amusing. Then she saw a man standing by her car. She knew the type instantly. He was a member of the siloviki , the brotherhood of former or current officers of the Russian security services. Irina knew this because she had been married to such a man for twelve years. They had been the worst years of her life.
    Irina considered walking away but knew she was in no shape to take evasive action. And even if she weren’t drunk, there was no way she could hide for long. Not in Russia. So she walked over and, with more courage than she was actually feeling at the time, demanded to know what was so damn interesting about her car. The man bade her a pleasant evening—Russian style, first name and patronymic—and apologized for the unorthodox circumstances of their meeting. He said he had an important message concerning her husband. “ Former husband,” Irina replied. “ Former husband,” he repeated, correcting himself. And by the way, she could call him Anatoly.
    “I don’t suppose he showed you any identification?” Lavon wondered in the meekest tone he could manage.
    “Of course not.”
    “Would you please describe him?”
    “Tall, well built, sturdy jaw, blond hair going to gray.”
    “Age?”
    “Over fifty.”
    “Facial hair?”
    “No.”
    “Eyeglasses?”
    “Not then. Later, though.”
    Lavon let it go. For now.
    “What happened next?”
    “He offered to take me to dinner. I told him I didn’t make a habit of having dinner with strangers. He said he wasn’t a stranger; he was a friend of Grigori’s from London. He knew it was my birthday. He said he had a present for me.”
    “And you believed him because you’d had contact with Grigori?”
    “That’s correct.”
    “So you went with him?”
    “Yes.”
    “How did you travel?”
    “In my car.”
    “Who drove?”
    “He did.”
    “Where did you go?”
    “Café Pushkin. Do you know Café Pushkin?”
    Lavon, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, indicated that he did indeed know the famous Café Pushkin. Despite the financial crisis, it was still nearly impossible to get a reservation. But the man named Anatoly had somehow managed to secure a prized table for two in a secluded corner of the second floor. He ordered champagne, which was the last thing she needed, and made a toast. Then he gave her a jewelry box. Inside was a gold bracelet and a note. He said they were both from Grigori.
    “Did the gift box have a name on it?”
    “Bulgari. The bracelet must have cost a fortune.”
    “And the note? Was it Grigori’s handwriting?”
    “It certainly looked like his.”
    “What did it say?”
    “It said he never wanted to spend another birthday apart. It said he wanted me to come to London with the man named Anatoly. It said not to worry about money. Everything would be arranged and paid for by Viktor.”
    “No last name?”
    “No.”
    “But you knew it was Viktor Orlov?”
    “I’d read about Grigori and Viktor on the Internet. I even saw a photo of the two of them together.”
    “Did Anatoly describe his relationship to Mr. Orlov?”
    “He said he worked for him in a security capacity.”
    “Those were his exact words?”
    “Yes.”
    “And the letter? I take it you were moved by it?”
    Irina gave an embarrassed nod. “It all seemed real.”
    Of course it had , thought Gabriel, gazing at Irina in the monitor. It had seemed real because Anatoly, like Gabriel, was a professional, well versed in the arts of manipulation and seduction. And so it came as no surprise to Gabriel when Irina said she and Anatoly had spent the rest of that evening in pleasant conversation. They had talked about many things, she said, moving from topic to topic with the ease of old friends. Anatoly had seemed to know a great deal about Irina’s marriage, things he couldn’t possibly have known unless Grigori had told him—or so Irina believed at the time. Over dessert, almost as an afterthought, he had mentioned that the British government was prepared to grant her asylum if she came to London. Money, he had said,