The Defector

car.”
    “Could he have been changing the license plates?”
    “I couldn’t say. It was dark by then. Anatoly acted as though nothing was happening.”
    “Do you happen to recall the time?”
    “No, but afterward we headed straight into central London. We were driving along the edge of Hyde Park when Anatoly’s telephone rang. He spoke a few words in Russian, then looked at me and smiled. He said it was safe to go see Grigori.”
    “What happened next?”
    “Things moved very quickly. I put on some lipstick and checked my hair. Then I saw something from the corner of my eye. A movement.” She paused. “There was a gun in Anatoly’s hand. It was pointed at my heart. He said if I made a sound, he would kill me.”
    She lapsed into silence, as if unwilling to go on. Then, with a gentle nudge from Lavon, she began speaking again.
    “The car stopped very suddenly, and Anatoly opened the door with his other hand. I saw Grigori standing on the sidewalk. I saw my husband.”
    “Anatoly spoke to him?”
    She nodded, blinking away tears.
    “Do you remember what he said?”
    “I will never forget his words. He told Grigori to get in the car or I was dead. Grigori obeyed, of course. He had no choice.”
    Lavon gave her a moment to compose herself.
    “Did Grigori say anything after he got in?”
    “He said he would do whatever they wanted. That there was no need to harm or threaten me in any way.” Another pause. “Anatoly told Grigori to shut his mouth. Otherwise, he was going to splatter my brains all over the inside of the car.”
    “Did Grigori ever speak to you?”
    “Just once. He told me he was very sorry.”
    “And after that?”
    “He didn’t say a word. He barely looked at me.”
    “How long were you together?”
    “Just a few minutes. We drove to a parking garage somewhere close. They put Grigori into the back of a van with markings on the side. A cleaning service of some sort.”
    “Where did you go?”
    “Anatoly took me into an adjacent building through an underground passage, and we rode an elevator to the street. A car was waiting nearby. A woman was behind the wheel. Anatoly told me to follow her instructions carefully. He said if I ever spoke to anyone about this, I would be killed. And then my mother would be killed. And then my two brothers would be killed, along with their children.”
    A heavy silence fell over the dining room of the villa. Irina treated herself to another cigarette; then, emotionally exhausted, she recounted the remaining details of her ordeal in a detached voice. The long drive to the seacoast town of Harwich. The sleepless night in the Hotel Continental. The stormy crossing to Hoek van Holland aboard the Stena Britannica car ferry. And the trip home aboard Aeroflot Flight 418, operated by KLM Royal Dutch Airlines, departing Amsterdam at 8:40 p.m., arriving Sheremetyevo at 2 a.m. the following morning.
    “Did you and the woman travel together or separately?”
    “Together.”
    “Did she ever give you a name?”
    “No, but I heard the flight attendant call her Ms. Gromova.”
    “And when you arrived in Moscow?”
    “A car and driver took me to my apartment. The next morning, I returned to work as if nothing had happened.”
    “Was there any other contact?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Did you have the impression you were under surveillance?”
    “If I was, I couldn’t see them.”
    “And when you received the invitation to attend the conference in Italy, they made no effort to prevent you from attending?”
    She shook her head.
    “Were you at all reluctant after what you had just been through?”
    “The invitation seemed very real. Just like Anatoly’s.” A silence, then, “I don’t suppose there really is a conference, is there?”
    “No, there isn’t.”
    “Who are you?” she asked again.
    “We truly are friends of your husband. And we’re going to do everything we can to get him back for you.”
    “What happens now?”
    “The same as before. You return to your job at Galaxy Travel and pretend this never happened. After you attend the third annual seminar and showcase of the Northern Italian Travel Association, of course.”
    “But you just said it wasn’t real.”
    “Reality is a state of mind, Irina. Reality can be whatever you want it to be.”

29
    LAKE COMO • LONDON
    FOR THE next three days, they put her gently through her paces. They described the sumptuous meals she would not eat, the boozy cocktail parties she would not attend,