The Defector

ceaselessly in her mind like a loop of videotape. From time to time, she experienced flashes of lucidity, but for the most part she lived only in the past, trapped in a body that no longer functioned, guilt-ridden over her failure to save her son’s life.
    “Does she recognize anyone?”
    “Only Gilah Shamron. She comes once a week. Sometimes more.”
    “Where is she now?”
    “In the recreation room. We’ve closed it so you can see her in private.”
    She was seated in a wheelchair near the window, gazing sight- lessly into the garden where snow was collecting on the limbs of the olive trees. Her hair, once long and black, was short and gray. Her hands, twisted and scarred by fire, were folded in her lap. When Gabriel sat next to her, she seemed not to notice. Then her head turned slowly, and a spark of recognition flickered in her eyes.
    “Is it really you, Gabriel?”
    “Yes, Leah. It’s me.”
    “They said you might be coming. I was afraid you’d forgotten about me.”
    “No, Leah. I’ve never forgotten you. Not for a minute.”
    “You’ve been crying, Gabriel. I can see it in your eyes. Is something wrong?”
    “No, Leah, everything’s fine.”
    She gazed into the garden again. “Look at the snow, Gabriel. Isn’t it . . .”
    She left the thought unfinished. A brief look of horror flashed in her eyes; Gabriel knew she had returned to Vienna. He took hold of her ruined hands and talked. About the painting he was restoring. About the villa where he had been living in Italy. About Gilah and Ari Shamron. Anything but Vienna. Anything but Chiara. Finally, her gaze fell upon him once more. She was back.
    “Is it really you, Gabriel?”
    “Yes, Leah. It’s me.”
    “I was afraid you’d—”
    “Never, Leah.”
    “You look tired.”
    “I’ve been working very hard.”
    “And you’re too thin. Do you want something to eat?”
    “I’m fine, Leah.”
    “How long can you stay, my love?”
    “Not long.”
    “How is your wife?”
    “She’s well, Leah.”
    “Is she pretty?”
    “She’s very pretty.”
    “Are you taking good care of her?”
    His eyes filled with tears. “I’m trying my best.”
    She looked away. “Look at the snow, Gabriel. Isn’t it beautiful?”
    “Yes, Leah, it’s beautiful.”
    “The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. Snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain on Tel Aviv.” She looked at him again. “Make sure Dani is buckled into his seat tightly. The streets are slippery.”
    “He’s fine, Leah.”
    “Give me a kiss.”
    Gabriel pressed his lips against her scarred cheek.
    Leah whispered, “One last kiss.”

    THERE EXISTS in Tel Aviv and its suburbs a constellation of Office safe flats known as jump sites. They are places where, by doctrine and tradition, operatives spend their final night before departing Israel for missions abroad. Neither Gabriel nor any member of his team bothered to go to their assigned site that night. There wasn’t time. In fact, they worked straight through the night and were so late arriving at Ben-Gurion that El Al officials had to slip them through the usual gauntlet of security procedures. In another break with tradition, the entire team traveled aboard the same aircraft: El Al Flight 315 to London. Only Gabriel had a role to play that evening; he separated from the others at Heathrow and made his way to Cheyne Walk in Chelsea. A few minutes after six, he rounded the corner into Cheyne Gardens and rapped his knuckle twice on the back of an unmarked black van. Graham Seymour opened the door and beckoned him inside. The target was in place. The sword was ready. The night raid was about to begin.

40
    CHELSEA , LONDON
    IT WAS said of Viktor Orlov that he divided people into two categories: those willing to be used and those too stupid to realize they were being used. There were some who would have added a third: those willing to let Viktor steal their money. He made no secret of the fact he was a predator and a robber baron. Indeed, he wore these labels proudly, along with his ten-thousand-dollar Italian suits and his trademark striped shirts, specially made by a man in Hong Kong. The dramatic collapse of Communism had presented Orlov with the opportunity to earn a great deal of money in a brief period of time, and he had taken it. Orlov rarely apologized for anything, least of all the manner in which he had become rich. “Had I been born an Englishman, my money might have come to me cleanly,” he told a British