The Defector

Gabriel. “I would have enjoyed having him on our side.”
    Shamron knew time could be hard on Russian men. They tended to age in the blink of an eye—young and virile one minute, wrinkled paper the next. But the man who entered the salon of the Hôtel de Crillon shortly after three that afternoon was still the tall, erect figure Shamron had first met many years earlier. Two bodyguards trailed slowly behind him; two others had arrived an hour earlier and were seated not far from Shamron. They were drinking tea; Shamron, mineral water. Rami had delivered the bottle himself after instructing the bartender not to remove the cap and twice requesting clean glasses. Even so, Shamron had yet to touch it. He was wearing his dark suit and silver tie: Shamron the shady businessman who played baccarat well.
    Like Shamron, Sergei Korovin could discuss matters of import in many different languages. Most of their meetings had been conducted in German, and it was German they spoke now. Korovin, after settling himself into a chair, immediately thumbed open his silver cigarette case. Shamron had to remind him smoking was no longer permitted in Paris. Korovin frowned.
    “Do they still let you drink vodka?”
    “If you ask nicely.”
    “I’m like you, Ari. I don’t ask for anything.” He ordered a vodka, then looked at Shamron. “It was reassuring to hear your voice last night. I was afraid you might be dead. It’s the hardest thing about growing old, the death of one’s friends.”
    “I never knew you had any.”
    “Friends? A couple.” He gave a faint smile. “You always played the game well, Ari. You had many admirers at Yasenevo. We studied your operations. We even learned a thing or two.”
    Yasenevo was the old headquarters of the First Chief Directorate, sometimes referred to as Moscow Center. It was now headquarters of the SVR.
    “Where’s my file?” Shamron asked.
    “Locked away where it belongs. For a time, I feared all our dirty laundry would be made public. Thankfully, the new regime put an end to that. Our president understands that he who controls history controls the future. He lauds the achievements of the Soviet Union while minimizing its so-called crimes and abuses.”
    “And you approve?”
    “Of course. Russia has no democratic tradition. To have democracy in Russia would be tantamount to imposing Islamic law in Israel. Do you see my point, Ari?”
    “I believe I do, Sergei.”
    The waiter presented the vodka with great ceremony and withdrew. Korovin drank without hesitation.
    “So, Ari, now that we’re alone—”
    “Are we alone, Sergei?”
    “No one but my security.” He paused. “And you, Ari?”
    Shamron glanced at Rami, who was seated near the entrance of the ornate salon, pretending to read the Herald Tribune .
    “Just one?”
    “Trust me, Sergei, one is all I need.”
    “That’s not what I hear. I’m told a couple of your boys got themselves killed the other night, and the Italians are trying to keep it quiet for you. It won’t work, by the way. My sources tell me the story is going to blow up in your face tomorrow morning in one of the big Italian dailies.”
    “Really? And what’s the story going to say?”
    “That two Office agents were killed during a drive through the Italian countryside.”
    “But nothing about an agent being kidnapped?”
    “No.”
    “And the perpetrators?”
    “There will be speculation it was an Iranian job.” He paused, then said, “But we both know that’s not true.”
    Korovin drank more of his vodka. The topic had been broached. Now both men would have to proceed carefully. Shamron knew that Korovin was in a position to admit little. It didn’t matter. The Russian could say more with a raised eyebrow than most men managed during an hour-long lecture. Shamron made the next move.
    “We’ve always been honest with each other, Sergei.”
    “As honest as two men can be in this business.”
    “So let me be honest with you now. We believe our agent was taken by Ivan Kharkov. We believe it was in retaliation for an operation we ran against him last fall.”
    “I know all about your operation, Ari. The whole world does. But Ivan Kharkov had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance of this woman.”
    Shamron ignored everything about Korovin’s response except for a single word: woman . It was all he needed to know. The Russian had just laid his bona fides upon the table. The negotiation could now begin. It would follow a set of