The Defector

violence. Gabriel would have to move quickly, and he would be forced to take chances. For now, he had just one man in his sights: Vladimir Chernov.
    “Everything Viktor Orlov said checks out,” Navot told Gabriel late that afternoon over coffee in the piano bar. “We’re monitoring his phones and keeping watch on his office and apartment. King Saul Boulevard is making headway on getting into his computers. He’s got good security software, but it won’t keep the cyberboys out long.”
    “How much do we know about his past?”
    “He was definitely KGB. He worked in the Ninth Directorate, the division that protected Soviet leaders and the Kremlin. Apparently, Chernov was assigned to Gorbachev’s detail at the end.”
    “And when the KGB disbanded?”
    “He wasted very little time going into private practice. He formed a security company in Moscow and advised the newly rich on how to keep themselves and their valuables safe. He did quite well for himself.”
    “When did he set up shop here?”
    “Five years ago. Langley’s had concerns about him for some time. The Americans won’t shed a tear if he has a mishap.”
    “Age?”
    “Forty-six.”
    “Physically fit, I take it?”
    “He’s built like Lenin’s Tomb, and he keeps in shape.”
    Navot handed Gabriel his PDA. On the screen was a surveillance photograph shot earlier that afternoon. It showed Chernov entering his office building. He was a big man, over six feet tall, with deeply receded hair and small eyes set in a round, fleshy face.
    “Does he have a security detail of his own?”
    “Rides around town in a big Audi sedan. The windows are clearly bulletproof. So is the guy who sits at his side. I’d say that both the bodyguard and the driver are extremely well armed.”
    “Family?”
    “The ex-wife and children are back in Moscow. He’s got a girlfriend here in Geneva.”
    “Swiss?”
    “Russian. A kid from the provinces. Sells gloves around the corner from Chernov’s office.”
    “Does the kid have a name?”
    “Ludmila Akulova. They’re having dinner out tonight. A restaurant called Les Armures.”
    Gabriel knew it. It was in the Old Town, near the Hôtel de Ville.
    “What time?”
    “Eight-thirty.”
    “How far is Vladimir’s apartment from Les Armures?”
    “Not far. He lives near the cathedral.”
    “What’s the building like?”
    “Small and traditional. There’s an intercom with a keypad at the street entrance. Tenants can use their keys or punch in the code. We had a look inside earlier this afternoon. There’s an elevator, but Vladimir’s flat is just one floor up.”
    “And the street?”
    “Even in the middle of the day it’s quiet. At night . . .” Navot’s voice trailed off. “Dead.”
    “Ever eaten at Les Armures?”
    “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
    “If they sit down to dinner at 8:30, it’s going to be late by the time they get to that apartment. We’ll take him then.”
    “You’re assuming Ludmila will be accompanying him?”
    “Yes, Uzi, I’m assuming that.”
    “What are we going to do with her?”
    “Scare the daylights out of her and leave her behind.”
    “What about the driver and the bodyguard?”
    “I’m going to need them to make a point.”
    “We’re going to require a diversion of some sort.”
    “Your diversion is upstairs in Room 702. She’s registered under the name Irene Moore. Her real name is Sarah Bancroft.”
    “Where do you want to take them?”
    “Somewhere on the other side of the border. Somewhere isolated. Tell Housekeeping we’re going to need maid service. Tell them it’s going to be messy.”

    THERE ARE many sophisticates who dismiss Geneva as dull and provincial, a Calvinist handmaiden too frigid to loosen her blouse. But they have not heard the peal of her church bells on a cold winter’s night or watched snowflakes settling gently over her cobblestoned streets. And they have not dined at a quiet corner table at Les Armures in the company of a beautiful Russian woman. The salads were crisp, the veal superb, and the wine, a 2006 Bâtard-Montrachet by Joseph Drouhin, was delivered at the perfect temperature by the attentive sommelier. They took their time with their cognac, customary on a snowy February night in Geneva, and at eleven o’clock were holding hands as they climbed into the back of the Mercedes sedan parked outside the old Arsenal. All signs pointed to a night of passion at the apartment near the cathedral. That indeed might