The Defector

You might find this hard to believe, but he actually paid taxes on income he earned killing and kidnapping people.”
    “Only in Russia.”
    “They were crazy times, Allon. It’s easy to sit in judgment of us, but you’ve never seen your country and your money disappear in the blink of an eye. People did what they had to do in order to survive. It was the law of the jungle. Truly.”
    “Spare me the sad story, Vladimir. It wouldn’t have been a jungle if not for you and your fellow travelers in the Russian mafia. But I digress. You were telling me about Comrade Zhirlov. In fact, you were about to tell me his real name.”
    “I’d like a cigarette.”
    “You are in no position to make demands.”
    “Please, Allon. I had a pack in the pocket of my overcoat last night. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I would like one now. I swear I won’t try anything.”
    Gabriel glanced at Yaakov. The cigarette, when it came, was already lit. Chernov took a long pull, then told Gabriel the name he wanted to hear. It was Petrov. Anton Dmitrievich Petrov.

    NOT THAT it mattered, Chernov added quickly. Petrov hadn’t used the name in years. The son of a KGB colonel assigned to the East Berlin rezidentura , he had been born in the German Democratic Republic during the darkest days of the Cold War. An only child, he had been permitted to play with German children and was completely bilingual at an early age. Indeed, Petrov’s German was so good he was able to pass himself off as a native on the streets of East Berlin. The KGB quietly encouraged Petrov’s linguistic skills by allowing him to remain in the DDR for his schooling rather than return to the Soviet Union. After graduating with honors from a gymnasium in East Berlin, he attended the prestigious University of Leipzig, where he earned a degree in chemistry. Petrov briefly considered pursuing an advanced degree or even a career in medicine. Moscow Center, however, had other plans.
    Within days of graduation, he was summoned to Moscow and offered a job with the KGB. Few young men were foolish enough to refuse such an offer, and Petrov, a member of the KGB’s extended family, entertained no such thoughts. After undergoing two years of training at the KGB’s Red Banner Institute at Yasenevo, he was given the code name Comrade Zhirlov and sent back to East Berlin. A month later, with the help of a Soviet spy inside the West German intelligence service, he slipped through the Iron Curtain and established himself as an “illegal” agent in the West German city of Hamburg.
    Petrov’s very existence was known only to a select group of senior generals inside the First Chief Directorate. His assignment was not to conduct espionage against America and its NATO allies but to wage war on dissidents, defectors, and other assorted troublemakers who dared to challenge the authority of the Soviet state. Armed with a half dozen false passports and a limitless supply of money, he hunted his quarry and meticulously planned their demise. He specialized in the use of poisons and other deadly toxins, some that produced near-instantaneous death, others that took weeks or months to prove lethal. Because he was a chemist, Petrov was able to assist in the design of his poisons and the weapons that delivered them. His favorite device was a ring, worn on his right hand, that injected the victim with a small dose of a deadly nerve toxin. One handshake, one clap on the back, was all it took to kill.
    “As you might expect, Petrov didn’t take the fall of the Soviet Union well. He never had any qualms about killing dissidents and traitors. He was a believer.”
    “What happened to all his KGB-issued passports?”
    “He kept them. They came in handy when he moved to the West.”
    “And you came with him?”
    “Actually, I came first. Petrov followed a month or two later, and our partnership resumed. Business was brisk. Russians were pouring into Western Europe, and they brought the old ways with them. Within a few months, we had more clients than we could handle.”
    “And one of these clients was Ivan Kharkov?”
    The Russian hesitated, then nodded his head. “Ivan trusted him. Their fathers were both KGB, and they were both KGB.”
    “Did you deal with Ivan directly?”
    “Never. Only with Arkady Medvedev.”
    “And after Arkady was killed?”
    “Ivan sent someone else. Called himself Malensky.”
    “Do you remember the date?”
    “It was sometime last October.”
    “After