The Defector

During a brief stop at the Waterside Café, he had noticed he was being followed by a man and a woman. He assumed they were watchers from MI5 and that it was safe to continue. His opinion changed a few moments later when he noticed another man, a Russian, shadowing him along Harrow Road. Then he saw a woman walking toward him—a woman who carried no umbrella and was hatless in the rain—and realized he had seen her a few minutes before. He feared he was about to be killed and briefly considered making a mad dash across Harrow Road. Then a Mercedes sedan had appeared. And its door had swung open . . .
    “I recognized the man holding the gun to my former wife’s head. His name is Petrov. Most people who encounter this man do not survive. I was told Irina would be an exception if I cooperated. I did everything they asked. But a few days into my captivity, while I was being interrogated in the cellars of Lubyanka, a man who had once been my friend told me Irina was dead. He said Ivan had killed her and buried her in an unmarked grave. He said I was next.”
    Just then, the color retreated from the snowbank over the window, and the room was plunged once more into darkness. Chiara wept silently. She wanted desperately to tell Grigori his wife was still alive. She could not. Ivan was listening.

50
    ZURICH
    LATER, Shamron would refer to Konrad Becker as Gabriel’s one and only bit of good luck. Everything else Gabriel earned the hard way, or with blood. But not Becker. Becker was delivered to him gift-wrapped and tied with a bow.
    His bank was not one of the cathedrals of Swiss finance that loom over the Paradeplatz or line the graceful curve of the Bahnhofstrasse. It was a private chapel, a place where clients were free to worship or confess their sins in secret. Swiss law forbids such banks from soliciting deposits. They are free to refer to themselves as banks if they wish but are not required to do so. Some employ several dozen officers and investment specialists; others, only a handful.
    Becker & Puhl fell into the second category. It was located on the ground floor of a leaden old office building, on a quiet block of the Talstrasse. The entrance was marked only by a small brass plaque and was easy to miss, which was Konrad Becker’s intention. He was waiting in the gloomy vestibule at 7 a.m., a small bald figure with the pallor of one who spends his days beneath ground. As usual, he was wearing a somber dark suit and a pall-bearer’s gray tie. His eyes, sensitive to light, were concealed behind a pair of tinted glasses. The brevity of the handshake was a calculated insult.
    “What an unpleasant surprise. What brings you to Zurich, Herr Allon?”
    “Business.”
    “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
    He turned without another word and led Gabriel down a thickly carpeted passage. The office they entered was of modest size and poorly lit. Becker walked slowly around his desk and settled himself tentatively in the executive leather chair, as though trying it out for the first time. He regarded Gabriel nervously for a moment, then started turning over the papers on his desk.
    “I was assured by Herr Shamron that there would be no further contact between us. I fulfilled my end of our agreement, and I expect you to honor your word.”
    “I need your help, Konrad.”
    “And what sort of help do you require from me, Herr Allon? Would you like me to assist in a raid against Hamas targets in the Gaza Strip? Or perhaps you would like me to help you destroy the nuclear facilities of Iran?”
    “Don’t be melodramatic.”
    “Who’s being melodramatic? I’m lucky to be alive.” Becker folded his tiny hands and placed them carefully on the desk. “I am a man of weak physical and emotional constitution, Herr Allon. I am not ashamed to admit it. Nor am I ashamed to say that I still have nightmares about our last little adventure together in Vienna.”
    For the first time since Chiara’s abduction, Gabriel was tempted to smile. Even he had trouble believing the little Swiss banker had played an operational role in one of the greatest coups the Office had ever engineered: the capture of Nazi war criminal Erich Radek. Technically, Becker’s actions had been a violation of Switzerland’s sacrosanct banking-secrecy laws. Indeed, if his role in Radek’s capture ever became public, he faced the distinct possibility of prosecution, or, even worse, financial ruin. All of which explained why Gabriel was confident