The Defector

delivered a knifelike strike to the Russian’s neck with his right. The blow might have killed a normal man, but Petrov merely stumbled. Regaining his balance, he quickly released the two attaché cases and reached beneath his coat with his left hand. As he turned to face Navot, the gun was already on its way out. Navot grabbed the Russian’s left wrist and slammed it hard to the wall. Then he turned his head and frantically searched for the right hand. It wasn’t hard to find. Fingers splayed, killing ring exposed, it was reaching for Navot’s neck. Navot grabbed another wrist and held on. You won’t be alone , Gabriel had said. Funny how things never seemed to go according to plan.

    SARAH HEARD two noises in rapid succession: a man grunting in pain, followed by a heavy thump. Then, a few seconds later, she heard a third sound: the intercom buzzer. Gabriel and the others were waiting outside the entrance of the bank. It would take at least thirty seconds for them to be admitted and make their way to the vault room. Thirty seconds that Uzi would be fighting for his life alone with a professional Russian assassin.
    I won’t hesitate either, Uzi.
    You sure about that?
    I’m sure.
    Sarah reached beneath her desk and drew the gun from her handbag. Chambering the first round, she got to her feet and headed into the corridor.
    . . .

    ON THE third ring, the receptionist finally answered.
    “May I help you?”
    “My name is Heinrich Kiever. Herr Becker is expecting me.”
    “One moment, please.”
    The moment seemed to last an eternity.
    “Herr Kiever?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m afraid no one is answering Herr Becker’s line. Can you wait another moment, please?”
    “Would it be possible for us to wait inside? It’s a bit chilly out here.”
    “I’m afraid it’s against policy. I’m sure Herr Becker will be with you in a moment.”
    “Thank you.”
    Gabriel glanced at Mikhail. “I think we might have a problem in there.”
    “What do we do?”
    “Unless you can think of some way to break into a Zurich bank, we wait.”

    NO AMOUNT of firearms training could have possibly prepared Sarah for the sight that greeted her as she entered the corridor leading to the vault room: one Swiss banker huddled in fear, two large men trying very hard to kill each other. Navot had managed to pin Petrov to the wall and was struggling to control the Russian’s arms. In Petrov’s left hand was a gun. His right was empty, but the fingers were spread wide, and he appeared to be trying to grab Navot’s neck.
    The ring!
    One touch of the stylus was all it would take. One touch, and Navot would be dead within minutes.
    Gun in her outstretched hands, Sarah sidestepped Becker and moved toward the two struggling men. Petrov immediately took note of her approach and attempted to aim his own weapon in her direction. Navot reacted quickly, twisting the Russian’s arm and slamming it to the wall so the barrel was pointed toward the ceiling.
    “Shoot him, Sarah! Shoot him, damn it!”
    Sarah took two steps forward and pressed the gun against Petrov’s left hip. I won’t hesitate either, Uzi . . . She didn’t. Not for an instant. The round shattered the Russian’s hip joint and caused his leg to buckle. Somehow, the left hand managed to maintain its grip on the gun. The right was still inching toward Navot’s neck.
    “Again, Sarah! Shoot him again!”
    This time, she placed the gun against Petrov’s left shoulder and pulled the trigger. As the Russian’s arm went limp, she quickly tore the gun from his grasp. Free to use his own right hand, Navot balled it into a massive fist and gave Petrov three sledgehammer blows to the face. The final two were unnecessary. The Russian was out on his feet after the first.

53
    BARGEN, SWITZERLAND
    THREE MILES from the German border, at the end of a narrow logging valley, stands little Bargen, famous in Switzerland because it is the country’s northernmost town. It has little to offer other than a gas station and a small market frequented by travelers on their way somewhere else. No one seemed to take note of the two men waiting outside in the parking lot in an Audi sedan. One had thinning flyaway hair and was drinking coffee from a paper cup. The other had eyes of emerald and was watching the traffic speeding along the motorway, white lights headed toward Zurich, red lights streaming toward the German border. The waiting . . . Always the waiting . . . Waiting for a plane or a train.