The Defector

Waiting for a source. Waiting for the sun to rise after a night of killing. And waiting for a van carrying a wounded Russian assassin.
    “There’s going to be hell to pay at that bank,” said Eli Lavon.
    “Becker will keep it quiet. He has no choice.”
    “And if he can’t?”
    “Then we’ll clean up the mess later.”
    “Good thing the Swiss joined the modern world and took down their border posts. Remember the old days, Gabriel? They would get us coming and going.”
    “I remember, Eli.”
    “I can’t tell you how many times I had to sit there while those smug Swiss boys searched my trunk. Now they barely look at you. This will be our fourth Russian in three days, and no one will be the wiser.”
    “We’re doing them a favor.”
    “If we keep going at this rate, there won’t be any Russians left in Switzerland.”
    “My point exactly.”
    Just then a van turned into the lot. Gabriel climbed out of the Audi and walked over. Pulling open the rear door, he saw Sarah and Navot sitting on the floor of the cargo hold. Petrov was stretched between them.
    “How is he?”
    “Still unconscious.”
    “Pulse?”
    “Okay.”
    “How’s the blood loss?”
    “Not too bad. I think the rounds cauterized the vessels.”
    “King Saul Boulevard is sending a doctor to the interrogation site. Can he make it?”
    “He’ll be fine.” Navot handed Gabriel a small ziplock plastic bag. “Here’s a souvenir.”
    Inside was Petrov’s ring. Gabriel carefully slipped the bag into his coat pocket and gestured for Sarah to get out of the van. He helped her into the backseat of the Audi, then climbed behind the wheel. Five minutes later, both vehicles were safely over the invisible border and heading north into Germany. Sarah managed to keep her emotions in check for a few minutes longer. Then she leaned her head against the window and began to weep.
    “You did the right thing, Sarah. You saved Uzi’s life.”
    “I’ve never shot anyone before.”
    “Really?”
    “Don’t make jokes, Gabriel. I don’t feel so well.”
    “You will.”
    “When?”
    “Eventually.”
    “I think I’m going to be sick.”
    “Should I pull over?”
    “No, keep going.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I’ll stop just in case.”
    “Maybe you should.”
    Gabriel pulled to the side of the motorway and crouched at Sarah’s side as her body retched.
    “I did it for you, Gabriel.”
    “I know, Sarah.”
    “I did it for Chiara.”
    “I know.”
    “How long am I going to feel this way?”
    “Not long.”
    “How long, Gabriel?”
    He rubbed Sarah’s back as her body convulsed again.
    Not long , he thought. Only forever .

PART FOUR
    Resurrection Gate

54
    NORTHERN GERMANY
    FOR EVERY safe house, there is a story. A salesman who lives out of a suitcase and rarely sees home. A couple with too much money to be tied to one place for long. An adventurous soul who travels to faraway lands to take pictures and scale mountains. These are the tales told to neighbors and landlords. These are the lies that explain short-term tenants and guests who arrive in the middle of the night with keys in their pockets.
    The villa near the Danish border had a story, too, though some of it happened to be true. Before the Second World War, it had been owned by a family called Rosenthal. All but one member, a young girl, perished in the Holocaust, and after emigrating to Israel in the mid-1950s she bequeathed her family home to the Office. Known as Site 22XB, the property was the jewel in Housekeeping’s crown, reserved for only the most sensitive and important operations. Gabriel believed a Russian assassin with two bullet wounds and a head filled with vital secrets certainly fell into that category. Housekeeping had agreed. They had given him the keys and made certain the pantry was well provisioned.
    The house stood a hundred yards from a quiet farm road, a lonely outpost on the stark, flat plain of western Jutland. Time had taken its toll. The stucco needed a good scrubbing, the shutters were broken and peeling for want of paint, and the roof leaked when the big storms swept in from the North Sea. Inside was a similar story: dust and cobwebs, rooms not quite furnished, fixtures and appliances from a bygone era.
    Indeed, to wander the halls was to step back in time, especially for Gabriel and Eli Lavon. Known to Office veterans as Château Shamron, the house had served as a planning base during Operation Wrath of God. Men had been