The English Girl: A Novel

won’t allow it. We have to wait until after ten o’clock. Otherwise, we’ll never be able to get him out of town. We’ll be dead in the water.”
    “A poor choice of words.”
    “Send the message, Eli.”
    Lavon typed a few characters into his BlackBerry and led Gabriel outside, into Il’inka Street. The wind was getting up again, and the temperature had plummeted. Tears flowed freely from Gabriel’s eyes as they walked past the Easter-egg facades of the heavy imperial buildings. In his earpiece he could hear Nicholas Avedon humming softly to himself as he ran a bath in his room at the Ritz.
    “I want full coverage on him the entire time,” Gabriel said. “We take him to dinner, we sit with him at dinner, and then we take him back to his hotel. That’s when the fun begins.”
    “Only if Pavel agrees to ride to Mikhail’s rescue.”
    “He’s the chief of Volgatek security. If Volgatek’s newest executive believes his life is in danger, Pavel will come running. And then we’ll make him very sorry that he did.”
    “I’d feel better if we could take him to another country.”
    “Which one, Eli? Ukraine? Belarus? Or how about Kazakhstan?”
    “Actually, I was thinking about Mongolia.”
    “Bad food.”
    “Terrible food,” agreed Lavon, “but at least it isn’t Russia.”
    At the end of the street, they turned to the left and climbed the hill toward Lubyanka Square.
    “Do you think it’s ever been done before?” asked Lavon.
    “What’s that?”
    “Kidnapping a KGB officer inside Russia.”
    “There is no KGB, Eli. The KGB is a thing of the past.”
    “No, it isn’t. It’s called the FSB now. And it occupies that big ugly building directly ahead of us. And they’re going to be rather upset when they find out one of their brethren is missing.”
    “If we get him cleanly, they won’t have time to do anything about it.”
    “If we get him cleanly,” Lavon agreed.
    Gabriel was silent.
    “Do me a favor tonight, Gabriel. If you don’t have the shot, don’t take it.” He paused, then added, “I’d hate to miss out on the opportunity of working for you when you become the chief.”
    They had arrived at the top of the hill. Lavon slowed to a stop and gazed at the enormous yellow fortress on the opposite side of Lubyanka Square. “Why do you suppose they kept it?” he asked seriously. “Why didn’t they tear it down and put up a monument to its victims?”
    “For the same reason they didn’t remove Stalin’s bones from the Kremlin wall,” answered Gabriel.
    Lavon was silent for a moment. “I hate this place,” he said finally. “And at the same time, I love it dearly. Am I crazy?”
    “Certifiable,” said Gabriel. “But that’s just one man’s opinion.”
    “I’d feel better if we could take him to another country.”
    “So would I, Eli. But we can’t.”
    “How far is it to Mongolia?”
    “Too far to drive,” said Gabriel. “And the food is terrible.”
    F ive minutes later, as Gabriel entered the Metropol’s overheated lobby, Yossi Gavish stepped from his fourth-floor room at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel dressed in a banker’s gray suit and a silver necktie. In his left hand was a gold name tag that read ALEXANDER —a student of history, Yossi had chosen it himself—and in his right was a glossy blue gift bag bearing the hotel’s logo. The bag was heavier than Yossi made it appear, for it contained a Makarov 9mm pistol, one of several weapons that Moscow Station had acquired from illicit local sources before the team’s arrival. For three days the weapon had been concealed between the mattress and box spring in Yossi’s room. He was understandably relieved to finally be rid of it.
    Yossi waited until he was certain the corridor was unoccupied before quickly affixing the name tag to his lapel. Then he made his way to the doorway of Room 421. From the opposite side he could hear a man singing “Penny Lane” quite well. He knocked twice, firm but polite, the knock of a concierge. Then, upon receiving no answer, he knocked again, louder. This time a man in a white toweling robe answered. He was tall, impossibly fit, and pink from his bath.
    “I’m busy,” he snapped.
    “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Mr. Avedon,” replied Yossi in a neutral cosmopolitan accent, “but management would like to offer you a small gift of our appreciation.”
    “Tell management thanks but no thanks.”
    “Management would be disappointed.”
    “It’s not more bloody caviar,