“Not here.” He returned the letter to his pocket. “Our mutual friends would like to make you a generous offer.”
“Would they?”
“A holiday in Russia. All expenses paid.”
“Russia in the dead of winter? How could I possibly resist?”
“St. Petersburg is lovely this time of year.”
“I still call it Leningrad.”
“Like my grandparents,” he said. “We’ve arranged an apartment overlooking the Neva and the Winter Palace. I can assure you, you will be very comfortable.”
“I prefer Moscow to Leningrad. Leningrad is an imported city. Moscow is the real Russia.”
“Then we’ll find something for you near the Kremlin.”
“Sorry, not interested. It’s not my Russia any longer. It’s your Russia now.”
“It’s the same Russia.”
“You’ve become everything we fought against!” she snapped. “Everything we despised. My God, he’s probably turning somersaults in that grave of his.”
“Who?”
Apparently, Karpov did not know the reason she received the rather substantial sum of ten thousand euros in her bank account the first of each month, never a day late.
“Why now?” she asked. “Why do they want me to come to Moscow after all these years?”
“My brief is limited.”
“Like your Spanish.” He absorbed her insult in silence. “I’m surprised you bothered to ask. Once upon a time, you would have bundled me onto a freighter and taken me to Moscow against my will.”
“Our methods have changed.”
“I doubt that very much.” They had reached the base of the town. She could just make out her little villa at the edge of the crag. She had left the lights on so she could find her way home in the dark. “How’s Comrade Lavrov?” she asked suddenly. “Still with us?”
“It is not in my purview to say.”
“And Modin?” she asked. “He’s dead now, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I don’t suppose you would. He was a great man, a true professional.” Contemptuously, she looked him up and down, Comrade Karpov, the new Russian. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
“Actually, it belongs to Moscow Center.” He fished the envelope from his pocket again and handed it over. “You may read it, but you cannot keep it.”
She carried the envelope a few paces along the street and opened it in the glow of an iron lamp. Inside was a single sheet of paper, typewritten, in stilted French. She stopped reading after a few lines; the words were counterfeit. She returned the letter coolly and set out alone through the darkness, counting her steps, thinking of him. One way or another, voluntarily or by force, she would be leaving for Russia soon, she was sure of it. Perhaps it would not be so horrid after all. Leningrad was really quite lovely, and in Moscow she could visit his grave.Have a d-d-drink with me...If only she had said no.If only...
32
Frankfurt—Tel Aviv—Paris
Globaltek Consulting occupied two floors of a glassy modern office tower on the Mainzer Landstrasse in Frankfurt. Its shimmering Web site offered all manner of services, most of which were of no interest to its clients. Companies hired Globaltek for one reason, to gain access to the Kremlin and by extension the lucrative Russian market. All of Globaltek’s senior advisers were Russian nationals, as were most of the support and administrative staff. Sergei Morosov’s advertised area of expertise was the Russian banking sector. His curriculum vitae spoke of an elite Russian education and business career but made no mention of the fact he was a full colonel in the SVR.
Planning for his defection to the State of Israel commenced within minutes of Uzi Navot’s return to King Saul Boulevard from Vienna. It would not be a typical defection, with its mating rituals and offers of safe harbor and a new identity. It would be of the crash variety, and highly coerced. Furthermore, it would have to be conducted in such a way that Moscow Center would not suspect Sergei Morosov was in the hands of the opposition. All undercover intelligence officers, regardless of their country or service, maintained regular contact with their controllers at headquarters; it was a basic operating principle of the trade. If Sergei Morosov missed more than one check-in, Moscow Center would automatically make one of three assumptions—that he had defected, that he had been kidnapped, or that he had been killed. Only under the third scenario, Sergei Morosov’s death, would the SVR believe its secrets to be safe.
“So you’re going to killanotherRussian?” asked the prime minister. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
