“There’s a first for everything.”
“As evidenced by this phone call. Be that as it may,” Rousseau continued, “the palace is rather keen to avoid world war three.Once we confirm your agent isn’t aboard any of the helicopters, the power at Chambéry Airport will be miraculously restored.”
Gabriel was about to offer up a protest when he heard the sound, like the grinding of a buzz saw, rising over Les Trois Vallées.
“Can you hear that, Paul?”
“I hear it,” answered Rousseau.
“What does that sound like to you?”
“It sounds like they just took her out the back door.”
From their observation post on the rue du Jardin Alpin, Mikhail Abramov and Christopher Keller heard the same sound. Like Gabriel, Mikhail did not immediately recognize the source, but Christopher knew at once that it was the engine of a snowmobile. Gazing across the ski area, he glimpsed no movement of light. Clearly, the operator of the snowmobile had doused the headlamp to avoid detection, which suggested the machine was being used to transport a German woman, thirty-four years of age, wearing a black Max Mara cocktail dress and carrying a clutch purse by Bottega Veneta.
Christopher climbed atop the Audi’s roof to have a better look and remained there, his eyes searching the darkened landscape, as the sound of the engine faded. It was definitely moving on a southwesterly heading, toward the mountain peak known as Dent de Burgin. In the valley beyond it lay the village of Morel and the Méribel ski resort. They were connected to Albertville by the D90, a perfect escape route. Unless, of course, they intended to drop her into a crevasse at the top of the ridge and call it a night.
He eased from the roof of the Audi to find Mikhail gazing calmly at his secure Solaris phone. “Message from headquarters,” he explained without looking up.
“What does it say?”
“Headquarters is of the opinion that our girl might very well be aboard that snowmobile. Furthermore, headquarters would like us to remove our girl from the aforementioned snowmobile before any harm comes to her.”
“And how are we supposed to do that without a snowmobile of our own?”
“Headquarters suggests we improvise. His word, not mine.” Mikhail smiled. “Good thing you packed your snowshoes.”
“I’ll show you how to put them on.”
“It’s not really my sort of thing. Besides,” Mikhail added, patting the steering wheel, “I’m driving.”
Christopher frowned. “Tellheadquartersto put a police checkpoint on the D90 north of Morel.”
Mikhail popped the release for the rear cargo door. “Will do.”
Christopher quickly pulled on the snowshoes and clipped a light to the front of his Gore-Tex jacket. Five minutes later, while traversing an ungroomed ski slope about two hundred meters west of Le Chalet de Pierres, he found a set of fresh tracks in the snow. Just as he suspected, they were headed to the southwest. He switched off his light, lowered his head into a knifelike wind, and kept walking.
56
Chambéry Airport, France
Arkady Akimov had been relegated to the second helicopter. His seat, the only one available, was at the back of the drafty cabin, next to the crates of secure communications equipment. Oksana was balanced childlike atop his knee, pouting. The thunderous beating of the rotors made conversation all but impossible, which was a blessing. In the car she had pummeled him with questions. Why were they returning to Moscow with Volodya? Were they in trouble? What would happen to the money? Who would look after her? Did it have something to do with Isabel? That was when she had pummeled him with her fists instead of more questions. And he had acquiesced, at least for a moment, for he had earned it. He was confident it would not be the first indignity he would suffer. More would follow once they arrived in Russia. Isabel had stripped away hisveneer of wealth and power. She had destroyed him. He was no one, he thought. A nothing man.
The other eight passengers crammed into the second Airbus were all officers of Volodya’s security detail. As they were approaching Chambéry, the mood in the cabin grew anxious. Arkady could not make out what they were saying, but it appeared as though there was a problem at the airport. He shifted Oksana to his opposite knee and peered out the rear starboard-side window. The lights of Chambéry sparkled like gemstones, but there was a large black spot where the airport should have been.
Only the gleaming white Ilyushin Il-96, its landing and logo lights burning brightly, was visible in the gloom. The helicopter touched down about a hundred meters behind the tail. Oksana angrily rejected Arkady’s attempt to hold her hand as they crossed the darkened tarmac. The bodyguards walking behind them exchanged a few contemptuous remarks at his expense.
A nothing man...
Volodya, having left his helicopter, was trudging up the forward airstair, trailed by Yevgeny Nazarov and his other close aides. A second airstair stretched from the Ilyushin’s rear door. Arkady looked to one of the bodyguards for direction and was informed, with an insolent nod, that he would make the return trip to Moscow in the back of the plane, with the rest of the hired help.
Inside the cabin, he and Oksana parted company, perhaps for the last time. Oksana collapsed into a seat on the port side of the aircraft, next to one of Volodya’s bodyguards—the best-looking one, of course. Arkady sat across the aisle and stared into the night. His thoughts were filled with images of his owndeath. Given the available menu of options, a fall from an elevated window would indeed be preferable. Death by nerve agent, the death he had inflicted on the traitor Viktor Orlov, would be quick and relatively painless. Death by polonium, however, would be prolonged and excruciating, a Shostakovich symphony of suffering.
And then, he thought, there was the sort of death the KGB had meted out to those who betrayed it. A savage beating, a merciful bullet to the back of the head, a grave with no marker.Vysshaya mera...The highest measure of punishment. For the crime of giving eleven and a half billion dollars of his money to the likes of Gabriel Allon, Arkady feared he would leave this world in the worst way imaginable. He only hoped Volodya looked after Oksana when he was gone. Perhaps he would keep her for himself. When it came to women, his appetite was insatiable.
Suddenly, Arkady realized that Oksana was calling to him from across the aisle. He turned sharply, hopeful of clemency, but she pointed with irritation toward the left side of his suit jacket. He hadn’t noticed his phone was ringing.
The call was from a number he didn’t recognize. He declined it and tossed the phone on to the next seat. Instantly, it began to ring again. Same number. This time Arkady tapped theaccepticon and raised the phone hesitantly to his ear.
