AT THAT same moment, an aged Lada bearing Yaakov, Oded, and Navot was parked along the shoulder of a frozen two-lane highway. Behind them was a string of villages. Ahead was the M7 and Moscow. Oded was behind the wheel, Yaakov was huddled in the back, Navot was in the front passenger seat. The little wipers of the Lada were scraping at the snow now accumulating on the windshield. The defroster, a euphemism if there ever was one, was doing more harm than good. Navot was oblivious. He was staring at the screen of his secure PDA and watching the seconds tick away on its digital clock. Finally, at 10:20, a message. Reading it, he swore softly to himself and turned to Oded.

“The Old Man wants us to go back to Moscow.”

“What do we do?”

Navot folded his arms across his chest.

“Don’t move.”

THE HELICOPTER was a reconfigured M-8, maximum speed of one hundred sixty miles per hour, a bit slower when the wind was howling out of Siberia and visibility was a half mile at best. It carried a crew of three and a passenger complement of just two: Colonel Leonid Milchenko and Major Vadim Strelkin, both of the FSB’s Department of Coordination. Strelkin, a poor flier, was trying very hard not to be sick. Milchenko, headset over his ears, was listening to the cockpit chatter and peering out the window.

They had cleared the outer ring five minutes after leaving Lubyanka and were now streaking eastward, using the M7 as a rough guide. Milchenko knew the towns well-Bezmenkovo, Chudinka, Obukhovo-and his mood darkened with each mile they moved beyond Moscow. Russia as viewed from the air was not much better than Russia on the ground. Look at it, Milchenko thought. It didn’t happen overnight. It took centuries of tsars, general secretaries, and presidents to produce a wreck like this, and now it was Milchenko’s job to hide its dirty secrets.

He keyed open his microphone and asked for an estimated arrival time. Fifteen minutes, came the reply. Twenty at most.

Twenty at most… But what would he find when he got there? And what would he take away? The president had made his wishes clear.

“It is imperative the Israelis leave there alive. But if Ivan needs to shed a little blood, give him your friend, Bulganov. He’s a dog. Let him die a dog’s death.”

But what if Ivan didn’t wish to surrender his Jews? What then, Mr. President? What then, indeed.

Milchenko stared morosely out the window. The towns were getting farther and farther apart now. More fields of snow. More birch trees. More places to die… Milchenko was about to find himself in an unenviable position, caught between Ivan Kharkov and the Russian president. It was a fool’s errand, this. And if he wasn’t careful, he might die a dog’s death, too.

THE DEAD were stacked like cordwood at the edge of the trees, several with neat bullet holes in their foreheads, the rest bloody messes. Ivan paid them no heed as he stepped through the ruined entrance and made his way to the side of the dacha. Gabriel, Chiara, Grigori, and Mikhail followed, hands still trussed at their backs, a bodyguard holding each arm. They were made to stand against the exterior wall, Gabriel at one end, Mikhail at the other. The snow was knee-deep and more was falling. Ivan paced slowly in it, a large Makarov pistol in his hand. The fact his costly trousers and shoes were being ruined seemed to be the only dark spot on what was an otherwise festive occasion.

Ivan’s hero, Stalin, liked to toy with his victims. The doomed were showered with special privileges, comforted with promotions and with promises of new opportunities to serve their master and the Motherland. Ivan made no such pretense of compassion, no efforts to deceive the soon-to-be dead. Ivan was Fifth Directorate. A breaker of bones, a smasher of heads. After making one final pass before his prisoners, he selected his first victim.

“Did you enjoy the time you spent with my wife?” he asked Mikhail in Russian.

“Former wife,” replied Mikhail in the same language. “And, yes, I enjoyed my time with her very much. She’s a remarkable woman. You should have treated her better.”

“Is that why you took her from me?”

“I didn’t have to take her. She staggered into our arms.”

Mikhail never saw the blow coming. A backhand, low at the start, high at the finish. Somehow he managed to stay on his feet. Ivan’s guards, who were standing in a semicircle in the snow, found it amusing. Chiara closed her eyes and began to shake with fear. Gabriel pressed his shoulder lightly against hers. In Hebrew, he murmured, “Try to stay calm. Mikhail’s doing the right thing.”

“He’s just making him angrier.”

“Exactly, my love. Exactly.”

Ivan was now rubbing the back of his hand, as if to show he had feelings, too. “I trusted you, Mikhail. I allowed you into my home. You betrayed me.”

“It was just business, Ivan.”

“Really? Just business? Elena told me about that shitty little villa in the hills above Saint-Tropez. She told me about the lunch you had waiting. And the wine. Bandol rosé. Elena’s favorite.”

“Very cold. Just the way she likes it.”

Another backhand, hard enough to send Mikhail crashing into the side of the dacha. With his hands still bound, he was unable to stand on his own. Ivan seized the front of his parka and lifted him effortlessly to his feet.

“She told me about the shitty little room where you made love. She even told me about the Monet prints hanging on the wall. Funny, don’t you think? Elena had two real Monets of her own. And yet you took her to a room with Monet posters on the wall. Do you remember them, Mikhail?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I was too busy looking at your wife.”

This time, it was a sledgehammer fist. It opened another gash on Mikhail’s face, an inch beneath the left eye. As the guards hauled him to his feet, Chiara pleaded with Ivan to stop. Ivan ignored her. Ivan was just getting started.

“Elena said you were a perfect gentleman. That you made love twice. That you wanted to make love a third time, but Elena said no. She had to be going. She had to get home to her children. Do you remember it now, Mikhail?”

“I remember, Ivan.”

“These were lies, were they not? You concocted this story of a romantic encounter in order to deceive me. You never made love to my wife in that villa. You debriefed her about my operation. Then you plotted her defection and the theft of my children.”

“No, Ivan.”

“No, what?”

“The lunch was waiting. So was the rosé. Bandol. Elena’s favorite. We made love twice. Unlike you, I was a perfect gentleman.”

The knee came up. Mikhail went down. He stayed down.

Now it was Gabriel’s turn.

IVAN’S MEN had not bothered to remove Gabriel’s watch. It was strapped to his left wrist, and the wrist was pinned to his kidney. In his mind, though, he could picture the digital numbers advancing. At last check it had been 9:11:07. Time had stopped with the collision, and it had started again with Ivan’s arrival from Konakovo. Gabriel and Shamron had chosen the old airfield for a reason: to create space between Ivan and the dacha. To create time in the event something went wrong. Gabriel reckoned at least an hour had elapsed between the time of their capture and the time of Ivan’s arrival. He knew Shamron had not spent that hour planning a funeral. Now Gabriel and Mikhail had to help their own cause by giving Shamron one thing: time. Oddly enough, they would have to enlist Ivan as their ally. They had to keep Ivan angry. They had to keep Ivan talking. When Ivan went silent, bad things happened. Countries tore themselves to shreds. People died.