The Cellist by Daniel Silva
22Upper Galilee, Israel
There are interrogation centers scattered throughout Israel. Some are in restricted areas of the Negev Desert, others are tucked away, unnoticed, in the middle of cities. And one lies just off a road with no name that runs between Rosh Pina, one of the oldest Jewish settlements in Israel, and the mountain hamlet of Amuka. The track that leads to it is dusty and rocky and fit only for Jeeps and SUVs. There is a fence topped with concertina wire and a guard shack staffed by tough-looking youths in khaki vests. Behind the fence is a small colony of bungalows and a single building of corrugated metal where the prisoners are kept. The guards are forbidden to disclose their place of work, even to their wives and parents. The site is as black as black can be. It is the absence of color and light.
At present, the facility housed a single prisoner, a former SVR officer named Sergei Morosov. His colleagues at Moscow Center had been led to believe he was dead, the victim of a mysterious auto accident on a stretch of empty road in Alsace-Lorraine. They had even taken delivery of a set of human remains, courtesy of the French internal security service. In truth, Gabriel had abducted Morosov from an SVR safe flat in Strasbourg, stuffed him into a duffel bag, and loaded him onto a private plane. Under coerced interrogation, he had revealed the existence of a Russian mole at the pinnacle of MI6. Gabriel had taken the mole into custody outside Washington, on the banks of the Potomac River. He had been fortunate to survive the encounter. Three SVR officers had not.
The mole now occupied a senior position at Moscow Center, and Sergei Morosov, loyal servant of the Russian state, was the lone prisoner of a secret interrogation facility hidden in the bony hills outside Rosh Pina. He had spent the first eighteen months of his stay in a cell. But after a prolonged period of agreeable behavior, Gabriel had allowed him to settle into one of the staff bungalows. It was not unlike the Allon family home in Ramat David, a little breeze-block structure with whitewashed walls and linoleum floors. The refrigerator and pantry were stocked weekly with an assortment of traditional Russian fare, including black bread and vodka. Morosov happily saw to his own cooking and cleaning. The mundane chores of daily life were a welcome diversion from the grinding monotony of his confinement.
The furnishings in the sitting room were institutional but comfortable. Many Israelis, thought Gabriel, made do with less. Everywhere there were books and piles of yellowed newspapers and magazines, including Die Welt and Der Spiegel. Morosov was a fluent speaker of KGB-accented German. He had run the final lap of his career in Frankfurt, where he had posed as a banking specialist from something called Globaltek Consulting, a Russian firm that purportedly provided assistance to companies wishing to gain access to the lucrative Russian market. In reality, Globaltek was an undeclared rezidentura of the SVR. Its main task was to identify potential assets and acquire valuable industrial technology. To that end, it had ensnared dozens of prominent German businessmen—including several senior executives from RhineBank AG—in operations involving kompromat, the Russian shorthand for compromising material.
The bungalow had no telephone or Internet service, but Gabriel had recently approved the installation of a television with a satellite connection. Morosov was watching a talk show on NTV, the once-independent Russian television network now controlled by the Kremlin-owned energy company Gazprom. The topic was the recent assassination of the dissident Russian businessman Viktor Orlov. None of the panelists appeared troubled by Viktor’s passing or the appalling manner of his death. In fact, they all seemed to think he had received the punishment he deserved.
“Another one bites the dust,” said Morosov. “Isn’t that how the song goes?”
“Careful, Sergei. Otherwise, I might be tempted to lock you in a cage again. You remember what it was like in there, don’t you? Paper plates and plastic spoons. Blue-and-white tracksuits. And no vodka or cigarettes, either.”
“The tracksuits were the worst.”
Absently, Morosov ran a hand over the front of his burgundy crewneck sweater. It paired nicely with his French-blue dress shirt, gabardine trousers, and suede loafers. His graying hair was neatly trimmed, his aging face recently shaved. One might have assumed that he had been expecting a visitor, but that wasn’t the case. As usual, Gabriel had dropped in unannounced.
He pointed the remote at the television and pressed the power button.
Sergei Morosov grimaced. “That remote is now covered with your germs. And if you must know, I’d feel better if you were wearing a mask.” He sprayed the remote with disinfectant. “How bad is it out there?”
“Consider yourself lucky that you live here in your little Covid-free bubble.”
“I’d be much happier in a place of my own.”
“I’m sure you would. But the minute our back was turned, you would head straight for the Russian Embassy, where you would spin a sad tale about how I kidnapped you and brought you here against your will.”
“It happens to be the truth.”
“But your old service is unlikely to believe a word of it. In fact, if by some miracle they were able to get you back to Russia, they would probably take you to a room in Lefortovo Prison and execute you.”
“You know the Russian people very well, Allon.”
“Unfortunately, I speak from experience.”
“How long do you intend to keep me here?”
“Until you’ve told me every last secret rattling around that head of yours.”
“I already have.”
Gabriel removed the printout of the dossier from his attaché case and handed it to Morosov. The Russian slipped on a pair of half-moon reading glasses and scanned the opening pages. His face betrayed no emotion other than grudging admiration.
“You don’t seem terribly surprised, Sergei.”
“Why would I be?”
“Is it accurate?”
“Not entirely. Arkady was never assigned to the Soviet Foreign Ministry.”
“Where did he work?”
“The Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti.”
“The KGB?”
Morosov nodded slowly.
“And the Haydn Group?” asked Gabriel.
“It’s a subsidiary of Arkady’s oil trading company.”
“Yes, I know. But what is it?”
“The Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti.”
Gabriel reclaimed the dossier. “You should have told me about Arkady a long time ago.”
Morosov shrugged. “You never asked.”