Page 39 of The Collector
His last posting was in Frankfurt, where, posing as a Russian banking consultant, he stole German industrial secrets and ensnared dozens of German businessmen in operations involving kompromat, the Russian shorthand for compromising material. He also played a supporting role in the brutal assassination of the Office’s most important Russian asset. Gabriel returned the favor by abducting Morosov from an SVR safe flat in Strasbourg, stuffing him into a duffel bag, and dangling him out of a helicopter over Syrian territory held by rabidly anti-Russian jihadists. The interrogation that followed had allowed Gabriel to identify a Russian mole at the pinnacle of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, perhaps the crowning achievement of his career.
As for Sergei Morosov, he was now the lone prisoner of the same secret detention facility in the Biriya Forest near Rosh Pina where he had undergone his initial interrogation. He lived in one of the old staffbungalows, where he spent his days watching Russian television and his nights drinking Russian vodka. Lately, he had developed a taste for the wines produced by the vineyard on the other side of the ridge.
He had been in the process of removing a cork from a bottle of sauvignon blanc when Gabriel appeared on his doorstep unannounced, accompanied by the gray-eyed man who had handled some of the more unpleasant aspects of his interrogation. Their handshake was cordial nonetheless—warm, even. Morosov seemed genuinely pleased to see the two men responsible for his imprisonment. They had long ago made their cold peace. What happened between them was simply part of the game; there were no hard feelings. Nor was Morosov inclined to leave the secret camp in the Upper Galilee anytime soon. Beyond the concertina wire there was only the prospect of a Russian-style death.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to Moscow?” asked Gabriel in jest. “I hear the Red Army is looking for a few good men to help turn the tide in Ukraine.”
“Thereareno good men left in Russia, Allon. They’ve all fled the country to avoid the mobilization.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“That my country is losing this war? That my fellow citizens are being fed into a meat grinder? That they will soon be freezing to death because they don’t have proper supplies? Yes, Allon, I’m disappointed. But I’m also afraid of what comes next.”
They went onto the veranda of the bungalow—his dacha, as Morosov called it. He was wearing a V-neck sweater against the cool afternoon air. Gabriel thought he looked rather good for a Russian male who had recently celebrated his sixtieth birthday. It was unlikely to last. Old age tended to fall on Russian men like a brick from a window. They were a bit like poor Johannes Vermeer. Alive one day, dead the next.
From the dusty courtyard of the camp came a muted, rhythmic thumping. It was only Ingrid. Surrounded by the four heavily armed security guards, she was demonstrating her ability to keep a leather footbag aloft while her eyes were closed.
“Who’s the girl?” asked Morosov.
“My bodyguard.”
“She doesn’t look Jewish to me.”
“Was that a microaggression, Sergei?”
“A what?”
“A microaggression. A comment or action that subtly and often unconsciously expresses a prejudiced attitude toward a racial minority or otherwise marginalized group.”
“Jews are hardly marginalized.”
“You just did it again.”
“Don’t pull that shit with me, Allon. At this point, I’ve practically made aliyah. Besides, if anyone is guilty of prejudice, it’s you.”
“Not me, Sergei. I love everyone.”
“Everyone except Russians,” said Morosov.
“Are you referring to the people who massacred more than four hundred and fifty innocent civilians in the Ukrainian town of Bucha? Who are deliberately firing missiles into shelters crammed with women and children? Who are using rape as a part of their military strategy?”
“We Russians know only one way to fight a war.”
“Or to lose one.”
“Volodya is without question losing this war,” said Morosov. “But under no circumstances will he actually lose it.”
Volodya was the affectionate-diminutive form of the Russian name Vladimir.
“And how will he manage that?” asked Gabriel.
“By any means necessary.” Morosov refilled his wineglass. “Youknow your Russian history, Allon. Tell me, what happened after Russia suffered a humiliating defeat in the Russo-Japanese War?”
“The Russian Revolution of 1905 happened. There were worker revolts and peasant uprisings in every corner of the empire. Tsar Nicholas II responded by issuing the October Manifesto, which promised basic civil rights for Russian citizens and a democratically elected parliament.”
“And when Russia suffered a series of battlefield disasters during the First World War?”
“The Bolsheviks seized power, and the tsar and his family were murdered.”
