Moscow Rules Page 20

  “I’ll try, love. Shall I call you back this afternoon or would you rather it wait till morning?”

  “Call me right away! Ciao, Alistair!”

  The technician clicked the PAUSE icon. Graham Seymour looked at Gabriel and smiled.

  “Congratulations, Gabriel. Looks like you’ve managed to get your hooks in her.”

  “How long is it going to take her to get from Knightsbridge to Havermore?”

  “The way those Russians drive? No more than two hours door to door.”

  “And you’re sure about Ivan’s schedule?”

  “You’ve heard the intercepts yourself.”

  “Humor me, Graham.”

  “He’s got a delegation of City investment bankers coming to Rutland Gate for lunch at one. Then he’s got a four o’clock conference call with Zurich. He’ll be tied up all afternoon.”

  A voice crackled over the monitors. It was one of the watchers at Harrods. Elena had asked for the check. The bodyguards were setting a perimeter. Departure imminent.

  “Call her back,” Gabriel said. “Tell her to come at four. Tell her not to be late.”

  “Shall we do it now or should we make her wait?”

  “She has enough stress in her life, don’t you think?”

  Seymour snatched up the phone and dialed.

  Whitcombe’s mobile purred. He listened in silence for a moment, then looked at Alistair Leach.

  "The reviews are in, Alistair. Looks like we’ve got a smash hit on our hands.”

  “What now?”

  Whitcombe answered. Leach pressed the REDIAL button and waited for Elena’s voice to come back on the line.

  It was 5:30 that same evening when Mrs. Devlin entered the library at Havermore, bearing a silver tray with a glass of whiskey in the center of it. Sir John was reading the Telegraph. He always read the Telegraph at this time of day; like most idle men, he kept to a strict regime. He took a single sip of the whiskey and watched while Mrs. Devlin began straightening the books and papers on his desk. “Leave it, Lillian,” he said. “Whenever you clean my library, I spend the next week searching for my things.”

  “If you’ve nothing else for me, Sir John, I’ll be going home now. Your dinner’s in the oven.”

  “What are we having tonight?”

  “Rack of lamb.”

  “Divine,” he murmured.

  Mrs. Devlin bade him a good evening and started toward the door. Boothby lowered his newspaper. “Oh, Lillian?”

  “Yes, Sir John?”

  “We’ll be having a visitor tomorrow afternoon.”

  “More visitors, Sir John?”

  “I’m afraid so. She won’t be staying long. She’s just going to have a look at the painting in the nursery.”

  The painting in the nursery . . . The painting that spent a week in the gamekeeper’s cottage, in the possession of the man whose presence she had been told to say nothing about.

  “I see,” she said. “Shall I make a batch of scones?”

  “She’s not exactly a scone person, if you catch my meaning.”

  “I’m not sure I do, Sir John.”

  “She’s a Russian, Lillian. A very well-to-do Russian. I doubt she’ll be staying for tea. With a bit of luck, she’ll have a very quick look and be on her way.”

  Mrs. Devlin remained rooted in the doorway.

  “Something bothering you, Lillian?”

  “May I speak bluntly, Sir John?”

  “You usually do.”

  “Is there something going on at Havermore that you’re not telling me?”

  “Many things, I suppose. You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

  “The odd man in the gamekeeper’s cottage. The lovely young girl who claims to be the daughter of your American friend. The men doing the electrical work all through the house. Old George is convinced they’re up to no good in the barn!”

  “Old George sees conspiracies everywhere, Lillian.”

  “And now you’re thinking about selling that beautiful painting to a Russian? Your poor father, may he rest in peace, would be spinning in his grave.”

  “I need the money, Lillian. We need the money.”

  She tugged skeptically on the drawstring of her apron. “I’m not sure I believe you, Sir John. I think something important is going on in this house. Something to do with secrets, just like when your father was alive.”

  Boothby gave her a conspiratorial look over his whiskey. “The Russians will be arriving at four o’clock sharp, Lillian.” He paused. “If you would rather not be here—”

  “I’ll be here, Sir John,” she said quickly.

  “What about Old George?”

  “Perhaps we should give him the afternoon off, sir.”

  “Perhaps we should.”

  34

  HAVERMORE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE

  The limousines passed the concealed checkpoint on the Station Road at 3:45: two custom Mercedes-Benz S65s with blacked-out windows, riding low and heavy with bulletproof glass and armor. They flashed down the terraced High Street of Chipping Camden, past the quaint shops and the old limestone St. James’ Church, and roared out of town again on Dyers Lane. One shopkeeper timed the run at sixteen seconds, shortest visit to Chipping Camden in recorded history.

  At the once-grand estate known as Havermore, there was no visible evidence to suggest that anyone was aware of the cars’ rapid approach. Mrs. Devlin was in the kitchen, where, in contravention of Sir John’s direct orders, she was putting the final touches on a tray of fresh scones, strawberry jam, and Cotswold clotted cream. Sir John was unaware of her rebellion, for he was sequestered in the library, pondering serious and weighty matters. As for the attractive young woman known to them as Sarah Crawford, she was coming up the footpath from the East Meadow wearing a pair of green Wellington boots, with Punch and Judy watching her back like tiny tan bodyguards.

  Only in the hayloft of the tumbledown barn were there hints that something truly out of the ordinary was about to take place. Four men were there, seated before a bank of video and audio monitors. Two of the men were young, scruffy technicians. The third was a tall figure of authority who looked as though he had stepped out of a magazine advertisement. The fourth had short dark hair with ash-colored temples. His eyes were fixed on a video image of the young woman, who was in the process of removing her Wellingtons in the mudroom and changing into a pair of sensible black flats. She entered the kitchen and playfully dipped a finger into Mrs. Devlin’s fresh cream, then passed through a pair of double doors and made her way into the entrance hall. There, standing before a long mirror, she smoothed the front of her white blouse and pale yellow pedal pushers and adjusted the sweater knotted with feigned casualness round her shoulders. She wore only a hint of blush on her alabaster cheeks and cat-eyed spectacles instead of contact lenses. Your beauty must pose no challenge to Elena’s, the man with ash-colored temples had told her. Elena’s not used to finishing second at anything.

  At precisely 4:04, the pair of armored Mercedes limousines turned through the gates of Havermore and started up the long drive. The men in the hayloft saw them first, followed by Sir John, whose library window gave him a superb outpost from which to monitor their approach. Sarah, from her position in the entrance hall, could not see the cars but heard them a few seconds later as they came prowling into the gravel forecourt. Two powerful engines went silent; several doors opened and six young bodyguards with faces of chiseled marble emerged. The men in the hayloft knew their names. Three were Oleg, Yuri, and Gennady: Elena Kharkov’s permanent detail. The other three were Vadim, Vasily, and Viktor: “the three V’s,"” as they were known to Kharkov watchers the world over. Their presence at Havermore was curious, since they served almost exclusively as Ivan’s praetorian guard.

  Having established a loose perimeter around the lead Mercedes, two of the guards opened the rear doors. Elena Kharkov emerged from the driver’s side, a radiant flash of lustrous dark hair and green silk. From the passenger side came a
sturdy figure, well dressed, with hair the color of steel. For a few seconds, the men in the hayloft mistook him for a seventh security man. Then, as he turned his face toward the cameras, they realized he was no bodyguard. He was the man who was supposed to be on a conference call with Zurich. The man who was not supposed to be here.

  The men in the hayloft attempted to warn Sarah—they had hidden a tiny audio speaker in the entrance hall for just such a contingency— but she had already opened Havermore’s impressive door and was stepping into the forecourt. Punch and Judy scampered past her ankles and shot across the gravel like a pair of honey-colored torpedoes. By some natural instinct, they advanced directly toward the most authoritative-looking member of the entourage. The three V’s formed a wall in front of their target: Ivan Kharkov.

  He was standing calmly behind them, an expression of mild bemusement on the heavy features of his face. Sarah used a moment of mock anger at the dogs to help conceal the shock of seeing the monster face to face for the first time. She seized the dogs by the collars and gave them each a firm shove on the hindquarters toward the house. By the time she turned around again, a small crack opened between Vadim and Viktor. She extended her hand through it toward Ivan and managed a smile. “I’m afraid herding instincts take over when they see a large group of people,” she heard herself say. “I’m Sarah Crawford.”

  Ivan’s right hand rose from the seam of his trousers. It looked, thought Sarah, like a manicured mallet. It gave her hand a testing squeeze and quickly released it.

  “You’re an American,” he pointed out.

  And you forgot to tell me your name, she thought.

  “Actually, I’m only half American.”

  “Which half?”

  “The self-centered half, according to my uncle. This is his home. I’m just visiting.”

  “From America?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you live in America?”

  “Washington, D.C. And you?”

  “I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world, Miss Crawford. ”

  A citizen of the world, perhaps, but exposure to the West had yet to buff away the last traces of KGB English. It was surprisingly fluent but still flecked with the intonation of a Radio Moscow propagandist. He was proud of his English, thought Sarah, just like he was proud of his armored limousines, his bodyguards, his handmade suit, his three-thousand-dollar necktie, and the rich aftershave that hung round him like a vaporous cloud. No amount of Western clothing and cologne could conceal his Russianness, though. It was etched in the sturdy forehead, the almond-shaped eyes, and the angular cheekbones. Nor could it hide the fact that he was a KGB hood who had stumbled into a mountain of money.

  Almost as an afterthought, he lifted his left hand and, with his eyes still fixed on Sarah, said, “My wife.” She was standing several feet away, surrounded by her own palace guard. She was taller than Ivan by an inch or two and held herself with the erect carriage of a dancer. Her skin was pale, her eyes liquid green, her hair black. She wore it long and allowed it to fall loosely about her shoulders. As for the prospect of Sarah’s beauty posing a challenge to Elena’s, there was little chance of that, for at forty-six years, seven months and nineteen days, she was still a strikingly attractive woman. She took a step forward and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sarah. I’m Elena Kharkov. ” Her accent, unlike Ivan’s, was authentic and rich, and completely beguiling. “I believe Alistair told you I would be coming alone. My husband decided to join me at the last minute.”

  A husband who still has no name, Sarah thought.

  “Actually, Alistair told me a woman would be coming alone. He didn’t give me a name. He was very discreet, Mrs. Kharkov.”

  “And we trust that you will be discreet as well,” Ivan said. “It is important for people such as ourselves to conduct our acquisitions and business transactions with a certain amount of privacy.”

  “You may rest assured my uncle feels precisely the same way, Mr. Kharkov.”

  As if on cue, Boothby emerged, with Punch and Judy now swirling noisily at his feet. “Did my ears deceive me,” he trumpeted, “or is it true that the great Ivan Kharkov has come to Havermore? That dolt from Christie’s told me to expect a VIP, but no one of your stature.” He took Ivan’s hand in his own and pumped it vigorously. “It is indeed an honor to have you here, Mr. Kharkov. I do admire your accomplishments. I knew you were a man of many interests, but I never knew art was one of them.”

  Ivan’s stony face broke briefly into something approaching a genuine smile. Ivan, they knew, was vulnerable to flattery, from pretty young girls, and even from tattered English landed gentry.

  “Actually, my wife is the expert when it comes to art,” he said. “I just felt like getting out of London for a few hours.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Can’t stand London any longer, what with the traffic and the terrorism. Go there now to see the odd play or hear a bit of music at Covent Garden, but I’d choose the Cotswold Hills over Kensington any day of the week. Too expensive in London, these days. Too many people such as yourself buying everything up. No insult intended, of course.”

  “None taken.”

  “Do you have a country estate yet or just your London residence?”

  “Just the house in Knightsbridge at the moment.”

  Boothby gestured toward the façade of Havermore. “This has been in my family for five generations. I’d love to give you a tour while our two art experts have a look at the painting.”

  A glance passed between Ivan and Elena: coded, secure, inscrutable to an outsider. She murmured a few words in Russian; Ivan responded by looking at Boothby and giving a single nod of his sturdy head. “I’d love a tour,” he said. “But we’ll have to make it brief. I’m afraid my wife tends to make decisions quickly.”

  “Brilliant!” said Boothby. “Allow me to show you the grounds.”

  He lifted his hand and started toward the East Meadow. Ivan, after a brief hesitation, followed after him, with the three V’s flying close behind in tight formation. Boothby looked at the bodyguards and politely objected.

  “I say, but is that really necessary? I can assure you, Mr. Kharkov, that you have no enemies here. The most dangerous things at Havermore are the dogs and my martinis.”

  Ivan glanced once again at Elena, then spoke a few words in Russian to the bodyguards in a baritone murmur. When he started toward the meadow a second time, the guards remained motionless. Elena watched her husband’s departure in silence, then looked at Sarah.

  “I’m sorry about the security, Miss Crawford. I would do almost anything to be rid of them, but Ivan insists they stay by my side wherever I go. I imagine that it must seem very exciting to be surrounded by men in dark suits. I can assure you it is not.”

  Sarah was momentarily taken aback by the intimacy of her words. They constituted a betrayal. A small one, thought Sarah, but a betrayal nonetheless. “A woman in your position can’t be too careful,” she said. “But I can assure you that you are among friends here.”

  Boothby and Ivan disappeared around the corner of the house. Sarah placed her hand gently on Elena’s arm.

  “Would you like to see my uncle’s Cassatt, Mrs. Kharkov?”

  “I would love to see your uncle’s Cassatt, Miss Crawford.”

  When they started toward the portico, the bodyguards remained motionless.