Moscow Rules Read online

  Villa Soleil, Ivan Kharkov’s estate on the Baie de Cavalaire, seemed to have been spared the full force of the heat’s fury. Immediately behind its twelve-foot walls lay a vast circular drive where nymphs frolicked in splashing fountains and flowers erupted in gardens groomed to hotel brochure perfection. The villa itself stood hard against the rocky coastline, imposing its own beauty upon the remarkable landscape. It was more palace than home, an endless series of loggias, marble corridors, statuary halls, and cavernous sitting rooms where white curtains billowed and snapped like mainsails in the constant breeze. Each wing of the house seemed to have its own unique view of the sea. And each view, thought Sarah, was more breathtaking than the last.

  They finally came upon Elena at the end of a long, cool colonnade with a checkerboard marble floor. She wore a strapless top and a floor-length wrap that shimmered with each breath of wind. Ivan stood next to her, a glass of wine sweating in his grasp. Once again, he was wearing black and white, as if to illustrate the fact that he was a man of contradictions. This time, however, the colors of his outfit were reversed: black shirt, white trousers. As they greeted each other with the casualness of an old friendship renewed, his enormous wristwatch caught the rays of the sun and reflected them into Sarah’s eyes. Before treating her to a damp kiss and a blast of his rich aftershave, he placed his wineglass carelessly on the plinth of a statue. It was female, nude, and Greek. For the moment, Sarah thought spitefully, it was the world’s most expensive coaster.

  It was immediately clear that Elena’s invitation to a quiet lunch and swim had been transformed by Ivan into a more extravagant affair. On the terrace below the colonnade, a table had been set for twenty-four. Several pretty young girls were already cavorting in a pool the size of a small bay, watched over by a dozen middle-aged Russians lounging about on chaises and divans. Ivan introduced his guests as if they were simply more of his possessions. There was a man who did something with nickel, another who traded in timber, and one, with a face like a fox, who ran a personal and corporate security firm in Geneva. The girls in the pool he introduced collectively, as though they had no names, only a purpose. One of them was Yekatarina, Ivan’s supermodel mistress, a gaunt, pouty child of nineteen, all arms, legs, and breasts, colored to caramel perfection. She gazed hard at Sarah, as though she were a potential rival, then leapt into the pool like a dolphin and disappeared beneath the surface.

  Sarah and Mikhail settled themselves between the wife of the nickel magnate, who looked deeply bored, and the timber trader, who was genial but dull. Ivan and Elena returned to the colonnade, where more guests were arriving in boisterous packs. They came down the steps in waves, like revolutionaries storming the Winter Palace, and with each new group the volume and intensity of the party seemed to rise a notch. Several frosted bottles of vodka appeared; dance music pulsated from invisible speakers. On the terrace, a second table was set for lunch, then a third. The vast pool soon took on the appearance of just another of Ivan’s fountains, as nubile nymphs were groped and tossed about by fat millionaires and muscled bodyguards. Elena moved effortlessly from group to group, kissing cheeks and refreshing drinks, but Ivan remained aloof, gazing upon the merriment as though it were a performance arranged for his own private amusement.

  It was nearly three o’clock by the time he summoned them all to lunch. By Sarah’s count, the guests now numbered seventy in all, but from Ivan’s kitchens miraculously emerged more than enough food to feed a party twice as large. She sat next to Mikhail at Ivan’s end of the table, where they were well within his sphere of influence and the scent of his cologne. It was a gluttonous affair; Ivan ate heavily but without pleasure, stabbing punitively at his food, his thoughts remote. At the end of the meal, his mood improved when Anna and Nikolai appeared, along with Sonia, their Russian nanny. The children sat together on his lap, imprisoned in his massive arms. “These two are my world,” he said directly to Sarah. “If anything ever happened to them . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he were suddenly at a loss for words. Then he added menacingly: “God help the man who ever harms my children.”

  It was an oddly gloomy note on which to end lunch, though the rest of Ivan’s guests seemed to think nothing of it as they rose from the table and filed down the steps to the pool for a final swim. Ivan released his grip on the children and seized Mikhail’s wrist as he stood. “Don’t go so quickly,” he said. “You promised to give me a chance to convince you to come home to Russia and work for me.”

  “I’m not sure I remember that promise.”

  “But I remember it quite clearly and that’s all that matters.” He stood and smiled charmingly at Sarah. “I can be rather persuasive. If I were you, I would begin planning a move to Moscow.”

  He guided Mikhail to a distant corner of the terrace and sat with him in the shade of a cupola. Sarah looked at Elena. The children were now seated on her lap, in a pose as tender as Ivan’s was fierce.

  “You look like a painting by Mary Cassatt.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Elena kissed Anna’s cheek and whispered something to the child that caused her to smile and nod. Then she whispered something to Nikolai, with the same result.

  “Are you saying naughty things about me?” Sarah asked playfully.

  “The children think you’re very pretty.”

  “Please tell the children I think they’re very pretty as well.”

  “They were also wondering whether you would like to see their room. It contains a new painting, and they’re very anxious for you to see it.”

  “Please tell the children that I would like nothing more.”

  "Come, then,” said Elena. “The children will show us the way.”

  They flitted in and out of the colonnade like starlings and hop-scotched along the checkerboard marble floor. Ascending the sweeping main staircase, Nikolai pretended to be a ferocious Russian bear and Sarah pretended to be terribly afraid in return. At the top of the stairs, Anna took hold of Sarah’s hand and pulled her down a glorious corridor filled with buttery light. It ended at the children’s room, which was not a room at all but an elaborate suite. Two Children on a Beach hung in the entrance foyer, next to a similarly sized portrait of a young dancer by Degas. Elena Kharkov, student of art history and former employee of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad, slipped effortlessly into tour guide mode.

  “They knew each other well quite well, Cassatt and Degas. In fact, Degas had a profound influence on her work. I thought it was appropriate they be together.” She looked at Sarah and gave a faint smile. “Until two weeks ago, I was certain the Degas was actually painted by Degas. Now I’m not so sure.”

  Elena sent the children off to play. In their absence, a heavy silence fell over the foyer. The two women stood several feet apart, Elena before the Degas, Sarah before the Cassatt. Overhead, a camera peered down at them like a gargoyle.

  “Who are you?” Elena asked, her eyes straight ahead. “And why are you in my home?”

  Sarah glanced up at the camera.

  “Don’t be frightened,” said Elena. “Ivan is watching but not listening. I told him long ago I would never live in a house filled with microphones. And he swore to me he would never install them.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “On this matter, yes. Remember, microphones would pick up everyone’s voice, including Ivan’s. And their signals can also be intercepted by law enforcement agencies and intelligence services.” She paused. “I would have thought you would be aware of that. Who are you? And who do you work for?”

  Sarah stared straight ahead at Gabriel’s immaculate brushstrokes. Under no circumstances are you to tell her your real name or occupation when you’re on hostile territory, he had said. Your cover is everything. Wear it like body armor, especially when you’re on Ivan’s turf.

  “My name is Sarah Crawford. I work for the Dillard Center for Democracy in Washington. We met for the first time in the Cotswolds, when you purchased this painting b
y Mary Cassatt from my uncle.”

  “Quickly, Sarah. We haven’t much time.”

  “I’m a friend, Elena. A very good friend. I’m here to help you finish what you started. You have something you want to tell us about your husband. I’m here to listen.”

  Elena was silent for a moment. “He’s quite fond of you, Sarah. Was it always your intention to seduce my husband?”

  “I assure you, Elena, your husband has absolutely no interest in me.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because he’s brought his mistress into your house.”

  Elena’s head turned sharply toward Sarah. “Who is she?”

  “Yekatarina.”

  “It’s not possible. She’s a child.”

  “That child is staying in a suite at the Carlton Hotel. Ivan is paying her bills.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “We know, Elena. We know everything.”

  “You’re lying to me. You’re trying to—”

  “We’re not trying to do anything but help you. And the only lies we tell are the ones necessary to deceive Ivan. We haven’t lied to you, Elena, and we never will.”

  “How do you know he’s seeing her?”

  “Because we follow him. And we listen to him. Did you see those pearls she was wearing today?”

  Elena gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “He gave those pearls to her in June when he went to Paris. You remember his trip to Paris, don’t you, Elena? You were in Moscow. Ivan said he needed to go for business. It was a lie, of course. He went there to see Yekatarina. He called you three times while he was in her apartment.You took the third call while you were having lunch with friends at Café Pushkin. We have a photograph if you’d like to see it.”

  Elena was forced to absorb this news of her husband’s treachery with a tranquil smile—Ivan’s cameras were watching. Sarah was tempted to spare her the rest. She didn’t, more out of loathing for Ivan than any other reason.

  “Yekatarina thinks she’s the only one, but she’s not. There’s a flight attendant called Tatyana. And there was a girl in London named Ludmila. I’m afraid Ivan treated her very badly. Eventually, he treats them all badly.”

  Elena’s eyes filled with tears.

  “You mustn’t cry, Elena. Ivan might be watching us. You have to smile while I tell you these awful things.”

  Elena went to Sarah’s side, and their shoulders touched. Sarah could feel her trembling. Whether it was with grief or fear, she could not tell.

  “How long have you been watching me?”

  “It’s not important, Elena. It’s only important that you finish what you started.”

  Elena laughed softly to herself, as though she found Sarah’s remark mildly amusing. Her gaze swept over the surface of the painting while her fingertips explored the texture of the faux craquelure.

  “You had no right to pry into my private life.”

  “We had no choice.”

  Elena lapsed into silence. Sarah, for the moment, was listening to another voice.

  Place the sales contract carefully before her and lay the pen next to it. But don’t pressure her into signing. She has to reach the decision on her own. Otherwise, she’s no use to us.

  “He wasn’t always like this,” Elena said finally. “Even when he worked for the KGB. You might find this hard to believe, Sarah, but Ivan was really quite charming when I first met him.”

  “I don’t find it hard to believe at all. He’s still quite charming.”

  “When he wants to be.” She was still touching the craquelure. “When I first met Ivan, he told me he worked in some dreary Soviet agricultural office. A few weeks later, after we’d fallen in love, he told me the truth. I almost didn’t believe him. I couldn’t imagine this considerate, somewhat shy young man was actually locking dissidents away in mental hospitals and the gulag.”

  “What happened?”

  “The money happened. The money changed everything. It’s changed Russia, too. Money is the new KGB in Russia. Money controls our lives. And the pursuit of money prevents us from questioning the actions of our so-called democratic government.”

  Elena reached toward the face of one of the children, the little boy, and stroked the cracks on his cheek.

  “Whoever did this is quite good,” she said. “I assume you know him?”

  “Very well, actually.” A silence, then: “Would you like to meet him?”

  “Who is he?”

  “It’s not important. It’s only important that you agree to see him. He’s trying to save innocent lives. He needs your help.”

  Elena’s finger moved to the face of the other child. “How will we do it? Ivan sees everything.”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to need to tell a small lie.”

  “What kind of small lie?”

  “I want you to spend the rest of the afternoon flirting with Mikhail,” Sarah said. “Mikhail will tell you everything you need to know.”

  Sarah’s BlackBerry had one feature not available on over-the-counter models: the ability to encode and "squirt” data messages to a nearby receiver in less than a thousandth of a second. The message she transmitted early that evening was greeted with much celebration at the villa in Gassin. Gabriel immediately sent word to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard and the Global Ops Center at CIA Headquarters in Langley. Then he gathered his team and began putting the final touches on the next phase of the operation. The small lie they were going to tell Ivan. The small lie to cover the much bigger one.

  41

  SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

  The storms had come down from the Maritime Alps after midnight and laid siege to Ivan Kharkov’s fortress on the Baie de Cavalaire. Elena Kharkov had not been awakened by the violent weather. Having endured two sleepless nights already, she had taken twice her normal dose of sedative. Now, she woke grudgingly and in stages, like a diver rising to the surface from a great depth. She lay motionless for some time, eyes closed, head throbbing, unable to recall her dreams. Finally, she reached blindly toward Ivan’s side of the bed and her hand caressed the warm supple form of a young girl. For an instant, she feared Ivan had been so audacious as to bring Yekatarina into their bed. Then she opened her eyes and saw it was only Anna. The child was wearing Ivan’s gold reading glasses and was scribbling with Ivan’s gold fountain pen on the back of some important business documents. Elena smiled in spite of her headache.

  “Tell Maria to bring me a café au lait. A very large café au lait.”

  “I’m very busy. I’m working, just like Papa.”

  “Get me a coffee, Anna, or I’ll beat you severely.”

  “But you never beat me, Mama.”

  “It’s never too late to start.”

  Anna scribbled stubbornly away.

  “Please, Anna, I’m begging. Mama’s not feeling well.”

  The child exhaled heavily; then, in a gesture that mimicked her father to perfection, she flung the papers and pen onto the nightstand in mock anger and threw aside the blanket. As she started to climb out of bed, Elena reached out suddenly and drew her tightly to her body.

  “I thought you wanted coffee.”

  “I do. But I want to hold you for a minute first.”

  “What’s wrong, Mama? You seem sad.”

  “I just love you very much.”

  “Does that make you sad?”

  “Sometimes.” Elena kissed Anna’s cheek. “Go, now. And don’t come back without coffee.”