Moscow Rules Read online

  “When did we eat? Before or after?”

  “Before,” he said with a slight smile of admiration. “You were nervous at first. You weren’t sure you wanted to go through with it. We relaxed. We ate some good food. We drank some good wine. The rosé did the trick.” He lifted the bottle from the ice bucket. “It’s from Bandol. Very cold. Just the way you like it.” He poured a glass and held it out to her. “Drink a bit more, Elena. It’s important you have wine on your breath when you go home.”

  She accepted the glass and raised it to her lips.

  “There’s something else you need to see,” Mikhail said. “Come with me, please.”

  He led her into the larger of the villa’s two bedrooms and instructed her to sit on the unmade bed. At his command, she took a mental photograph of the room’s contents. The chipped dresser. The wicker rocking chair. The threadbare curtains over the single window. The pair of faded Monet prints tacked up on either side of the bathroom door.

  “I was a perfect gentleman. I was everything you could have hoped for and more. I was unselfish. I saw to your every need. We made love twice. I wanted to make love a third time, but it was getting late and you were tired.”

  “I hope I didn’t disappoint you.”

  “On the contrary.”

  He stepped into the bathroom and switched on the light, then motioned for her. There was scarcely enough room for the two of them. Their shoulders brushed as he spoke.

  “You showered when we were done. That’s why you don’t smell like you’ve been making love. Please do it now, Elena. We need to get you home to your husband.”

  “Do what now?”

  “Take a shower, of course.”

  “A real shower?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we haven’t really made love.”

  “Of course we have. Two times, in fact. I wanted to do it a third time, but it was getting late. Get in the shower, Elena. Wet your hair a little. Smudge your makeup. Scrub your face hard so you look like you’ve been kissed. And use soap. It’s important you go home smelling of strange soap.”

  Mikhail opened the taps and slipped silently out of the room. Elena removed her clothing and stepped naked into the water.

  47

  SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

  It was the part of the day that Jean-Luc liked best: the truce between lunch and dinner, when he treated himself to a pastis and calmly prepared the battle plan for the evening. Running his eye down the reservation sheet, he could see it was going to be an arduous night: an American rapper with an entourage of ten, a disgraced French politician and his new child bride, an oil sheikh from one of the emirates— Dubai or Abu Dhabi, Jean-Luc could never remember—and a shady Italian businessman who had gone to ground in Saint-Tropez because he was under indictment in Milan. For the moment, though, the dining room of Grand Joseph was a tranquil sea of linen, crystal, and silver, undisturbed, except for the pair of Spanish waifs drinking quietly at the far end of the bar. And the red Audi convertible parked directly outside the entrance, in violation of a long-standing city ordinance, not to mention countless edicts handed down by Joseph himself.

  Jean-Luc drank from his glass of pastis and took a closer look at the two occupants of the car. The man behind the wheel was in his early thirties and was wearing an obligatory pair of Italian sunglasses. He was attractive in a vaguely Slavic way and appeared quite pleased with himself. Next to him was a woman, several years older but no less attractive. Her dark hair was done up in a haphazard bun. Her dress looked slept in. Lovers, concluded Jean-Luc. No doubt about it. What’s more, he was certain he’d seen them in the restaurant quite recently. The names would come to him eventually. They always did. Jean-Luc had that kind of memory.

  The couple talked for a moment longer before finally giving each other a kiss that put to rest any lingering doubt over how they had spent their afternoon. It was the final kiss, apparently, for a moment later the woman was standing alone on the sunlit cobbles of the square and the Audi was speeding off like a getaway car leaving the scene of a crime. The woman watched it disappear around the corner, then turned and headed toward Joseph’s entrance. It was then Jean-Luc realized that she was none other than Elena Kharkov, wife of Ivan Kharkov, Russian oligarch and party boy. But where were her bodyguards? And why was her hair mussed and her dress wrinkled? And why in God’s name was she kissing another man in a red Audi in the middle of the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville?

  She entered a moment later, her hips swinging a little more jauntily than usual, her handbag dangling from her left shoulder. “Bonsoir, Jean-Luc, ” she sang, as though there was nothing out of the ordinary, and Jean-Luc sang “Bonsoir” in return, as though he hadn’t seen her giving mouth-to-mouth to blondie boy not thirty seconds earlier. She set the bag on the bar and yanked open the zipper, then withdrew her mobile and reluctantly dialed a number. After murmuring a few words in Russian, she closed the phone with an angry snap.

  “Can I get you anything, Elena?” Jean-Luc asked.

  “A bit of Sancerre would be nice. And a cigarette if you have one.”

  “I can do the Sancerre but not the cigarette. It’s the new law. No more smoking in France.”

  “What’s the world coming to, Jean-Luc?”

  “Hard to say.” He scrutinized her over his pastis. “You all right, Elena?”

  “Never better. But I could really use that wine.”

  Jean-Luc spilled a generous measure of Sancerre into a glass, twice the usual pour, and placed it on the bar in front of her. She was raising it to her lips when two black Mercedes sedans screeched to a stop in the square. She glanced over her shoulder, frowned, and dropped a twenty on the bar.

  “Thanks anyway, Jean-Luc.”

  “It’s on the house, Elena.”

  She rose to her feet and swung her bag over her shoulder, then blew him a kiss and headed defiantly toward the door, like a freedom fighter mounting a guillotine. As she stepped outside into the sunlight, the rear door of the first car was flung open by some immense force within and a thick arm pulled her roughly inside. The cars then lurched forward in unison and vanished in a black blur. Jean-Luc watched them go, then looked down at the bar and saw that Elena had neglected to take the money. He slipped it into his pocket and raised his glass in a silent toast to her bravery. To the women, he thought. Russia’s last hope.

  The prolonged and unexplained absence of the guest known as Michael Danilov had caused the most acute crisis the Château de la Messardière had seen all summer. Search parties had been sent forth, bushes had been rustled, authorities had been notified. Yet as he drove into the forecourt of the hotel that evening, it was clear by his expression he had no clue of the distress he had caused. He handed his keys to the valet and strode into the marble lobby, where his lover, the much-distressed Sarah Crawford, waited anxiously. Those who witnessedthe blow would later attest to the purity of its sound. It was delivered by her right hand and connected squarely with his left cheek. Because it was rendered without warning or verbal preamble, it caught the recipient and witnesses by complete surprise—all but the two Russian security men, employees of one Ivan Kharkov, who were drinking vodka in the far corner of the lobby bar.

  The blond man made no effort at apology or reconciliation. Instead, he climbed back into the red Audi and headed at great speed to his favorite outdoor bar in the Old Port, where he contemplated the tangled state of his affairs over several frigid bottles of Kronenbourg. He never saw the Russians coming; even if he had, he was by then in no condition to do much about it. Their assault, like Sarah’s, commenced without warning or preamble, though the damage it inflicted was far more severe. When it was over, a waiter helped him to his feet and made an ice pack for his wounds. A gendarme strolled over to see what the fuss was about; he took a statement and wondered if the victim wanted to press charges. “What can you do to them?” the blond man responded. “They’re Russians.”

  He spent another hour at the bar, drinking quite well on the
house, then climbed back into the red Audi and returned to the hotel. Entering his room, he found his clothing flung across the floor and a lipstick epithet scrawled across the bathroom mirror. He remained at the hotel for one more day, licking his numerous wounds, then climbed into his car at midnight and sped off to a destination unknown. Management was quite pleased to see him leave.

  PART THREE

  THE DEFECTION

  48

  PARIS

  The 7:28 P.M. TGV train from Marseilles eased into the Gare de Lyon ten minutes ahead of schedule. Gabriel did not find this surprising; unionized French drivers could always shave a bit of time off the journey when they wanted to get home early. Crossing the deserted arrivals hall with his overnight bag in hand, he gazed up at the soaring arched ceiling. Three years earlier, the historic Paris landmark had been severely damaged by a suicide bomber. It might have been reduced to rubble had Gabriel not managed to kill two other terrorists before they could detonate their explosives, an act of heroism that had briefly made him the most wanted man in all of France.

  A dozen taxis were waiting in the circular drive outside the station; Gabriel walked to the Boulevard Diderot and hailed one there instead. The address he gave the driver was several blocks away from his true destination, which was a small apartment house on a quiet street near the Bois de Boulogne. Confident he had not been followed, he presented himself at the door and pressed the call button for Apartment 4B. The locks opened instantly; Gabriel mounted the stairs and climbed swiftly upward, his suede loafers silent upon the worn runner. Reaching the fourth-floor landing, he found the door of the apartment ajar and the unmistakable scent of Turkish tobacco on the air. He placed his fingertip against the door and gave it a gentle push, just enough to send it gliding inward on its oiled hinges.

  It had been two years since he had set foot in the safe flat, yet nothing had changed: the same drab furniture, the same stained carpeting, the same blackout curtains over the windows. Adrian Carter and Uzi Navot were gazing at him curiously from their seats at the cheap dinette set, as though they had just shared a private joke they did not want him to overhear. A few seconds later, Ari Shamron came marching through the kitchen door, a cup and saucer balanced in his hand, his ugly spectacles propped on his bald head like goggles. He was wearing his usual uniform, khaki trousers and a white oxford cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Something about being back in the field always did wonders for Shamron’s appearance—even if the “field” was a comfortable apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris—and he looked fitter than he had in some time.

  He paused for a moment to glare at Gabriel, then continued into the sitting room, where a cigarette was smoldering in an ashtray on the coffee table. Gabriel arrived a few seconds sooner than Shamron and hastily stabbed it out.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Shamron asked.

  “You’re not supposed to be smoking.”

  “How can I quit smoking when my most accomplished operative is planning to go to war with Russia?” He placed his cup and saucer on the coffee table and angrily prowled the room. “You were authorized to arrange a meeting with Elena Kharkov and, if possible, to debrief her on what she knew about her husband’s illicit arms dealing. You performed that task admirably. Indeed, your operation was in keeping with the best traditions of your service. But in the end, you vastly overstepped your authority. You had no right to discuss a break-in operation in the heart of Moscow. Nor were you authorized to enter into an agreement to secure the defection of Elena Kharkov. In fact, you had no right to even discuss the subject of defection with her.”

  “What was I supposed to do, Ari? Tell her thanks but no thanks? Tell her we really weren’t interested after all in getting our hands on her husband’s most precious secrets?”

  “No, Gabriel, but you could have at least consulted your superiors first.”

  “There wasn’t time to consult my superiors. Ivan was tearing Saint-Tropez to pieces looking for her.”

  “And what do you think he’s going to do if you take Elena and the children away from him? Raise the white flag of surrender and roll up his networks?” Shamron answered his own question with a slow shake of his bald head. “Ivan Kharkov is a powerful man with powerful friends. Even if you somehow manage to get Elena and those computer disks—and, in my humble opinion, that remains an open question— Ivan will retaliate and retaliate hard. Diplomats will be expelled en masse. Already testy political relations between Russia and the West will go into the deep freeze. And there could be financial repercussions as well—repercussions the West does not need in a time of global economic uncertainty.”

  “Diplomatic sanctions? When was the last time the great Ari Shamron ever let the threat of diplomatic sanctions deter him from doing what was right?”

  “More times than you’ll ever know. But I’m not concerned only with the diplomatic fallout. Ivan Kharkov has proven himself to be a man of violence and he’ll lash back at us with violence if you steal his wife and children. He has access to the most dangerous weapons systems in the world, along with nuclear, biological, and chemical agents. It doesn’t take a devious mind to concoct a scenario under which Ivan and his former KGB hoods could put those weapons in the hands of our enemies.”

  “They already are,” Gabriel said. “We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “And if they sprinkle a few vials of polonium around Tel Aviv? And if a few thousand innocent people die as a result? What would you say then?”

  “I would say that it’s our job to make sure that never happens. And I would remind you of your own words: that our decisions should never be based on fear but what is in the long-term security interests of the State of Israel. Surely you’re not suggesting that it isn’t in our interests to take down Ivan Kharkov? He has more blood on his hands than Hezbollah, Hamas, and al-Qaeda combined. And he’s been operating his little shop of horrors with the full blessing, cooperation, and protection of the Kremlin. I say we let the Russians impose their diplomatic sanctions. And then we hit back, hard enough so that it hurts.”

  Shamron stuck a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and ignited it with his old Zippo lighter. Gabriel glanced at Navot and Carter. Their eyes were averted, like accidental witnesses to a public marital spat.

  “Is it your intention to personally reignite the Cold War?” Shamron blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Because that is exactly what you’re asking for.”

  “The Russians have already done that. And if Ivan Kharkov wants to get in line with the rest of the psychotics who wish to do us harm, then let him.”

  “Ivan will come after more than just Israel. He’ll come after you and everything you hold dear.” For Adrian Carter’s benefit, they had been speaking English. Now Shamron switched to Hebrew and lowered his voice a few decibels. “Is that really what you want at this stage of your life, my son? Another determined enemy who wishes you dead?”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “And what about your new wife? Can you look after her, too? Every second of every day?” Shamron gazed theatrically around the room. “Isn’t this where you brought Leah after the bombing of the Gare de Lyon?” Greeted by Gabriel’s silence, Shamron pressed his case. “The Palestinians were able to get to your wife not once but twice, Gabriel— first in Vienna, then fifteen years later at the psychiatric hospital where you’d tucked her away in England. They were good, the Palestinians, but they’re children compared to the Russians. I suggest you keep that in mind before you declare a shooting war against Ivan Kharkov.”

  Shamron placed the cigarette in the ashtray, confident he had prevailed, and picked up his cup and saucer. In his large, liver-spotted hands, they looked like pieces of a child’s toy tea set.

  “What about Eichmann?” Gabriel asked quietly. He had spoken in Hebrew, though at the mention of the murderer’s name Adrian Carter’s head perked up a bit, like a student roused from a slumber during a dull lecture.

 
“What about Eichmann?” Shamron asked stubbornly in return.