Moscow Rules
Annotation
The extraordinary new Gabriel Allon novel from the 'gold standard' (The Dallas Morning News) of
thriller writers.
Over the course of ten previous novels, Daniel Silva has established himself as one of the world's
finest writers of international intrigue and espionage – 'a worthy successor to such legends as Frederick
Forsyth and John le Carr' (Chicago Sun-Times) – and Gabriel Allon as 'one of the most intriguing heroes
of any thriller series' (The Philadelphia Inquirer).
Now the death of a journalist leads Allon to Russia, where he finds that, in terms of spycraft, even he
has something to learn. He's playing by Moscow rules now.
This is not the grim, gray Moscow of Soviet times but a new Moscow, awash in oil wealth and
choked with bulletproof Bentleys. A Moscow where power resides once more behind the walls of the
Kremlin and where critics of the ruling class are ruthlessly silenced. A Moscow where a new generation
of Stalinists is plotting to reclaim an empire lost and to challenge the global dominance of its old enemy,
the United States.
One such man is Ivan Kharkov, a former KGB colonel who built a global investment empire on the
rubble of the Soviet Union. Hidden within that empire, however, is a more lucrative and deadly business:
Kharkov is an arms dealer – and he is about to deliver Russia 's most sophisticated weapons to al-
Qaeda. Unless Allon can learn the time and place of the delivery, the world will see the deadliest terror
attacks since 9/11 – and the clock is ticking fast.
Filled with rich prose and breathtaking turns of plot, Moscow Rules is at once superior
entertainment and a searing cautionary tale about the new threats rising to the East – and Silva's finest
novel yet.
Daniel Silva
PART ONE. THE SUMMONS
1. COURCHEVEL, FRANCE
2 UMBRIA, ITALY
3 ASSISI, ITALY
4 ASSISI, ITALY
5 LLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
6 ROME
7 ROME
8 VATICAN CITY
9 VATICAN CITY
10 BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL
11 JERUSALEM
12 ST. PETERSBURG
13 MOSCOW
14 NOVODEVICHY CEMETERY
15 MOSCOW
16 MOSCOW
17 MOSCOW
18 FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW
19 FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW
PART TWO. THE RECRUITMENT
20 BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL
21 JERUSALEM
22 JERUSALEM
23 GEORGETOWN
24 GEORGETOWN
25 DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETOWN
26 DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETON
27 LONDON
28 LONDON
29 ST. JAME’S, LONDON
30 CHELSEA, LONDON
31 GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND
32 GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND
33 THAMES HOUSE, LONDON
34 HAVERMORE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE
35 LONDON
36 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
37 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
38 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
39 GASSIN, FRANCE
40 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
41 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
42 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
43 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE
44 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE
45 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE
46 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE
47 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
PART THREE. THE DEFECTION
48 PARIS
49 PARIS
50 MOSCOW
51 GENEVA
52 VILLA SOLEIL, FRANCE
53 NICE, FRANCE
54 MOSCOW
55 MOSCOW
56 SAINT-TROPEZ, MOSCOW
57 MOSCOW
58 MOSCOW
59 GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
60 MOSCOW
61 SHEREMETYEVO 2 AIRPORT, MOSCOW
62 MOSCOW
63 LUBYANKA SQUARE, MOSCOW
64 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
65 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
66 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
67 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
68 MOSCOW
69 BOLOTNAYA SQUARE, MOSCOW
70 MOSCOW
PART FOUR. THE HARVEST
71 VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
72 VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
73 VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Daniel Silva
Daniel Silva
Moscow Rules
The eighth book in the Gabriel Allon series
For Jeff Zucker, Ron Meyer, Linda Rappaport,
and Michael Gendler,
for their friendship, wisdom, and guidance.
And as always, for my wife, Jamie,
and my children, Lily and Nicholas.
Don’t look back. You are never completely
alone.
PART ONE. THE SUMMONS
1. COURCHEVEL, FRANCE
The invasion began, as it always did, in the last days of December. They came by armored caravan
up the winding road from the floor of the Rhône Valley or descended onto the treacherous mountaintop
airstrip by helicopter and private plane. Billionaires and bankers, oil tycoons and metal magnates,
supermodels and spoiled children: the moneyed elite of a Russia resurgent. They streamed into the suites
of the Cheval Blanc and the Byblos and commandeered the big private chalets along the rue de Bellecôte.
They booked Les Caves nightclub for private all-night parties and looted the glittering shops of the
Croissette. They snatched up all the best ski instructors and emptied the wineshops of their best
champagne and cognac. By the morning of the twenty-eighth there was not a hair appointment to be had
anywhere in town, and Le Chalet de Pierres, the famous slope-side restaurant renowned for its fire-
roasted beef, had stopped taking reservations for dinner until mid-January. By New Year’s Eve, the
conquest was complete. Courchevel, the exclusive ski resort high in the French Alps, was once more a
village under Russian occupation.
Only the Hôtel Grand Courchevel managed to survive the onslaught from the East. Hardly surprising,
devotees might have said, for, at the Grand, Russians, like those with children, were quietly encouraged
to find accommodations elsewhere. Her rooms were thirty in number, modest in size, and discreet in
appointment. One did not come to the Grand for gold fixtures and suites the size of football pitches. One
came for a taste of Europe as it once was. One came to linger over a Campari in the lounge bar or to
dawdle over coffee and
Le Monde
in the breakfast room. Gentlemen wore jackets to dinner and waited
until after breakfast before changing into their ski attire. Conversation was conducted in a confessional
murmur and with excessive courtesy. The Internet had not yet arrived at the Grand and the phones were
moody. Her guests did not seem to mind; they were as genteel as the Grand herself and trended toward
late middle age. A wit from one of the flashier hotels in the Jardin Alpin once described the Grand’s
clientele as “the elderly and their parents.”
The lobby was small, tidy, and heated by a well-tended wood fire. To the right, near the entrance of
the dining room, was Reception, a cramped alcove with brass hooks for the room keys and pigeonholes
for mail and messages. Adjacent to Reception, near the Grand’s single wheezing lift, stood the concierge
desk. Early in the afternoon of the second of January, it was occupied by Philippe, a neatly built former
French paratrooper who wore the crossed golden keys of the International Concierge Institute on his
spotless lapel and dreamed of leaving the hotel business behind for good and settling permanently on his
family’s truffle farm in Périgord. His thoughtful dark gaze was lowered toward a list of pending arrivals
and departures. It contained a single entry:
Lubin, Alex. Arriving by car from Geneva. Booked into Room
237. Ski rental required.
Philippe cast his seasoned concierge’s eye over the name. He had a flair for names. One had to in
this line of work.
Alex… short for Alexander,
he reckoned.
Or was it Aleksandr? Or Aleksei?
He looked
up and cleared his throat discreetly. An impeccably groomed head poked from Reception. It belonged to
Ricardo, the afternoon manager.
“I think we have a problem,” Philippe said calmly.
Ricardo frowned. He was a Spaniard from the Basque region. He didn’t like problems.
“What is it?”
Philippe held up the arrivals sheet. “Lubin, Alex.”
Ricardo tapped a few keys on his computer with a manicured forefinger.
“Twelve nights? Ski rental required? Who took this reservation?”
“I believe it was Nadine.”
Nadine was the new girl. She worked the graveyard shift. And for the crime of granting a room to
someone called Alex Lubin without first consulting Ricardo, she would do so for all eternity.
“You think he’s Russian?” Ricardo asked.
“Guilty as charged.”
Ricardo accepted the verdict without appeal. Though senior in rank, he was twenty years Philippe’s
junior and had come to rely heavily upon the older man’s experience and judgment.
“Perhaps we can dump him on our competitors.”
“Not possible. There isn’t a room to be had between here and Albertville. ”
“Then I suppose we’re stuck with him-unless, of course, he can be convinced to leave on his own.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Plan B, of course.”
“It’s rather extreme, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but it’s the only way.”
The former paratrooper accepted his orders with a crisp nod and began planning the operation. It
commenced at 4:12 P.M., when a dark gray Mercedes sedan with Geneva registration pulled up at the
front steps and sounded its horn. Philippe remained at his pulpit for a full two minutes before donning his
greatcoat at considerable leisure and heading slowly outside. By now the unwanted Monsieur Alex Lubin-
twelve nights, ski rental required-had left his car and was standing angrily next to the open trunk. He had a
face full of sharp angles and pale blond hair arranged carefully over a broad pate. His narrow eyes were
cast downward into the trunk, toward a pair of large nylon suitcases. The concierge frowned at the bags
as if he had never seen such objects before, then greeted the guest with a glacial warmth.
“May I help you, Monsieur?”
The question had been posed in English. The response came in the same language, with a distinct
Slavic accent.
“I’m checking into the hotel.”
“Really? I wasn’t told about any pending arrivals this afternoon. I’m sure it was just a slipup. Why
don’t you have a word with my colleague at Reception? I’m confident he’ll be able to rectify the
situation.”
Lubin murmured something under his breath and tramped up the steep steps. Philippe took hold of the
first bag and nearly ruptured a disk trying to hoist it out.
He’s a Russian anvil salesman and he’s brought
along a case filled with samples
. By the time he had managed to heave the bags into the lobby, Lubin was
slowly reciting his confirmation number to a perplexed-looking Ricardo, who, try as he might, had been
unable to locate the reservation in question. The problem was finally resolved-
“A small mistake by one
of our staff, Monsieur Lubin. I’ll be certain to have a word with her”
-only to be followed by another.
Due to an oversight by the housekeeping staff, the room was not yet ready. “It will just be a few
moments,” Ricardo said in his most silken voice. “My colleague will place your bags in the storage room.
Allow me to show you to our lounge bar. There will be no charge for your drinks, of course.” There
would be a charge-a rather bloated one, in fact-but Ricardo planned to spring that little surprise when
Monsieur Lubin’s defenses were at their weakest.
Sadly, Ricardo’s optimism that the delay would be brief turned out to be misplaced. Indeed, ninety
additional minutes would elapse before Lubin was shown, sans baggage, to his room. In accordance with
Plan B, there was no bathrobe for trips to the wellness center, no vodka in the minibar, and no remote for
the television. The bedside alarm clock had been set for 4:15 A.M. The heater was roaring. Philippe
covertly removed the last bar of soap from the bathroom, then, after being offered no gratuity, slipped out
the door, with a promise that the bags would be delivered in short order. Ricardo was waiting for him as
he came off the lift.
“How many vodkas did he drink in the bar?”
“Seven,” said Ricardo.
