Moscow Rules (39 page)

everything I tell you. We have a lot of ground to cover and very little time.”

The flight touched down at Sheremetyevo punctually at 8:05 P.M. Elena left the plane first and

walked a few paces ahead through the terminal, with her handbag over her left shoulder and her overnight

bag rolling along the cracked floor at her side. Arriving at passport control, Gabriel joined a line for

unwanted foreigners, and by the time he was finally admitted into the country Elena was gone. Outside the

terminal, he joined another endless line, this one for a taxi. He eventually climbed into the back of a

rattling Lada, driven by a juvenile in mirrored sunglasses. Uzi Navot climbed into the car behind him.

“Where are you going?” asked Gabriel’s driver.

“Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”

“Your first time in Moscow?”

“Yes.”

“Some music?”

“No, I have a terrible headache.”

“How about a girl instead?”

“The hotel would be just fine, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Are you sure you can drive?”

“No problem.”

“Is this car actually going to make it to the Ritz?”

“No problem.”

“It’s getting dark out. Are you sure you need those sunglasses?”

“They make me look like I have money. Everyone with money in Moscow wears sunglasses at

night.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“It’s true.”

“Can this car go any faster? I’d like to get to the Ritz sometime tonight.”

"No problem.”

Word of Gabriel and Elena’s arrival in Moscow reached the operations center in Grosvenor Square

at 6:19 P.M. local time. Graham Seymour stood up from his chair and rubbed the kinks out of his lower

back.

“Nothing more to be done from here tonight. What say we adjourn to the Grill Room of the

Dorchester for a celebratory supper? My service is buying.”

“I don’t believe in mid-operation celebrations,” Shamron said. “Especially when I have three of my

best operatives on the ground in Moscow and three more on the way.”

Carter placed a hand on Shamron’s shoulder. “Come on, Ari. There’s nothing you can do now except

sit there all night and worry yourself to death.”

“Which is exactly what I intend to do.”

Carter frowned and looked at Graham Seymour. “We can’t leave him here alone. He’s barely

housebroken.”

“How would you feel about Indian takeaway?”

“Tell them to take it easy on the spices. My stomach isn’t what it used to be.”

55 MOSCOW

With just one week remaining until election day, there was no escaping the face of the Russian

president. It hung from every signpost and government building in the city center. It stared from the front

pages of every Kremlin-friendly newspaper and flashed across the newscasts of the Kremlin-controlled

television networks. It was carried aloft by roving bands of Unity Party Youth and floated godlike over

the city on the side of a hot-air balloon. The president himself acted as though he were waging a real

election campaign rather than a carefully scripted folly. He spent the morning campaigning in a Potemkin

village in the countryside before returning to Moscow for a massive afternoon rally at Dinamo Stadium. It

was, according to Radio Moscow, the largest political rally in modern Russian history.

The Kremlin had allowed two other candidates the privilege of contesting the election, but most

Russians could not recall their names, and even the foreign press had long ago stopped covering them.

The Coalition for a Free Russia, the only real organized opposition force in the country, had no candidate

but plenty of courage. As the president was addressing the throng in Dinamo Stadium, they gathered in

Arbat Square for a counterrally. By the time the police and their plainclothes helpers had finished with

them, one hundred members of Free Russia were in custody and another hundred were in the hospital.

Evidence of the bloody melee was still strewn about the square late that afternoon as Gabriel, dressed in

a dark corduroy flat cap and Barbour raincoat, headed down the Boulevard Ring toward the river.

The Cathedral of Christ the Savior rose before him, its five golden onion domes dull against the

heavy gray sky. The original cathedral had been dynamited by Kaganovich in 1931 on orders from Stalin,

supposedly because it blocked the view from the windows of his Kremlin apartment. In its place the

Bolsheviks had attempted to erect a massive government skyscraper called the Palace of Soviets, but the

riverside soil proved unsuitable for such a building and the construction site flooded repeatedly.

Eventually, Stalin and his engineers surrendered to the inevitable and turned the land into a public

swimming pool-the world’s largest, of course.

Rebuilt after the fall of communism at enormous public expense, the cathedral was now one of

Moscow ’s most popular tourist attractions. Gabriel decided to skip it and made his way directly to the

river instead. Three men were standing separately along the embankment, gazing across the water toward

a vast apartment building with a Mercedes-Benz star revolving slowly atop the roof. Gabriel walked past

them without a word. One by one, the men turned and followed after him.

Upon closer inspection, it was not a single building but three: a massive trapezium facing the

riverfront, with two L-shaped appendages running several hundred yards inland. On the opposite side of

Serafimovicha Street was a melancholy patch of brown grass and wilted trees known as Bolotnaya

Square. Gabriel was seated on a nearby bench next to a fountain when Uzi Navot, Yaakov Rossman, and

Eli Lavon came over the bridge. Navot sat next to him, while Lavon and Yaakov went to the edge of the

fountain. Lavon was chattering away in Russian like a movie extra in a cocktail party scene. Yaakov was

looking at the ground and smoking a cigarette.

“When did Yaakov take up smoking again?” asked Gabriel.

“Last night. He’s nervous.”

“He’s spent his career operating in the West Bank and Gaza and he’s nervous being in Moscow?”

“You’re damn right he’s nervous being in Moscow. And you would be, too, if you had any sense.”

“How’s our local station chief?”

“He looks a little better than Yaakov, but not much. Let’s just say he’ll be quite happy when we get

on that plane tomorrow night and get out of town.”

“How many cars was he able to come up with?”

“Four, just like you wanted-three old Ladas and a Volga.”

“Please tell me they run, Uzi. The last thing we need is for the cars to break down tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, Gabriel. They run just fine.”

“Where did he get them?”

“The station picked up a small fleet of old Soviet cars and trucks for a song after the fall of

communism and put them on ice. All the papers are in order.”

“And the drivers?”

“Four field hands from Moscow Station. They all speak Russian.”

“What time do we start leaving the hotel?”

“I go first at two-fifty. Eli goes five minutes after that. Then Yaakov five minutes later. You’re the

last to leave.”

“It’s not much time, Uzi.”

“It’s plenty of time. If we get here too early, we might attract unwanted attention. And that’s the last

thing we want.”

Gabriel didn’t argue. Instead, he peppered Navot with a series of questions about cell phone

jammers, watch assignments, and, finally, the situation at the apartment house on the Kutuzovsky Prospekt

where Elena was now staying with her mother. Navot’s answer did not surprise him.

“Arkady Medvedev has placed the building under round-the-clock surveillance.”

“How’s he doing it?”

“Nothing too technical. Just a man in a car outside in the street.”

“How often is he changing the watcher?”

“Every four hours.”

“Does he change the car or just the man?”

“Just the man. The car stays in place.”

Gabriel adjusted his tinted eyeglasses. His gray wig was making his scalp itch terribly. Navot was

rubbing a sore patch above his elbow. He always seemed to develop some small physical malady

whenever he was anxious about an operation.

“We should assume that Arkady has instructed the watchers to follow Elena wherever she goes,

including tomorrow afternoon when she leaves for the airport. If the watcher sees her making an

unannounced detour to the House on the Embankment, he’ll tell Arkady. And Arkady is bound to be

suspicious. Do you see my point, Gabriel?”

“Yes, Uzi,” Gabriel said pedantically. “I believe I do. We have to make sure the watcher doesn’t

follow her tomorrow or all our work could go up in flames in a Moscow minute.”

“I suppose we could kill him.”

“A minor traffic accident should suffice.”

“Shall I tell the station chief that we need another Lada?”

“What kind of car are the watchers using?”

"An S-Class Mercedes.”

“That’s not really a fair fight, is it?”

“Not really.”

“We’d better make it an official car, then. Something that can take a punch. Tell the station chief we

want to borrow the ambassador’s limo. Come to think of it, tell him we want the ambassador, too. He’s

really quite good, you know.”

Elena Kharkov had left her mother’s apartment just one time that day, a fact that Arkady Medvedev

and his watchers found neither alarming nor even the slightest bit noteworthy. The outing had been brief: a

quick drive to a glittering new gourmet market up the street, where, accompanied by two of her

bodyguards, she had purchased the ingredients for a summer borscht. She had spent the remainder of the

afternoon in the kitchen with her mother, playfully bickering over recipes, the way they always had done

when Elena was young.

By evening, the soup had chilled sufficiently to eat. Mother and daughter sat together at the dining-

room table, a candle and a loaf of black bread between them, images of the president’s rally in Dinamo

Stadium playing silently on the television in the next room. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since

Elena’s arrival in Moscow, yet her mother had assiduously avoided any discussion of the reason behind

the unorthodox visit. She broached the topic now for the first time, not with words but by gently laying

Elena’s letter upon the table. Elena looked at it a moment, then resumed eating.

“You’re in trouble, my love.”

“No, Mama.”

“Who was the man you sent to deliver this letter?”

“He’s a friend. Someone who’s helping me.”

“Helping you with what?”

Elena was silent.

“You’re leaving your husband?”

“Yes, Mama, I’m leaving my husband.”

“Has he hurt you?”

“Badly.”

“Did he hit you?”

“No, never.”

“Is there another woman?”

Elena nodded, eyes on her food. “She’s just a child of nineteen. I’m sure Ivan will hurt her one day,

too.”

“You should have never married him. I begged you not to marry him, but you wouldn’t listen to me.”

“I know.”

“He’s a monster. His father was a monster and he’s a monster.”

“I know.” Elena tried to eat some of the soup but had lost her appetite. “I’m sorry the children and I

haven’t been spending more time with you the last few years. Ivan wouldn’t let us. It’s no excuse. I should

have stood up to him.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Elena. I know more than you think I know.”

A tear spilled onto Elena’s cheek. She brushed it away before her mother could see it. “I’m very

sorry for the way I’ve behaved toward you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“I forgive you, Elena. But I don’t understand why you came to Moscow like this.”

“I have to take care of some business before I leave Ivan. I have to protect myself and the children.”

“You’re not thinking about taking his money?”

“This has nothing to do with money.”

Her mother didn’t press the issue. She was a Party wife. She knew about secrets and walls.

“When are you planning to tell him?”

“Tomorrow night.” Elena paused, then added pointedly: “When I return to France.”

“Your husband isn’t the sort of man who takes bad news well.”

“No one knows that better than I do.”

“Where are you planning to go?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Will you stay in Europe or will you come home to Russia?”

“It might not be safe for me in Russia anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I might have to take the children someplace where Ivan can’t find them. Do you understand what I’m

saying to you?”

The Party wife understood perfectly. “Am I ever going to see them again, Elena? Am I ever going to

see my grandchildren again?”

“It might take some time. But, yes, you’ll be able to see them again.”

“Time? How much time? Look at me, Elena. Time is not something I have in abundance.”

“I’ve left some money in the bottom drawer of your dresser. It’s all the money I have in the world

right now.”

“Then I can’t take it.”

“Trust me, Mama. You have to take that money.”

Her mother looked down and tried to eat, but now she, too, had lost her appetite. And so they sat

there for a long time, clutching each other’s hands across the table, faces wet with tears. Finally, her