Moscow Rules (5 page)

get back into the country, I had to make a solemn promise to the Vatican and the Italian services. No

operational work of any kind on Italian soil.”

“Who says you’re going to operate? You’re just going to have a conversation. ”

“With a Russian editor who just lost one of his reporters to a professional assassin in Courchevel.”

Gabriel shook his head slowly. “I don’t know about you, Uzi, but I don’t think it’s exactly good karma to

lie to a pope.”

“Shamron is our pope and Shamron wants it done.”

Gabriel led Navot from the basilica, and they walked together through the darkened streets, with the

bat leveyha
trailing quietly after them. He didn’t like it but he had to admit he was curious about the

nature of the message the Russian wanted to deliver. The assignment had one other potential windfall. It

could be used as leverage to get Shamron off his back once and for all. As they crossed the Piazza del

Commune, he listed his demands.

“I listen to what he has to say, then I file a report and I’m done with it.”

“That’s it.”

“I go back to my farm in Umbria and finish my painting. No more complaints from Shamron. No

more warnings about my security.”

Navot hesitated, then nodded his head.

“Say it, Uzi. Say it before God, here in the sacred city of Assisi.”

“You can go back to Umbria and restore paintings to your heart’s content. No more complaints from

Shamron. No more warnings from me or anyone else about the legion of terrorists who wish you dead.”

“Is Ostrovsky under surveillance by assets from Rome Station?”

“We put him under watch within an hour of the first contact.”

“Tell them to back off. Otherwise, you run the risk of inadvertently telegraphing our interest to the

Italian security services and anyone else who might be watching him.”

“Done.”

“I need a watcher I can trust.”

“Someone like Eli?”

“Yes, someone like Eli. Where is he?”

“On a dig somewhere near the Dead Sea.”

“Get him on the sunrise express out of Ben-Gurion. Tell him to meet me at Piperno. Tell him to have

a bottle of Frascati and a plate of
filetti di baccalà
waiting.”

“I love fried cod,” Navot said.

"Piperno makes the best
filetti
in Rome. Why don’t you join us for lunch?”

“Bella says I have to stay away from fried food.” Navot patted his ample midsection. “She says it’s

very fattening.”

5 LLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA

To restore an Old Master painting, Gabriel always said, was to surrender oneself body and soul to

the canvas and the artist who had produced it. The painting was always the first thing in his thoughts when

he woke and the last thing he saw before dropping off to sleep. Even in his dreams, he could not escape it;

nor could he ever walk past a restoration in progress without stopping to examine his work.

He switched off the halogen lamps now and climbed the stone steps to the second floor. Chiara was

propped on one elbow in bed, leafing distractedly through a thick fashion magazine. Her skin was dark

from the Umbrian sun and her auburn hair was moving faintly in the breeze of the open window. A

dreadful Italian pop song was issuing from the bedside clock radio; two Italian celebrities were engaged

in a deep but silent conversation on the muted television. Gabriel pointed the remote at the screen and

fired.

“I was watching that,” she said without looking at him.

“Oh, really? What was it about?”

“Something to do with a man and a woman.” She licked her forefingerand elaborately turned the

page of her magazine. “Did you boys have a nice time?”

“Where’s your gun?”

She lifted the corner of the bedcover and the walnut grip of a Beretta 9mm shone in the light of her

reading lamp. Gabriel would have preferred the weapon be more accessible, but he resisted the impulse

to chide her. Despite the fact that she had never handled a gun before her recruitment, Chiara routinely

outscored him in accuracy on the basement firing range at King Saul Boulevard -a rather remarkable

achievement, considering the fact she was the daughter of the chief rabbi of Venice and had spent her

youth in the tranquil streets of the city’s ancient Jewish Ghetto. Officially, she was still an Italian citizen.

Her association with the Office was a secret, as was her marriage to Gabriel. She covered the Beretta

again and flipped another page.

“How’s Uzi?”

“He and Bella are going to get married.”

“Is it serious or just idle talk?”

“You should see the eyeglasses she has him wearing.”

“When a man lets a woman choose his eyeglasses, it’s only a matter of time before he’s standing

under a chuppah with his foot on a glass.” She looked up and scrutinized him carefully. “Maybe it’s time

you had your eyes checked, Gabriel. You were squinting last night when you were watching television.”

“I was squinting because my eyes were fatigued from working all day.”

“You never used to squint. You know, Gabriel, you’ve reached an age when most men-”

“I don’t need glasses, Chiara. And, when I do, I’ll be sure to consult you before choosing the

frames.”

“You look very distinguished when you wear false eyeglasses for cover.” She closed her magazine

and lowered the volume on the clock radio. “So is that why Uzi came all the way to Italy to see you? To

tell you he was getting married?”

“The Sword of Allah has hung a contract around my neck. Shamron is concerned about our security.”

“That sounds like something that could have been handled with a phone call, darling. Surely Uzi had

more to say than that.”

“He wants me to run an errand for him in Rome.”

“Really? What sort of errand?”

“It’s need-to-know, Chiara.”

“Good, Gabriel, because I need to know why you would interrupt our honeymoon to run off on an

assignment.”

“It’s not an assignment. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“What’s the job, Gabriel? And don’t hide behind silly Office rules and regulations. We’ve always

told each other everything.” She paused. “Haven’t we?”

Gabriel sat down on the edge of the bed and told her about Boris Ostrovsky and his unorthodox

request for an audience.

“And you agreed to this?” She gathered her hair into a bun and patted the bed distractedly for a

clasp. “Am I the only one who’s considered the possibility that you’re walking straight into a trap?”

“It may have crossed my mind.”

“Why didn’t you just tell them to send a stand-in? Surely Uzi can find someone from Special Ops

who looks enough like you to fool a Russian journalist who’s never seen you in person before.” Greeted

by Gabriel’s silence, Chiara supplied her own answer. “Because you’re curious what this Russian has to

say.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not enough to interrupt my honeymoon.” Chiara gave up trying to find the clasp and allowed her

hair to tumble about her shoulders once more. “Uzi and Shamron will always dream up something to keep

pulling you back into the Office, Gabriel, but you only get
one
honeymoon.”

Gabriel walked over to the closet and took down a small leather overnight bag from the top shelf.

Chiara watched him silently as he filled it with a change of clothing. She could see that further debate was

futile.

“Did Uzi have a
bat leveyha
?”

“A very pretty one, actually.”

“We’re all pretty, Gabriel. You middle-aged Office hacks love to go into the field with a pretty girl

on your arm.”

“Especially when she has a big gun in her handbag.”

“Who was it?”

“He said her name was Tamara.”

“She is pretty. She’s also trouble. Bella better keep an eye on her.” Chiara looked at Gabriel packing

his bag. “Will you really be back tomorrow night?”

“If everything goes according to plan.”

“When was the last time one of your assignments went according to plan?” She took hold of the

Beretta and held it out toward him. “Do you need this?”

“I have one in the car.”

“Who’s going to be watching your back? Not those idiots from Rome Station.”

“Eli’s flying to Rome in the morning.”

“Let me come with you.”

“I’ve already lost one wife to my enemies. I don’t want to lose another. ”

“So what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

“Make sure no one steals the Poussin. His Holiness will be rather miffed if it vanishes while in my

possession.” He kissed her and started toward the door. “And whatever you do, don’t try to follow me.

Uzi put a security detail at the front gate.”

“Bastard,” she murmured as he started down the steps.

“I heard that, Chiara.”

She picked up the remote and pointed it at the television.

“Good.”

6 ROME

To call it a safe flat was no longer accurate. Indeed, Gabriel had spent so much time in the pleasant

apartment near the top of the Spanish Steps that the lords of Housekeeping, the division of the Office that

handled secure accommodations, referred to it as his Rome address. There were two bedrooms, a large,

light-filled sitting room, and a spacious terrace that looked west toward the Piazza di Spagna and St.

Peter’s Basilica. Two years earlier, Gabriel had been standing in the shadow of Michelangelo’s dome, at

the side of His Holiness Pope Paul VII, when the Vatican was attacked by Islamic terrorists. More than

seven hundred people were killed that October afternoon, and the dome of the Basilica had nearly been

toppled. At the behest of the CIA and the American president, Gabriel had hunted down and killed the two

Saudis who masterminded and financed the operation. The pope’s powerful private secretary, Monsignor

Luigi Donati, knew of Gabriel’s involvement in the killings and tacitly approved. So, too, Gabriel

suspected, did the Holy Father himself.

The flat had been fitted with a system capable of recording the time and duration of unwanted entries

and intrusions. Even so, Gabriel inserted an old-fashioned telltale between the door and the jamb as he let

himself out. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the geniuses in the Office’s Technical division; he was simply a

man of the sixteenth century at heart and clung to antiquated ways when it came to matters of tradecraft

and security. Computerized telltales were wonderful devices, but a scrap of paper never failed, and it

didn’t require an engineer with a Ph.D. from MIT to keep it running.

It had rained during the night, and the pavements of the Via Gregoriana were still damp as Gabriel

stepped from the foyer. He turned to the right, toward the Church of the Trinità dei Monti, and descended

the Spanish Steps to the piazza, where he drank his first cappuccino of the day. After deciding that his

return to Rome had gone unnoticed by the Italian security services, he hiked back up the Spanish Steps and

climbed aboard a Piaggio motorbike. Its little four-stroke engine buzzed like an insect as he sped down

the graceful sweep of the Via Veneto.

The Excelsior Hotel stood near the end of the street, near the Villa Borghese. Gabriel parked on the

Corso d’Italia and locked his helmet in the rear storage compartment. Then he put on a pair of dark

wraparound sunglasses and a ball cap and headed back to the Via Veneto on foot. He walked nearly the

length of the boulevard to the Piazza Barberini, then crossed over to the opposite side and headed back

toward the Villa Borghese. Along the way, he spotted four men he assumed to be plainclothes American

security-the U.S. Embassy stood at Via Veneto 121-but no one who appeared to be an agent of Russian

intelligence.

The waiters at Doney were setting the sidewalk tables for lunch. Gabriel went inside and drank a

second cappuccino while standing at the bar. Then he walked next door to the Excelsior and lifted the

receiver of a house phone near the elevators. When the operator came on the line, he asked to speak to a

guest named Boris Ostrovsky and was connected to his room right away. Three rings later, the phone was

answered by a man speaking English with a pronounced Russian accent. When Gabriel asked to speak to

someone named “Mr. Donaldson, ” the Russian-speaking man said there was no one there by that name

and immediately hung up.

Gabriel left the connection open for a few seconds and listened for the sound of a transmitter on the

line. Hearing nothing suspicious, he hung up and walked to the Galleria Borghese. He spent an hour

looking at paintings and checking his tail for signs of surveillance. Then, at 11:45, he climbed aboard the

Piaggio motorbike again and set off toward a quiet square at the edge of the old ghetto. The
filetti
and

Frascati were waiting when he arrived. And so was Eli Lavon.

I thought you were supposed to be on your honeymoon.”

"Shamron had other ideas.”

"You need to learn how to set boundaries.”

"I could build a Separation Fence and it still wouldn’t stop him.”

Eli Lavon smiled and pushed a few strands of wispy hair from his forehead. Despite the warmth of

the Roman afternoon, he was wearing a cardigan sweater beneath his crumpled tweed jacket and an ascot

at his throat. Even Gabriel, who had known Lavon for more than thirty years, sometimes found it difficult