Moscow Rules (14 page)

He gathered a few more facts, including the name and nationality of Miss Sukhova’s foreign friend, and

radioed the information to headquarters. At the end of the call, he ordered his colleagues not to disturb the

scene and confiscated Gabriel’s diplomatic passport, hardly an encouraging sign.

The next officers to appear were members of the GUOP, the special unit that handles cases related to

organized crime and contract killings, one of Moscow ’s most lucrative industries. The team leader wore

blue jeans, a black leather jacket, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses backward on his shaved head. He

called himself Markov. No rank. No first name. Just Markov. Gabriel instantly recognized the type.

Markov was the sort who walked the delicate line between criminal and cop. He could have gone either

way, and, at various times during his career, he probably had.

He examined the corpses and agreed with the sergeant’s findings that they were probably Chechen

contract killers. But unlike the younger man, he spoke a bit of English. His first questions were directed

not at the famous reporter from the
Gazeta
but at Gabriel. He seemed most interested in hearing how a

middle-aged Israeli diplomat from the Ministry of Culture had managed to disarm a professional assassin,

shoot him twice in the head, and then kill his partner. Listening to Gabriel’s account, his expression was

one of open skepticism. He scrutinized Gabriel’s passport carefully, then slipped it into his coat pocket

and said they would have to continue this conversation at headquarters.

“I must protest,” Gabriel said.

“I understand,” said Markov sadly.

For reasons never made clear, Gabriel was handcuffed and taken by unmarked car to a busy Militia

headquarters. There, he was led into the central processing area and placed on a wooden bench, next to a

weathered man in his sixties who had been roughed up and robbed by street toughs. An hour passed;

Gabriel finally walked over to the duty officer and asked for permission to phone his embassy. The duty

officer translated Gabriel’s request to his colleagues, who immediately erupted into uproarious laughter.

“They want money,” the elderly man said when Gabriel returned to the bench. “You cannot leave until you

pay them what they want.” Gabriel managed a brief smile. If only it were that simple.

Shortly after 1 A.M., Markov reappeared. He ordered Gabriel to stand, removed the handcuffs, and

led him into an interrogation room. Gabriel’s possessions-his billfold, diplomatic passport, wristwatch,

and mobile-were laid out neatly on a table. Markov picked up the phone and made a show of calling up

the directory of recent calls.

“You dialed your embassy before the first Militia officers arrived.”

“That’s correct.”

“What did you say to them?”

“That I had been attacked and that the police were going to be involved.”

“You didn’t mention this when I questioned you at the apartment house.”

“It’s standard procedure to contact the embassy immediately in a situation like this.”

“Are you often in situations like this?”

Gabriel ignored the question. “I am a diplomat of the State of Israel, entitled to every and all

diplomatic protection and immunity. I assume an officer of your rank and position would realize that my

first responsibility is to contact my embassy and report what has transpired.”

“Did you
report
that you killed two men?”

“No.”

“Did this detail slip your mind? Or did you neglect to tell them this for other reasons?”

“We are instructed to keep telephone communications brief in all situations. I’m sure you

understand.”

“Who’s
we
, Mr. Golani?”

“The ministry.”

“I see.”

Gabriel thought he could see a trace of a smile.

“I want to see a representative of my embassy immediately.”

“Unfortunately, due to the special circumstances of your case, we’re going to have to detain you a

little longer.”

Gabriel focused on a single word:
detain.

“What special circumstances?”

Markov led Gabriel silently out of the room. This time, he was locked in a fetid holding cell with a

pair of bloodied drunks and three anorexic prostitutes, one of whom immediately propositioned him.

Gabriel found a relatively clean spot along one wall and lowered himself cautiously to the concrete floor.

“You have to pay them,” the prostitute explained. “Consider yourself lucky. I have to give them something

else.”

Several hours crawled past with no more contact from Markov- precisely how many Gabriel did not

know, because he had no watch and there was no clock visible from the holding cell. The drunks passed

the time debating Pushkin; the three prostitutes slept against the opposite wall, one leaning against the

next, like dress-up dolls on a little girl’s shelf. Gabriel sat with his arms wrapped around his shins and

his forehead to his knees. He shut out the sounds around him-the slamming of doors, the shouting of

orders, the cries of a man being beaten-and kept his thoughts focused only on Olga Sukhova. Was she

somewhere in this building with him, he wondered, or had she been taken elsewhere due to the “special

circumstances” of her case? Was she even alive or had she suffered the same fate as her colleagues

Aleksandr Lubin and Boris Ostrovsky? As for the name Olga had spoken to him in the stairwell of the

House of Dogs, he pushed it to a far corner of his memory and concealed it beneath a layer of gesso and

base paint.

“It was Elena… Elena was the one who told me about the sale.”

Elena who?
Gabriel thought now.
Elena where? Elena nobody…

Finally, one sound managed to penetrate his defenses: the sound of Markov’s approaching footsteps.

The grim expression on his face suggested an ominous turn in events.

“Responsibility for your case has been transferred to another department. ”

“Which department is that?”

“Get on your feet, then face the wall and place your hands behind your back.”

“You’re not going to shoot me here in front of all these witnesses, are you, Markov?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Gabriel did as instructed. A pair of uniformed officers entered the cell, reattached the handcuffs, and

led him outside to a waiting car. It sped through a maze of side streets before finally turning onto a broad,

empty prospekt. Gabriel’s destination now lay directly ahead, a floodlit fortress of yellow stone looming

atop the low hill.
Elena who?
he thought.
Elena where? Elena nobody…

18 FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW

The iron gates of Lubyanka swung slowly open to receive him. In the center of a large interior

courtyard, four bored-looking officers stood silently in the darkness. They extracted Gabriel from the

backseat with a swiftness that spoke of much experience in such matters and propelled him across the

cobblestones into the building. The stairwell was conveniently located a few steps from the entrance

foyer. On the precipice of the first step, Gabriel was given a firm shove between the shoulder blades. He

tumbled helplessly downward, somersaulting once, and came to rest on the next landing. A knifelike jab

to the kidney blinded him with pain that ran the length of his body. A well-aimed kick to the abdomen left

him unable to speak or breathe.

They propped him upright again and flung him like war dead down the next flight. This time, the fall

itself inflicted damage sufficient enough so that they did not have to further exert themselves with needless

kicks or punches. After placing him on his feet again, they dragged him into a dark corridor. To Gabriel, it

seemed to stretch an eternity. To the gulags of Siberia, he thought. To the killing fields outside Moscow

where Stalin sentenced his victims to “seven grams of lead,” his favorite punishment for disloyalty, real

or imagined.

He had expected a period of isolation in a cell where Lubyanka’s blood-soaked history could chip

away at his resistance. Instead, he was taken directly to an interrogation room and forced into a chair

before a rectangular table of pale wood. Seated on the other side was a man in a gray suit with a pallor to

match. He wore a neat little goatee and round, wire-framed spectacles. Whether or not he was trying to

look like Lenin, the resemblance was unmistakable. He was several years younger than Gabriel-mid-

forties, perhaps-and recently divorced, judging by the indentation on the ring finger of his right hand.

Educated. Intelligent. A worthy opponent. A lawyer in another life, though it was unclear whether he was

a defense attorney or prosecutor. A man of words rather than violence. Gabriel considered himself lucky.

Given his location, and the available options, he could have done far worse.

“Are you injured?” the man asked in English, as though he did not care much about the answer.

“I am a diplomat of the State of Israel.”

“So I’m told. You might find this difficult to believe, but I am here to help you. You may call me

Sergei. It is a pseudonym, of course. Just like the pseudonym that appears in your passport.”

“You have no legal right to hold me.”

“I’m afraid I do. You killed two citizens of Russia this evening.”

“Because they tried to kill
me
. I demand to speak to a representative of my embassy.”

“In due time, Mr.-” He made a vast show of consulting Gabriel’s passport. “Ah, here it is. Mr.

Golani.” He tossed the passport onto the table. “Come now, Mr. Golani, we are both professionals.

Surely we can handle this rather embarrassing situation in a professional manner.”

“I’ve given a complete statement to the Militia.”

“I’m afraid your statement raises many more questions than it answers.”

“What else do you need to know?”

He produced a thick file; then, from the file, a photograph. It showed Gabriel, five days earlier,

walking through the terminal of Pulkovo 2 Airport in St. Petersburg.

“What I need to
know
, Mr. Golani, is exactly what you are doing in Russia. And don’t try to mislead

me. If you do, I will become very angry. And that is the last thing you want.”

They went through it once; then they went through it again. The sudden illness of the deputy minister.

Natan Golani’s hasty recruitment as a stand-in. The meetings and the speeches. The receptions and the

dinners. Each contact, formal or casual, was duly noted, including the woman who had tried to seduce him

during the final gala at the Mariinsky Theatre. Despite the fact the room was surely fitted with a recording

system, the interrogator documented each answer in a small notebook. Gabriel couldn’t help but admire

his technique. Had their roles been reversed, he would have done precisely the same thing.

“You were originally scheduled to return to Tel Aviv the morning after the UNESCO conference

concluded.”

“That’s correct.”

“But you abruptly decided to extend your stay in Russia and travel to Moscow instead.” He lay a

small hand atop the file, as if to remind Gabriel of its presence. “Why did you do this, Mr. Golani?”

“Our ambassador here is an old friend. He suggested I come to Moscow for a day or two.”

“For what purpose?”

“To see him, of course-and to see Moscow.”

“What did he say to you exactly, your friend the ambassador?”

“He said I had to see Moscow to believe it. He said it was filled with billionaires, dirty bankers,

and Russian gangsters. He said it was a boomtown. He said something about a sea of oil, caviar, and

vodka.”

“Did he mention a dinner party?” He tapped the file with the tip of his index finger. “The dinner

party that took place at the Israeli Embassy last evening?”

“I believe he did.”

“Think carefully, Mr. Golani.”

“I’m sure he mentioned it.”

“What did he say about it-
exactly
, Mr. Golani?”

“He said there would be some people from the opposition there.”

“Is that how he described the invited guests? As members of the
opposition
?”

“Actually, I think he referred to them as ‘brave souls’ who’ve had the chutzpah to challenge the

regime.”

“And why did your ambassador feel it was necessary to throw such a party? Was it his intention to

meddle in the internal affairs of the Russian Federation?”

“I can assure you no meddling took place. It was just dinner and pleasant conversation.”

“Who was in attendance?”

“Why don’t you ask the agents who were watching the embassy that night? They photographed

everyone who entered the compound, including me. Look in your file. I’m sure it’s there.”

The interrogator smiled. “Who was in attendance, Mr. Golani?”

Gabriel listed the names to the best of his recollection. The last name he recited was Olga Sukhova.

“Was that the first time you and Miss Sukhova had met?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her by reputation?”

“No, I’d never heard her name.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“You seem to have hit it off quite well.”

“We were seated next to each other at dinner. We had a pleasant conversation.”