Moscow Rules (31 page)

been spoken by the man she knew as Mikhail. The man who would soon become her lover.

Elena heard his instructions now, soft but assured, as she took the final banal steps toward betrayal.

She bathed in her swimming pool- sized Jacuzzi tub, singing softly to herself, something she normally did

not do. She took great care applying her makeup and appeared to struggle finding a hairstyle she deemed

suitable. Her wardrobe seemed to be the source of similar vacillation, for she tried on and discarded a

half-dozen outfits before settling on a simple cream-colored Dior dress that Ivan had purchased out of

guilt during his last trip to Paris. The rejects she flung onto the bed, just as Michael had instructed.

Evidence of romantic indecision, he had called it. Visible proof of her desire to look attractive for her

lover.

Finally, at one o’clock, Elena informed Sonia and the children that she would be going to town for a

few hours. Then she ordered Oleg to prepare a car and security detail. The traffic on the way into Saint-

Tropez was deplorable as usual; she occupied her time by telephoning her mother in Moscow. Oleg, who

was seated next to her in the backseat, made no attempt to conceal the fact he was eavesdropping, and

Elena made no effort to modulate the volume of her voice. When the call was over, she switched off the

phone and dropped it into her handbag. As she climbed out of the car on the Avenue du Marechal, she

hung the bag over her left shoulder, just as she had been told to do. Right shoulder meant that she’d had a

change of heart. Left shoulder meant she was ready to join them.

She entered the Place Carnot at the southeast corner and, with Oleg and Gennady trailing a few paces

behind, started into the crowded outdoor market. In the clothing section, she bought matching cashmere

sweaters for Ivan and Nikolai and a pair of sandals for Anna to replace the ones she had left behind

during their last visit to Pampelonne Beach. She gave the parcels to Oleg to carry, then headed toward the

food stalls in the center of the square, where she paused to watch a man with a grizzled face preparing

ratatouille in the largest pan she had ever seen. A young woman with dark hair materialized briefly at her

side; she murmured a few words in English, then melted once more into the crowds.

Elena purchased a half kilo of the ratatouille and handed the container to Gennady, then continued

diagonally across the square, toward the Boulevard Louis Blanc. An Audi convertible, bright red, was

parked on the corner. Michael was behind the wheel, face tilted toward the sun, dreadful American music

blaring from the stereo. Elena tossed her handbag onto the passenger seat and quickly climbed inside. As

the car shot forward, she kept her eyes straight ahead. Had she looked over her shoulder, she would have

seen Oleg, red-faced, screaming into his cell phone. And Gennady, the younger of the two, chasing after

them on foot, the ratatouille still in his hand.

42 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

Who are you?”

"Michael Danilov. Sarah’s friend from Washington. Your husband calls me Mikhail. You can call

me Mikhail, too.”

"I want to know your
real
name.”

“It is my real name.”

“Where do you work?”

“You already know where I work. I work with Sarah, at the Dillard Center for Democracy.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can be alone.”

“We don’t have much time. You can be sure Ivan is already looking for us.”

“Try not to think about Ivan. For now, there’s no one but us.”

“The bodyguards saw you. They’re going to tell Ivan it was you and Ivan won’t rest until you’re

dead.”

“Your husband isn’t going to kill me, Elena.”

“You don’t know my husband. He kills people all the time.”

"I know your husband very well. And he never kills for love. Only money.”

43 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE

They headed inland, up a winding road, into the highlands of the Massif des Maures. He drove very

fast but without anxiety or visible exertion. His left hand lay lightly atop the steering wheel while his right

worked the stick shift with liquid smoothness. He was no computer technician, Elena thought. She had

spent enough time in the company of elite soldiers to realize when she was in the presence of a fellow

traveler. She took comfort in this. She realized she had simply traded one set of bodyguards for another.

The terrain grew more rugged with each passing mile. To their right lay a dense forest of pine and

eucalyptus; to their left, a bottomless green gorge. They flashed through villages with names she did not

recognize. And she thought how terrible it was she had never been here until now. And she vowed that

one day, when this was over, she would bring the children here without their bodyguards for a picnic.

The children…

It had been a mistake to think of them now. She wanted to phone Sonia and make certain they were

safe. She wanted to scream at this strange man called Mikhail to turn the car around. Instead, she focused

on the wind in her hair and the warm sunlight on her skin. A married woman who is about to give herself

to a another man does not destroy the ache of sexual anticipation by telephoning her children. She thinks

only of the moment, and to hell with the consequences.

They entered another village with a single street shaded by plane trees. A Rubenesque girl sat

astride a burgundy motor scooter outside a
tabac,
her face shielded by a helmet and dark visor. She

flicked her headlamp twice as they approached and entered the road ahead of them. They followed her for

another mile, then turned together into a dirt track lined with twisted Van Gogh olive trees, their silver-

green leaves shimmering like coins in the gentle breeze. At the end of the track was an open wooden gate

and, beyond the gate, the courtyard of a tiny stucco villa. Mikhail switched off the engine.

“Remember how it looks, Elena. It’s important you’re able to recall small details. Ivan will expect

that when he questions you.”

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere in the mountains. You’re not exactly sure. We were attracted to one another from the

moment we met at Grand Joseph. Ivan didn’t notice because he was thinking about Yekatarina. You were

vulnerable; I could see that. I just had to think of some way to get you alone. I knew a hotel wouldn’t do,

so I took the liberty of renting this place from a local estate agent for the week.”

He removed the keys from the ignition.

“You did everything the way we asked? You dialed Yekatarina’s room at the Carlton? You left

clothes all over your room for Ivan and the housekeepers to see?”

“I did everything.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. You’ll tell Ivan that you’ve suspected he was being

unfaithful for years. You’ll tell him you’ve had suspicions about Yekatarina for a long time and that these

suspicions were confirmed by the numbers you found on his mobile phone. You’ll tell him I made a pass

at you the afternoon we came to the villa. That you were so angry and hurt that you were unable to resist.

You’ll tell him you wanted to punish him and that the only way was to give your body to another man.

He’s going to be furious, of course, but he’ll have no reason to doubt the veracity of your story since he

knows he is guilty of the sins you accuse him of committing. Sleeping with me was a crime of passion and

anger, something Ivan understands all too well. In due time, he’ll forgive you.”

“He might forgive me but not you.”

“I’m none of your concern. In fact, you will soon hate me for the trouble I’ve caused you. As far as

you’re concerned, I can look after myself.”

“Can you?”

“Quite well, actually.” He opened the door. “Time to go inside, Elena. There’s someone inside

who’s very anxious to meet you.”

It was the antithesis of Villa Soleil, a small, tidy space of whitewashed walls, terra-cotta floors, and

rustic Provençal furniture. Seated at a rough-hewn wood table was a man of indeterminate age and

nationality, with a long nose that looked as though it had been carved with a chisel and the greenest eyes

Elena had ever seen. He rose slowly to his feet as she approached and extended his hand without

speaking. Mikhail handled the introductions.

“Meet the man who painted your Cassatt, Elena. I am about to commit the grave professional sin of

telling you his real name, which is Gabriel Allon. He wants you to know it, because he admires you

deeply and does not wish to lie to you. You are in the presence of royalty, Elena-at least as far as the

inhabitants of our world are concerned. I’ll leave you to your business.”

Mikhail withdrew. Gabriel looked at Elena in silence for a moment, then, with a glance, invited her

to sit. He retook his seat on the opposite side of the table and folded his hands before him. They were

dark and smooth, with slender, articulate fingers. The hands of a musician, thought Elena. The hands of an

artist.

“I would like to begin by thanking you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For having the courage to come forward.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re here because of you, Elena. We’re here because you summoned us.”

“But I didn’t summon you. I didn’t
summon
anyone.”

“Of course you did. You summoned us with Olga Sukhova. And with Aleksandr Lubin. And with

Boris Ostrovsky. Whether you realized it or not, Elena, you sent them to us. But you only gave them a part

of the story. Now you have to tell us the rest.”

There was something in his accent she could not quite place. He was a polyglot, she decided. A man

without roots. A man who had lived many places. A man with many names.

“Who do you work for?”

“I am employed by a small agency answerable only to the prime minister of the State of Israel. But

there are other countries involved as well. Your husband’s actions have caused an international crisis.

And the response to this crisis has been international as well.”

“Is Sarah an Israeli, too?”

“Only in spirit. Sarah is an American. She works for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“And Mikhail?”

“As you can probably tell by Mikhail’s perfect Russian, he was born in Moscow. He left when he

was a young boy and moved to Israel. He left Russia because of men like your husband. And now your

husband is planning to sell very dangerous weapons to people who are sworn to destroy us.’

“How much do you know?”

“Very little, unfortunately. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have upended your life by bringing you here

today. We only know that your husband has entered into a deal with the Devil. He’s killed two people to

keep that deal a secret. And others will surely die as well, unless you help us.” He reached out and took

her by the hand. “Will you help us, Elena?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to finish what you started when you arranged to meet with your old friend Olga Sukhova.

I want you to tell me the rest of the story.”

Five miles due east of Saint-Tropez, the rocky headland known as the Pointe de l’Ay juts defiantly

into the Mediterranean Sea. At the base of the point lies a small beach of fine sand, often overlooked

because it is absent any boutiques, clubs, or restaurants. The girl with shoulder-length dark hair and scars

on her leg had taken great care in choosing her spot, selecting an isolated patch of sand near the rocks

with an unobstructed view out to sea. There, shielded from the sun by a parasol, she had passed a pleasant

if solitary afternoon, now sipping from a plastic bottle of mineral water, now delving into the pages of a

worn paperback novel, now peering out to sea through a pair of miniature Zeiss binoculars toward the

enormous private motor yacht called
October
adrift on the calm waters some three miles offshore.

At 3:15, she noticed something in the ship’s movements that made her sit up a bit straighter. She

watched it another moment to make certain her initial impression was correct, then lowered the glasses

and removed a BlackBerry PDA from her canvas beach bag. The message was brief; the transmission,

lightning fast. Two minutes later, after complying with a request for confirmation, she placed the device

back into her beach bag and peered out to sea again. The yacht had completed its turn and was now

making for Saint-Tropez like a frigate steaming toward battle.
Party’s over a bit early,
the girl thought as

she traded the glasses for her paperback novel.
And on such a lovely day.

44 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE

Elena began by setting the scene, as much for her own benefit as for his. It was autumn, she said.

November.
Mid
-November, she added for the sake of clarity. She and Ivan were staying at their country

dacha north of Moscow, a palace of pine and glass built atop the remains of a smaller dacha that had been

given to Ivan’s father by Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev. It was snowing heavily. A good Russian snow,

like falling ash from a volcanic eruption.

“Ivan received a phone call late in the evening. After hanging up, he told me some business