Moscow Rules (46 page)

“Yes, I’ll take care of Arkady. That leaves the two other gorillas. They’re both ex-special forces.

They know how to handle guns. I’m just an FSB counterintelligence officer. I watch spies.”

Bulganov glanced into the rearview mirror.

“You can’t walk into the building with the gun in your hand, Allon. You’ll have to hide it somewhere

you can get to it quickly. I hear you’re not bad with a gun. Do you think you can get that Makarov out in

time to keep those goons from killing us?”

Gabriel inserted the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers and concealed it with his coat.

“Keep your gun pointed at me until you’re ready. When I see it move toward Arkady, I’ll take that as my

cue.”

“That leaves the three boys outside.”

“They won’t stay outside for long-not when they hear the sound of gunfire inside the warehouse.

Whatever you do, don’t offer them a chance to lay down their weapons and surrender. It doesn’t work that

way in the real world. Just turn around and start shooting. And don’t miss. We won’t have time to reload.”

“You’ve only got eight rounds in that magazine.”

“If I have to use more than five, we’re in trouble.”

“Can you see well enough?”

“I can see just fine.”

“I have to admit something to you, Allon.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve never shot anyone before.”

“Just remember to pull the trigger, Grigori. The gun works much better when you pull the trigger.”

The three security guards were still milling about the entrance of the warehouse when Gabriel and

Bulganov returned. Someone must have found where Ivan kept the beer because all three were drinking

from enormous bottles of Baltika. As Gabriel walked toward the guards, he held his right wrist in his left

hand to create the illusion his hands were still cuffed. Bulganov walked a half step behind, Makarov

pointed at the center of Gabriel’s back. The guards seemed only moderately interested in their

reappearance. Obviously, they were used to seeing condemned men being led around at the point of a gun.

It was precisely forty-two paces from the open loading door to the spot where Elena Kharkov sat

chained to her metal chair. Gabriel knew this because he counted the steps in his head as he covered the

distance now, with Colonel Grigori Bulganov at his side. Colonel Bulganov, who two months earlier had

ordered Gabriel to be thrown down two flights of steps in Lubyanka. Colonel Bulganov, who had called

himself Sergei that night and said he would kill Gabriel if he ever returned to Russia. Colonel Bulganov,

who had never fired a gun in anger before and in whose hands Gabriel’s life now resided.

Arkady Medvedev was standing before Elena in his shirtsleeves and screaming obscenities into her

face. As Bulganov and Gabriel approached, he turned to face them, hands on his hips, Stechkin shoved

down the front of his trousers. Luka Osipov and the bald giant were standing directly behind Elena, each

to one side. It was hardly optimal, Gabriel thought, but because Elena was still handcuffed to the chair,

there was no chance of her getting into his line of fire. Bulganov spoke in Russian to Medvedev as they

moved into point-blank range. Medvedev smiled and looked at Gabriel.

“So, you’ve come to your senses.”

“Yes, Arkady. I’ve come to my senses.”

“Tell me then. Where are Ivan’s children?”

“What children?”

Medvedev frowned and looked at Bulganov. Bulganov frowned in return and pointed his gun at

Medvedev’s heart. Gabriel took a step to his right while simultaneously reaching beneath his coat for the

Makarov. They fired their first shots simultaneously, Bulganov into Medvedev’s chest, Gabriel into the

flat forehead of the bald giant. Luka Osipov responded with a futile attempt to draw his weapon.

Gabriel’s shot caught him just beneath the chin and exited at the base of his skull.

At that instant, Gabriel heard the sound of shattering glass: the sound of three men simultaneously

dropping three bottles of Baltika beer. They came in through the doorway neatly spaced, like little floating

ducklings in an arcade shooting gallery. Gabriel took them down in order: head shot, head shot, torso

shot.

He spun round and looked at Elena. She was desperately trying to pull her wrists through her

handcuffs, her mouth wide in a silent scream. Gabriel wanted to comfort her but could not; Arkady

Medvedev was still alive and was struggling to get the Stechkin out of the front of his trousers. Gabriel

kicked the gun out of Medvedev’s hands and stood over him. The Russian began to pant, pink blood

frothing at the side of his mouth.

“I’d like you to give Ivan a message,” Gabriel said. “Will you do that for me, Arkady?”

Medvedev nodded, his breathing rapid and shallow. Gabriel raised the Makarov and fired his last

three shots into the Russian’s face. Message delivered.

Gabriel held Elena tightly while Bulganov searched the bodies for a key to the handcuffs. He found

one, a universal, on Luka Osipov. He freed Elena’s hands first, then removed the cuffs from Gabriel’s

hands.

“Take her out to the car,” Gabriel said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Be quick about it.”

“Just go.”

As Bulganov led Elena toward the door, Gabriel searched the corpse of Arkady Medvedev. He

found keys, passports, and a wallet filled with cash. He ignored the money and removed a single item: a

plastic card embossed with the image of a large apartment house on the banks of the Moscow River.

Bulganov had the Volga ’s engine running by the time Gabriel stepped outside. He climbed into the

back next to Elena, whose screams were no longer silent. Gabriel held her tightly to his chest as Bulganov

drove away.

Her wailing had ceased by the time they saw the sign. It stood at the intersection of two dreadful

roads, rusted, crooked, and pierced by bullet holes. Two arrows pointed in opposite directions. To the

left was MOCKBA, the Cyrillic spelling of Moscow. Bulganov explained what lay to the right.

“ Ukraine.”

“How long?”

“We can be over the border before dawn.”

“We?”

“I just helped an Israeli agent kill Arkady Medvedev and five of his security men. How long do you

think I’ll live if I stay in Moscow? A week, if I’m lucky. I’m coming with you.”

“Another defector? That’s all we need.”

“I suspect you’ll find I’m worth my weight in gold. You see, I’ve been privately investigating the ties

between men like Ivan Kharkov and the FSB for years. I also know a great deal about Ivan’s little arms-

trafficking network. Much more than you, I suspect. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to come with you,

Allon?”

“We’d love the company, Colonel. Besides, it’s a long drive and I don’t have a clue how to get out

of here.”

Bulganov let his foot off the brake and started to turn to the right. Gabriel told him to stop.

“What’s the problem?” Bulganov asked.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

“We’re going to Ukraine. And Ukraine is to the right. Look at the sign.”

“We have a couple of errands to run before we leave.”

“Where?”

Gabriel pointed to the left.

MOCKBA
…

68 MOSCOW

On the outskirts of Moscow was a supermarket that never closed. If it was not the world’s largest

supermarket, thought Gabriel, then it was surely a close second: two acres of frozen foods, a mile of

cookies and crackers, another mile of American soft drinks, one nightmarish wall hung with thousands of

pork sausages. And that was just the food. At the far end of the market was a section called Home and

Garden, where one could buy everything from clothing to motorcycles to lawn tractors.
Who in Moscow

needed a lawn tractor?
thought Gabriel.
Who in Moscow even had a lawn?
“They’re for the dachas, ”

Elena explained. “Now that Russians have money, they don’t like to dig with their hands anymore.” She

shrugged. “But what’s the point of having a dacha if you don’t get your hands dirty?”

Why the market remained open all night was a mystery because at 2 A.M. it was deserted. They

walked the endless prospekts of consumer goods, quickly pulling items from the shelves: clean clothing,

bandages and antiseptic, a pair of large sunglasses, enough snack food and cola to fuel an early-morning

road trip. When they wheeled their cart up to the checkout stand, the drowsy female clerk looked at

Gabriel’s eye and winced. Elena contemptuously explained that her “husband” had crashed his car in a

ditch-drunk out of his mind on vodka, of course. The checkout woman shook her head sadly as she rang up

the items. “Russian men,” she muttered. “They never change.”

Gabriel carried the bags out to the car and climbed into the back again with Elena. Bulganov, alone

in the front, told them a story as he drove toward central Moscow. It was the story of a young KGB officer

who never truly believed the lies of Lenin and Stalin and who had quietly raised a glass of vodka when

the empire of deception finally fell. This young officer had tried to resign after the collapse of communism

but had been convinced by his mentor to stay on and help turn the KGB into a truly professional service.

He had reluctantly agreed and had quickly risen through the ranks of the KGB’s domestic successor, the

FSB, only to see it deteriorate into something worse than the KGB had been. This young man, at great

personal risk, had then joined forces with a group of officers who hoped to reform the FSB.
Quietly,
said

Bulganov.
From the inside.
But they soon realized that the top brass and their masters in the Kremlin

were not interested in reform. So the group went underground. And started building a dossier.

“Our dossier does not paint a pretty picture. FSB involvement in murder for hire, prostitution, and

narcotics. FSB involvement in the operations of shady oligarchs. And
worse.
Who do you think planned

and carried out those apartment house bombings that our president used to justify going back into

Chechnya? My service is a criminal enterprise from top to bottom. And it is
running
Russia.”

“How did I end up on your plate that night in Lubyanka?”

“Ironically, it was all by the book. We were watching you from the moment you hit the ground in St.

Petersburg. And I must admit, you were quite good. We had no suspicions, even
after
you initiated contact

with Olga Sukhova. We thought you were Natan Golani of the Israeli Ministry of Culture.”

“So you didn’t know Arkady and Ivan were going to have us killed that night?”

“No, not at all. At first, I thought you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But when you

survived the attack and saved Olga, that caused Ivan a serious problem. I almost lost you during your

detention in Lubyanka. Ivan Kharkov himself was on the phone to the chief. He knew your real name and

your real job. He wanted you taken out into a field and shot. The top floor ordered me to do just that. I

pretended to go along and started stalling for time. Then, thankfully, your service made such a stink, you

became too hot, even for the likes of Ivan Kharkov.”

“How did you convince them not to kill me?”

“I told them that it would be a public-relations disaster if you died in FSB custody. I told them I

didn’t care what Ivan did to you once you left the country, but they couldn’t lay a hand on you while you

were on Russian soil. Ivan wasn’t happy, but the top floor finally came around to my way of thinking. I put

you in the van and got you to the border before they could change their minds. You came very close to

dying that night, Allon-closer than you’ll ever realize.”

“Where’s the dossier now?”

“Most of it’s up here,” he said, tapping the side of his forehead. “Whatever documentation we could

copy was scanned and stored in e-mail accounts outside the country.”

“How did you end up in that warehouse tonight?”

“I’ve been plying my trade on both sides of the street.”

“You’re on Ivan’s payroll?”

Bulganov nodded. “It made it much easier to gather information about the FSB’s shady dealings if I

actually took part in some myself. It also gave me protection. The real rotten elements thought I was one

of them. I know a great deal about Ivan’s operation. Who knows? Maybe we know enough together to

track down those missiles-
without
going back into the House on the Embankment. Even I get the creeps

going into the place. It’s haunted, you know. They say Stalin roams the halls at night knocking on doors.”

“I’m not leaving Russia without Ivan’s disks.”

“You don’t know if there’s anything on them. You also don’t know if they’re even still in the

apartment.”

Elena intervened. “I saw Arkady put my handbag in the vault before we left.”

“That was a long time ago. Ivan could have ordered someone to move them.”

“He couldn’t have. Only three people in the world can access that vault: Ivan, Arkady, and me.

Logically, the disks have to be there.”

“But getting them is going to cost valuable time. It also might mean another dead body. There’s going