Moscow Rules (21 page)

make the scoop. The task was handled by a young operative named Nigel Whitcombe, who had a face like

a parson and the grip of a blacksmith. Leach offered only token resistance as he was led by the elbow

toward a waiting MI5 Rover.

“Mind telling me what this is all about?” he asked meekly as the car pulled away from the curb.

“I’d love to tell you more, Alistair, but I’m afraid I’m just the delivery boy.”

“It’s not a long drive, is it? I’m afraid you caught me at a delicate moment. A little too much wine at

lunch. That damn Oliver Dimbleby. He’s trouble, Oliver. Always was. Always will be. He’s the one you

should be picking up.”

“Perhaps another time.” Whitcombe’s smile was like balm. “Do try to relax, Alistair. You’re not in

any trouble. We just need to borrow some of your connections and expertise.”

“Any idea how long we’ll be?”

“I suppose that depends on you.”

“I’ll need to call Abigail if we’re going to be late. She’s a worrier, you know.”

Yes
, thought Whitcombe.
We know all about Abigail
.

They had debated over where to take him next. Graham Seymour had recommended the imposing

formality of Thames House, but Gabriel, who had a field man’s aversion to all things Headquarters,

successfully lobbied for something cozier and less official. And so it was that, twenty minutes after he

was plucked from King Street, Alistair Leach was shown into the drawing room of a hastily leased mews

house not far from Sloane Square. It was a pleasant room with good books on the shelves and good

whiskey on the trolley. The blinds were partially open and the agreeable light of late afternoon was

filtering through the slits and making striped patterns along the wood flooring. Graham Seymour was

slowly pacing in order to better showcase his English scale, his English good looks, and his perfectly

tailored English suit. Gabriel, who had not yet been invited to join the proceedings,was seated before a

television monitor in an upstairs bedroom. He had two MI5 technicians for company, one called Marlowe

and the other called Mapes. Inside the Service, they were better known as M amp;M Audio and Video.

Whitcombe instructed Leach to sit on the couch, then sat next to him. On the coffee table was a single

sheet of paper. Graham Seymour drew a pen from his pocket and held it toward Leach like a loaded gun.

“Be a love, Alistair, and sign that for me. It’s a copy of the Official Secrets Act. You needn’t bother

reading it, since the wording isn’t terribly important. Rest assured, it gives us the right to lock you away

in the Tower and lop off your head if you ever breathe a word of what is about to transpire here. You’re

not to talk about it with anyone. Not with your colleagues. Not with Abigail or your children. And not

with any other friend or acquaintance with whom you might share the occasional intimacy.”

Leach looked up sharply, and for an instant Gabriel feared that Seymour had played his ace when a

jack would have done the trick. Then Leach looked at Whitcombe, who nodded gravely.

“What have I done?” Leach asked, pen to the document. “Short-changed Inland Revenue?

Misbehaved on the Tube? Said something nasty about the current occupant of Number Ten?”

“You’re fortunate enough to have been born in a free country,” said Seymour. “You can say anything

you like-within certain limits, of course. You’re here not because of your own actions but because of your

association with a man who is a threat to British national security. A rather serious threat, actually.”

“Where’s
here
?” Leach looked around the room, then at Seymour. “And who are
we
?”

“The
here
is not important. This is all temporary. As for the
we
, that’s a bit more permanent. We’re

from the Security Service, sometimes referred to as MI5. I’m Charles.” He nodded toward Whitcombe.

“This is my colleague, Gerald.”

“And this
association
of mine who’s a threat to national security? Who might that be? My

newsagent? The bloke who brings us coffee at the office?”

“It’s one of your clients, actually.”

“I’m afraid one encounters all sorts in a business like mine and not all of them are candidates for

sainthood.”

“The client I’m talking about need never apply for admission to God’s heavenly kingdom, Alistair.

He’s not your average robber baron or hedge fund thief. He’s been pouring weapons into the most volatile

corners of the Third World for years. And it now appears he’s about to conclude a transaction that could

make the London bombings seem like child’s play.”

“He’s an arms dealer? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. They’re an unscrupulous lot by definition. This man is the worst of

the worst.”

“Does he have a name?”

“You don’t get to know his name yet-not until you’ve agreed to help us.”

“But what can
I
do? I sell paintings.”

“We’re asking you to make a telephone call, Alistair. Nothing more. For that telephone call, you will

be handsomely compensated. More important, we are giving you the opportunity to help defend your

country and your fellow citizens of the world from an enemy that thinks nothing of slaughtering innocents.”

Seymour stopped walking. His eyes were concealed by shadow. “Shall I go on or should we run you

home to Abigail and pretend this encounter never took place?”

Leach, at the second mention of his wife’s name, shifted uneasily in his seat. He looked at

Whitcombe, like a witness looking to his lawyer for counsel. Whitcombe gave an almost imperceptible

nod of his head, as if imploring Leach to join their crusade.

“Go on,” said Leach to no one in particular.

Seymour resumed his slow pacing. “Because the threat is international, our effort to counter it is

international as well. You are about to meet an officer from the intelligence service of another country, a

country allied with our own in the struggle against terrorism and global Islamic extremism. What’s more,

it is quite possible you will recognize this gentleman from your professional life. The document you

signed covers your contact with this man as well as us.”

“Please tell me he isn’t a bloody American.”

“Worse, I’m afraid.”

“The only thing worse than an American is an Israeli.”

Whitcombe gave Leach an admonitory tap on the side of the knee.

“Have I put my foot in it?” Leach asked.

“I’m afraid so,” said Seymour.

“You won’t say anything to him, will you? They
do
tend to get their back up at even the slightest

insult.”

Seymour gave a ghost of a smile. “It will be our little secret.”

30 CHELSEA, LONDON

Gabriel entered the drawing room and, without a word, lowered himself into the armchair opposite

Leach.

"Dear heavens, you’re-”

"I’m no one,” said Gabriel, finishing the sentence for him. “You don’t know me. You’ve never seen

me before in your life. You’ve never heard my name. You’ve never seen my face. Are we clear,

Alistair?”

Leach looked at Seymour and appealed for assistance. “Are you going to stand there and do nothing?

For Christ’s sake! The man just threatened me.”

“He did nothing of the sort,” Seymour said. “Now, answer his question.”

“But I
do
know his name. I know
both
his names. He’s Mario Delvecchio. He used to clean pictures

for juicy Julian Isherwood. He was the best. Painted like an angel and could authenticate a work simply

by running his fingers over the brushstrokes. Then he broke our hearts. You see, the entire time he was

cleaning for Julian, he was killing on behalf of the Israeli secret service.”

“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else, Alistair.”

“That’s not what
The Times
says. According to
The Times
, you were one of the gunmen who killed

those poor sods in front of Westminster Abbey on Christmas morning.”

“ ‘Those poor sods,’ as you call them, were hardened terrorists who were about to commit an act of

mass murder. As for the affiliation of the men who killed them, the official record states that they were

attached to the S019 division of the Metropolitan Police.”

“
The Times
had your picture, though, didn’t it?”

“Even a newspaper as reputable as
The Times
occasionally makes a mistake,” said Graham

Seymour.

Gabriel silently handed Leach a single sheet of paper.

“Read this.”

“What is it?”

“A transcript of a phone conversation.”

“Whose telephone conversation?”

“
Read
it, Alistair.”

Leach did as instructed, then looked up at Gabriel in anger.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s not important.”

“Tell me where you got this or this conversation is over.”

Gabriel capitulated. In recruitments, Shamron always said, it was sometimes necessary to accept

small defeats in order to secure ultimate victory.

“It was given to us by the Americans.”

“The Americans? Why in God’s name are the Americans tapping my phones?”

“Don’t be grandiose,” Seymour interjected. “They’re not tapping
your
telephones. They’re tapping

hers
.”

“Are you trying to tell me Elena Kharkov is an arms dealer?”

“Ivan Kharkov is the arms dealer,” Gabriel said pedantically. “Elena just gets caught when she

happens to place a call from one of the phones they’re monitoring. On that day, she was calling you from

her home in Knightsbridge. Look at the transcript, Alistair. Refresh your memory, if you need to.”

“I don’t need to refresh anything. I remember the conversation quite clearly. The Americans have no

right to record these calls and store them away in their supercomputers. It’s like opening someone else’s

mail. It’s unseemly.”

“If it makes you feel any better, no one bothered to read it-until I came along. But let’s put all that

aside and focus on what’s important. You were talking to her about a painting that day-a painting by Mary

Cassatt, to be precise.”

“Elena has a thing for Cassatt. An obsession, really. Buys anything that comes on the market. I

thought I’d managed to pry loose a painting for her from a minor collector-a picture called
Two Children

on a Beach
that Cassatt painted in 1884 while convalescing from a case of bronchitis. The collector kept

us hanging for several weeks before finally telling me that he wasn’t ready to sell. I placed a call to Elena

and got her machine. She called me back and I gave her the bad news.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“The painting? Yes, it’s quite lovely, actually.”

“Did you ever tell Elena the name of the owner?”

“You know better than to ask that, Signore Delvecchio.”

Gabriel looked at Graham Seymour, who had wandered over to the shelves and was pulling down

books for inspection. “Who is he, Alistair? And don’t try to hide behind some claim of dealer-client

privilege.”

“Can’t do it,” said Leach obstinately. “Owner wishes to remain anonymous.”

Nigel Whitcombe made a church steeple with his fingertips and pressed it thoughtfully against his

lips, as if pondering the morality of Leach’s refusal to answer.

“And if the owner was aware of the stakes involved? I suspect he-or
she
, if that’s the case-might

actually relish the chance to help us. I suspect the owner is a patriot, Alistair.” A pause. “Just like you.”

The official recording of the interrogation would contain no evidence of what transpired next, for

there would be no sound for the microphones to capture. It was a hand. The hand that Whitcombe placed

gently upon Leach’s shoulder, as though he were petitioning him to reclaim his lost faith.

“Boothby,” Leach said, as if the name had popped suddenly into his memory. “Sir John Boothby.

Lives in a big Edwardian pile on a couple hundred acres in the Cotswolds. Never worked a day in his

life, as far as I can tell. The father worked for your lot. Rumor has it he had a wonderful war.”

Seymour twisted his head around. “You’re not talking about Basil Boothby, are you?”

“That’s him. Ruthless bastard, from what I hear.”

“Basil Boothby was one of the legends of the Service. He was involved in our deception program

during the Second World War. Ran captured German spies back to their masters in Berlin. And, yes, he

was
a ruthless bastard. But there are times when one has to be. These are such times, Alistair.”

“I’m wondering whether there’s a chance Sir John might have had a change of heart,” Gabriel said.

“I’m wondering whether it might be time to have another go at him.”

“He’s not going to sell that painting-at least, not to Elena Kharkov.”

“Why not?”

“Because in a moment of professional indiscretion, I may have mentioned that the prospective buyer

was the wife of a Russian oligarch. Boothby’s father spent the final years of his career battling KGB

spies. The old man didn’t hold with the Russians. Neither does Sir John.”

“Sounds like a patriot to me,” said Graham Seymour.

“I might use another word to describe him,” Leach muttered. “Elena Kharkov would have paid a