Moscow Rules (42 page)
keypad was mounted at eye level on the left side. After punching in the eight-digit access code, she placed
her thumb on the scanner. An alarm chirped three times and the armored door eased slowly open. Elena
stepped inside and opened her handbag.
The desk, like the man who worked there, was heavy and dark and entirely lacking in grace. It also
happened to be one of Ivan’s most prized possessions, for it had once belonged to Yuri Andropov, the
former head of the KGB who had succeeded Leonid Brezhnev as Soviet leader in 1982. The computer
monitor and keyboard sat next to a silver-framed photograph of Ivan’s father in his KGB general’s
uniform. The CPU was concealed beneath the desk on the floor. Elena crouched down and pressed the
POWER button, then opened a small door on the front of the unit and plugged in the USB device that
Gabriel had given her on the plane. After a few seconds, the drive engaged and the computer began to
whir. Elena checked the monitor: a few characters of Hebrew, a time bar indicating that the job of
copying the data files would take two minutes.
She glanced at her wristwatch, then walked over to the set of ornate bookcases on the opposite side
of the room. The button was hidden behind Ivan’s first edition of
Anna Karenina
-the second volume, to
be precise. When pressed, the button caused the bookcases to part, revealing the door to Ivan’s vault. She
punched the same eight-digit code into the keypad and again placed her thumb on the scanner pad. Three
chirps sounded, followed this time by the dull thud of the locks.
The interior light came on automatically as she pulled open the heavy door. Ivan’s secret disks, the
gray matter of his network of death, stood in a neat row on a shelf. One shelf below were some of the
proceeds of that network: rubles, dollars, euros, Swiss francs. She started to reach for the money but
stopped when she remembered the blood.
The blood shed by men wielding Ivan’s weapons. The blood of
children forced to fight in Ivan’s wars.
She left the money on the shelf and took only the disks. The disks
that would help Gabriel find the missiles. The disks that Gabriel would use to destroy her husband.
At the edge of Serafimovicha Street lies a broad traffic island. Like most in Moscow, it is cluttered
day and night with parked cars. Some of the cars that afternoon were foreign and new; others were
Russian and very old, including a battered Lada of uncertain color and registry occupied by Uzi Navot
and his driver from Moscow Station. Navot did not appear happy, having witnessed several
developments that had led him to conclude the operation was rapidly unraveling. He had shared that view
with the rest of his teammates in the calmest voice he could manage. But now, as he watched Luka Osipov
coming back over the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge at a dead sprint, he knew that the time for composure had
passed. “He’s on his way back,” he murmured into his wrist mike. “And it looks like we’re in serious
trouble.”
Though Shmuel Peled had no radio, the steadily darkening expression on Gabriel’s face told him
everything he needed to know.
"Are we losing her, boss? Tell me we’re not losing her.”
“We’ll know soon enough. If she comes out of that building with her handbag over her left shoulder,
everything is fine. If she doesn’t…” He left the thought unfinished.
“What do we do now?”
“We wait. And we hope to God she can talk her way back into her car.”
“And if she doesn’t come out?”
“Speak Russian, Shmuel. You’re supposed to be speaking Russian.”
The young driver resumed his ersatz Russian monologue. Gabriel stared at the western façade of the
House on the Embankment and listened for the sound of Uzi Navot’s voice.
Luka Osipov had gained fifteen pounds since leaving the Alpha Group and lost much of his old
physical fitness. As a result, he was breathing heavily by the time he arrived back at the porter’s desk in
the lobby.
“I need to get into Apartment 9A immediately.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible-not without a security card for the elevator and a key for the apartment
itself.”
“I believe a woman under my protection is in grave danger in that apartment at this very moment.
And I need you to get me inside.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s against policy.”
“Do you know who I work for, you fool?”
“You work for Mrs. Kharkov.”
“No, I work for
Ivan
Kharkov. And do you know what
Ivan
Kharkov is going to do if anything
happens to his wife?”
The porter swallowed hard. “I can get you up to the ninth floor but I can’t get you into that apartment.
Mr. Kharkov doesn’t let us keep a key on file.”
“Leave that part to me.”
“Good luck,” the porter said as he came out from behind his desk. “From what I hear, you’re going to
need a Red Army tank to get into that place.”
Elena closed the bookcases, removed the USB device from the computer, and switched off the
power. Stepping into the hallway, she glanced at her watch:
4:02…
The entire thing had taken just eight
minutes. She shoved the device into the bag and closed the zipper, then punched the eight-digit code into
the keypad. While the heavy door swung slowly shut, she righted the fallen table and returned the
telephone to its proper place. After taking one last look around to make certain everything was in order,
she started for the door.
It was then she heard the pounding. A large male fist, interspersed with a large male palm. She
reckoned it was the same sort of pounding the occupants of this house of horrors had heard nearly every
night during the Great Terror.
How many had been dragged from this place to their deaths?
She couldn’t
remember the exact number now. A hundred? A thousand? What difference did it make. She only knew
she might soon join them. Perhaps one day she would be the answer in a macabre Russian trivia question.
Who was the last person to be taken from the House on the Embankment and murdered? Elena
Kharkov, first wife of Ivan Borisovich Kharkov…
Like all those who had heard the dreaded knock, she entertained thoughts of not answering it. But she
did answer. Everyone answered eventually. She did so not in fear but in a fit of feigned outrage, with her
handbag over her left shoulder and her right hand wrapped around the plastic spray bottle in her coat
pocket. Standing in the vestibule, his face pale with anger and damp with sweat, was Luka Osipov. A gun
was in his hand and it was pointed directly at Elena’s heart. She feared the gun might go off if she
attempted to deploy the spray bottle, so she drew her empty hand slowly from her pocket and placed it on
her hip, frowning at her bodyguard in bewilderment.
“Luka Ustinovich,” she said, using his patronymic. “Whatever’s gotten into you?”
“Where’s Pyotr?”
“Who’s Pyotr?”
“The guard who’s supposed to be on duty at this flat.”
“There was no one here when I arrived, you idiot. Now, let’s go.”
She tried to step into the vestibule. The bodyguard blocked her path.
“What game do you think you’re playing, Luka? We have to get to the airport. Trust me, Luka
Ustinovich, the last thing you want is for me to miss my plane.”
The bodyguard said nothing. Instead, he reached into the elevator, with the gun still aimed at her
abdomen, and sent the carriage back down to the lobby. Then he pushed her into the apartment and
slammed the door.
59 GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
Shamron’s lighter flared in the gloom of the ops center, briefly illuminating his face. His eyes were
focused on the large central display screen at the front of room, where Uzi Navot’s last transmission from
Moscow flashed with all the allure of a dead body lying in a gutter.
BG ENTERING HOTE… TROUBLE…
BG stood for bodyguard. HOTE for House on the Embankment. TROUBLE required no translation.
Trouble was trouble.
The screen went black. A new message appeared.
AM ENTERING HOTE… ADVISE…
The initials AM stood for Arkady Medvedev. The word ADVISE meant that Gabriel’s meticulously
planned operation was in serious danger of crashing and burning, with significant loss of life a distinct
possibility.
“They’re your boys,” Carter said. “It’s your call.”
Shamron flicked ash into his coffee cup. “We sit tight. We give her a chance.”
Carter looked at the digital clock. “It is now four-fifteen, Ari. If your team is to have any chance of
getting on that plane, they need to be in their cars and heading to the airport in the next ten minutes.”
“Airplanes are complicated machines, Adrian. A lot of little things can go wrong with an airplane.”
“It might be a good idea to get that over and done with.” Shamron picked up a secure telephone
connected to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard. A few terse words in Hebrew. A calm glance
at Carter.
“It appears a cabin pressure warning light is now flashing in the cockpit of El Al Flight 1612. Until
that problem is resolved to the satisfaction of the captain, a man who happens to be a decorated former
IAF fighter pilot, that aircraft isn’t going anywhere.”
“Well played,” said Carter.
“How long can our French friends keep Ivan tied up in Nice?”
“Monsieur Boisson is just getting started. The children, however, are another matter entirely. We
have a decision to make, Ari. What do we do about the children?”
“I wouldn’t want my children sitting around a gendarmerie station, would you, Adrian?”
“Can’t say I would.”
“Then let’s take them. Who knows? Depending on what happens inside the apartment building in the
next ten minutes, we may need them.”
“For what?”
“I’m not going to give her up without a fight, Adrian, and you can be sure Gabriel isn’t either.”
Shamron dropped his cigarette into his coffee cup and gave it a swirl. “Call the French. Get me Ivan’s
children.”
Carter picked up the secure line connected to the French ops center in Paris. Shamron looked at the
message screen, where Uzi Navot’s last message flashed incessantly.
AM ENTERING HOTE… ADVISE…
AM ENTERING HOTE… ADVISE…
AM ENTERING HOTE… ADVISE…
They had placed Sonia and the children in a pleasant holding room and plied them with cold fruit
juice and ice cream. A pretty young female gendarme remained with them at all times, more for company
than for reasons of security. They watched cartoons and played a noisy game of cards that made no sense
to anyone, least of all the children themselves. The chief duty officer made them honorary gendarmes for
the day and even allowed Nikolai to inspect his firearm. Later, he would tell his colleagues that the boy
knew rather too much about guns for a child of seven.
After receiving a telephone call from headquarters in Paris, the duty officer returned to the holding
room and announced that it was time for everyone to go home. Anna and Nikolai greeted this news not
with joy but tears; for them, the arrest and detention had been a great adventure and they were in no hurry
to return home to their palace by the sea. They were finally coaxed into leaving with a promise they could
come back to play anytime they wished. As they headed down the central corridor of the station, Anna
held the hand of the female gendarme while Nikolai lectured the duty officer about the superiority of
Russian-made weapons. Sonia asked after the whereabouts of the bodyguards but received no response.
They left the station not through the front entrance but through a rear door that gave onto an enclosed
courtyard. Several official Renaults were parked there, along with an older-model Peugeot wagon. Seated
behind the wheel, wearing a white Lacoste polo, was a man with gray hair. Seeing the children, he
climbed out of the car with a tranquil smile on his face and opened the rear door. Sonia froze and turned
to the duty officer in confusion.
“What’s going on? Who is this man?”
“This is Monsieur Henri. He’s a good man. He’s going to take you and the children somewhere
safe.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Kharkov is in a bit of trouble at the moment. Mrs. Kharkov has made arrangements to
place the children in the care of Monsieur Henri until she returns. She has asked that you remain with
them. She promises you will be extremely well compensated. Do you understand what I’m saying to you,
Mademoiselle?”
“I think so.”
“Very good. Now, get into the car, please. And try not to look so frightened. It will only upset the
children. And that is the last thing they need at a time like this.”
At Moscow ’s Sheremetyevo 2 Airport, Chiara was standing at her post at the check-in counter when
the status window on the departure board switched from ON TIME to DELAYED. Ten feet away, in the
crowded passenger lounge, 187 weary voices groaned in unison. One brave soul, a bearded Orthodox
Jew in a dark suit, approached the counter and demanded an explanation. “It’s a minor mechanical
