Moscow Rules (9 page)

Amos Sharret was the director of the Office. Like nearly everyone else at the top of Israel ’s security

and military establishment, he had come under intense criticism for his performance during the most

recent war in Lebanon and was now hanging on to the reins of power by his fingernails. Shamron and his

allies in the Prime Minister’s Office were quietly trying to pry them loose.

“Someone should tell Amos that I’m not interested in his job.”

“He wouldn’t believe it. Amos sees enemies everywhere. It’s a professionalaffliction.” Shamron

inched toward the edge of his chair and used his cane to leverage himself upright. “Come,” he said. “I’ll

take you home.”

An armored Peugeot limousine was waiting outside in the secure VIP parking area. They climbed

into the back and headed toward the Judean Hills.

“There were developments in Rome this evening after you boarded your flight in Frankfurt. The

Italian Ministry of Justice sent a letter to the Vatican, formally requesting permission to take over the

investigation into Ostrovsky’s death. I don’t suppose I have to tell you how the Vatican responded.”

“Donati agreed immediately.”

“Actually, it was the Vatican secretary of state who issued the formal response, but I’m sure your

friend the monsignor was whispering into his ear. The Italian police have taken possession of Ostrovsky’s

body and removed all his luggage and personal effects from his room at the Excelsior. Hazmat teams are

now searching the hotel for evidence of poisons and other toxins. As for the Basilica, it’s been cordoned

off and is being treated as a crime scene. The Ministry of Justice has asked all those who witnessed the

death to come forward immediately. I suppose that would include you.” Shamron scrutinized Gabriel for a

moment. “It seems to me your position vis-à-vis Boris Ostrovsky is somewhat tenuous at the moment.”

“Donati has promised to keep my name out of it.”

“God knows the Vatican is good at keeping secrets, but surely there are others there who know about

your connection to this affair. If one of them wants to embarrass Donati-or us, for that matter-all they have

to do is make a quiet phone call to the Polizia di Stato.”

“Boris Ostrovsky was killed by a professional Russian assassin in St. Peter’s Square.” Gabriel

removed a manila folder from the side flap of his bag and handed it to Shamron. “And these pictures

prove it.”

Shamron switched on his overhead reading light and examined the photos. “It’s a brazen act, even by

Russian standards. Ostrovsky must have known something very important for them to resort to this.”

“I take it you have a theory?”

“Unfortunately, we do.” Shamron slipped the photos back into the file folder and switched off the

lamp. “Our good friends in the Kremlin have been selling sophisticated weapons systems to the rogue

regimes of the Middle East at an unprecedented rate. The mullahs of Iran are one of their best customers,

but they’ve also been selling antiaircraft and antitank systems to their old friends in Damascus. We’ve

been picking up reports that the Syrians and the Kremlin are about to close a major deal involving an

advanced Russian missile known as the Iskander. It’s a road-mobile weapon with a range of one hundred

seventy miles, which means Tel Aviv would be well within Syria ’s range. I don’t need to explain the

ramifications of that to you.”

“It would alter the strategic balance in the Middle East overnight.”

Shamron nodded his head slowly. “And unfortunately, given the track record of the Kremlin, it’s only

one of many unsettling possibilities. The entire region is bristling with rumors of some kind of new deal

some
where. We’ve been hammering away at the issue for months. So far, we’ve been unable to come up

with anything we can take to the prime minister. I’m afraid he’s beginning to get annoyed.”

“It’s part of his job description.”

“And mine.” Shamron smiled humorlessly. “All of this goes to explain why we were so interested in

having you meet with Boris Ostrovsky in the first place. And why we would now like you to travel to

Russia to find out what he intended to say to you.”

“
Me?
I’ve never set foot in Russia. I don’t know the terrain. I don’t even speak the language.”

“You have something more important than local knowledge and language.”

“What’s that?”

“A name and a face that the extremely nervous staff of
Moscovsky Gazeta
will recognize.”

“Chances are, the Russian security services will recognize it, too.”

“We have a plan for that,” Shamron said.

The Old Man smiled. He had a plan for everything.

11 JERUSALEM

There were security agents at either end of Narkiss Street, a quiet, leafy lane in the heart of

Jerusalem, and another standing watch outside the entrance of the dowdy little limestone apartment house

at Number 16. Gabriel, as he crossed the tiny foyer with Shamron at his heels, didn’t bother checking the

postbox. He never received mail, and the name on the box was false. As far as the bureaucracy of the

State of Israel was concerned, Gabriel Allon did not exist. He was no one, he lived nowhere. He was the

eternal wandering Jew.

Uzi Navot was seated on the living-room couch in Gabriel’s apartment, with his feet propped on the

coffee table and an Israeli diplomatic passport wedged between the first two fingers of his right hand. He

adopted an expression of bored indifference as he handed it over for inspection. Gabriel opened the cover

and looked at the photograph. It showed a silver-haired man with a neat gray beard and round eyeglasses.

The silver hair was the handiwork of a stylist who worked for Identity. The gray beard, unfortunately,

was his own.

“Who’s Natan Golani?”

“A midlevel functionary in the Ministry of Culture. He specializes in building artistic bridges

between Israel and the rest of the world: peace through art, dance, music, and other pointless endeavors.

I’m told Natan is rather handy with a paintbrush himself.”

“Has he ever been to Russia?”

“No, but he’s about to.” Navot removed his feet from the coffee table and sat up. “Six days from

now, the deputy minister is scheduled to travel from Jerusalem to Russia for an official visit. We’ve

prevailed upon him to become ill at the last moment.”

“And Natan Golani will go in his place?”

“Provided the Russians agree to grant him a visa. The ministry anticipates no problems on that

front.”

“What’s the purpose of his trip?”

Navot reached into his stainless steel attaché case and removed a glossy magazine-sized brochure.

He held it aloft for Gabriel to see the cover, then dropped it on the coffee table. Gabriel’s eyes focused

on a single word: UNESCO.

“Perhaps it escaped your notice, but the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural

Organization, better known as UNESCO, has declared this ‘the decade for the promotion of a culture of

peace and nonviolence for the children of the world.’ ”

“You’re right, Uzi. Somehow I missed that.”

“In furtherance of that noble goal, it holds a conference each year to assess progress and discuss new

initiatives. This year’s conference will be held at the Marble Palace in St. Petersburg.”

“How many days of this nonsense do I have to sit through?”

“Three,” said Navot. “Your speech is scheduled for day two of the conference. Your remarks will

focus on a groundbreaking new program we’ve instituted to improve cultural ties between Israelis and our

Arab neighbors. You will be roundly criticized and, in all likelihood, denounced as an oppressor and an

occupier. Many of those in attendance will not hear your remarks, however, because, as is customary,

they will walk out of the hall en masse as you mount the rostrum.”

“It’s better that way, Uzi. I’ve never really enjoyed speaking to large crowds. What happens next?”

“At the conclusion of the conference, our ambassador to Russia, who happens to be an old friend of

yours, will invite you to visit Moscow. If you are fortunate enough to survive the Aeroflot flight, you will

check into the Savoy Hotel and sample the cultural delights of the capital. The true purpose of your visit,

however, will be to establish contact with one Olga Sukhova. She’s one of Russia ’s best-known and

most controversial investigative journalists. She’s also the acting editor in chief of
Moskovsky Gazeta
. If

there’s anyone at the
Gazeta
who knows why Boris Ostrovsky went to Rome, it’s Olga.”

“Which means she’s probably under full-time FSB surveillance. And as a visiting Israeli diplomat, I

will be, too.”

The Russian Federal Security Service, or FSB, had assumed most of the internal security functions

that were once the province of the KGB, including counterintelligence. Though the FSB liked to present

itself to the outside world as a modern European security service, it was staffed largely by KGB veterans

and even operated from the KGB’s notorious old headquarters in Lubyanka Square. Many Russians didn’t

even bother calling it by its new name. To them, it was still the KGB.

“Obviously,” said Navot, “we’ll have to be a bit creative.”

“How creative?” Gabriel asked warily.

“Nothing more dangerous than a dinner party. Our ambassador has agreed to host a small affair at the

official residence while you’re in town. The guest list is being drawn up as we speak. It will be an

interesting mix of Russian journalists, artists, and opposition figures. Obviously, the ambassador will do

his utmost to make certain Olga Sukhova is in attendance.”

“What makes you think she’ll come? Dinner at the home of the Israeli ambassador is hardly a

coveted invitation, even in Moscow.”

“Unless it comes attached with a promise of an exclusive scoop of some sort. Then it will be

irresistible.”

“What sort of exclusive?”

“Let us worry about that.”

“And if she comes?”

“Then you will pull her aside for a private conversation within the secure environment of the

residence. And you will reveal yourself to her in whatever manner, and in whatever detail, you deem

appropriate. And you will prevail upon her to share anything she knows about why Boris Ostrovsky went

to Rome to see you.”

“What if she doesn’t know anything? Or she’s too afraid to talk?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to be charming, which, as we all know, comes quite naturally to you.

Besides, Gabriel, there
are
worse ways to spend an evening.”

Navot reached back into his attaché case and withdrew a file. Gabriel opened the cover and

removed Olga Sukhova’s photograph. She was an attractive woman in her mid-forties, with sleek Slavic

features, ice-blue eyes, and satiny blond hair swept over one shoulder. He closed the file and looked at

Shamron, who was standing before a pair of open French doors, twirling his old Zippo lighter between

his fingertips. Talk of an operation was clearly testing his newfound commitment not to smoke.

“You’ll go to Moscow, Gabriel. You’ll have a nice evening with Olga at the embassy, and, at the

very least, you’ll pick up whatever information you can about why the journalists at the
Gazeta
are being

targeted. Then you can go back to your farm in Umbria -back to your wife and your painting.”

“And what happens if the FSB doesn’t fall for your little ruse?”

“Your diplomatic passport will protect you.”

“The Russian mafia and FSB assassins don’t bother much with diplomatic niceties. They shoot first

and worry about the political fallout later.”

“Moscow Station will be watching your back from the moment you land in St. Petersburg,” Navot

said. “You’ll never be out of our reach. And if things start to look dicey, we can always arrange for an

official security detail for you.”

“What makes you think Moscow Station will ever see it coming, Uzi? A man brushed against Boris

Ostrovsky in Rome yesterday afternoon and, before anyone knew what had happened, he was lying dead

on the floor of the Basilica.”

“So don’t let anyone touch you. And whatever you do, don’t drink the tea.”

“Sound advice, Uzi.”

“Your protection isn’t your diplomatic passport,” Shamron said. “It’s the reputation of the Office.

The Russians know that if anyone lays a finger on you, we’ll declare open season on them and no Russian

agent anywhere in the world will ever be safe again.”

“A war against the Russian services is the last thing we need now.”

“They’re selling advanced weaponry to countries and terror groups that wish to exterminate us.

We’re already at war with them.” Shamron slipped the lighter into his pocket. “You have a lot to do in six

days, including learning how to speak and act like an employee of the Ministry of Culture. The deputy

minister is expecting you in his office tomorrow morning at ten. He’ll brief you thoroughly on your
other

mission in Russia. I want you to behave yourself at that conference, Gabriel. It’s important you do nothing

to make our position at the UN any worse than it already is.”

Gabriel stared at the passport photograph and ran a hand absently over his chin. It had been four days