Moscow Rules

from Marseilles eased into the Gare de Lyon ten minutes ahead of schedule. Gabriel did not find this surprising; unionized French drivers could always shave a bit of time off the journey when they wanted to get home early. Crossing the deserted arrivals hall with his overnight bag in hand, he gazed up at the soaring arched ceiling. Three years earlier, the historic Paris landmark had been severely damaged by a suicide bomber. It might have been reduced to rubble had Gabriel not managed to kill two other terrorists before they could detonate their explosives, an act of heroism that had briefly made him the most wanted man in all of France.
     
     
    A dozen taxis were waiting in the circular drive outside the station; Gabriel walked to the Boulevard Diderot and hailed one there instead. The address he gave the driver was several blocks away from his true destination, which was a small apartment house on a quiet street near the Bois de Boulogne. Confident he had not been followed, he presented himself at the door and pressed the call button for Apartment 4B. The locks opened instantly; Gabriel mounted the stairs and climbed swiftly upward, his suede loafers silent upon the worn runner. Reaching the fourth-floor landing, he found the door of the apartment ajar and the unmistakable scent of Turkish tobacco on the air. He placed his fingertip against the door and gave it a gentle push, just enough to send it gliding inward on its oiled hinges.
     
     
    It had been two years since he had set foot in the safe flat, yet nothing had changed: the same drab furniture, the same stained carpeting, the same blackout curtains over the windows. Adrian Carter and Uzi Navot were gazing at him curiously from their seats at the cheap dinette set, as though they had just shared a private joke they did not want him to overhear. A few seconds later, Ari Shamron came marching through the kitchen door, a cup and saucer balanced in his hand, his ugly spectacles propped on his bald head like goggles. He was wearing his usual uniform, khaki trousers and a white oxford cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Something about being back in the field always did wonders for Shamron’s appearance—even if the “field” was a comfortable apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris—and he looked fitter than he had in some time.
     
     
    He paused for a moment to glare at Gabriel, then continued into the sitting room, where a cigarette was smoldering in an ashtray on the coffee table. Gabriel arrived a few seconds sooner than Shamron and hastily stabbed it out.
     
     
    “What do you think you’re doing?” Shamron asked.
     
     
    “You’re not supposed to be smoking.”
     
     
    “How can I quit smoking when my most accomplished operative is planning to go to war with Russia?” He placed his cup and saucer on the coffee table and angrily prowled the room. “You were authorized to arrange a meeting with Elena Kharkov and, if possible, to debrief her on what she knew about her husband’s illicit arms dealing. You performed that task admirably. Indeed, your operation was in keeping with the best traditions of your service. But in the end, you vastly overstepped your authority. You had no right to discuss a break-in operation in the heart of Moscow. Nor were you authorized to enter into an agreement to secure the defection of Elena Kharkov. In fact, you had no right to even discuss the subject of defection with her.”
     
     
    “What was I supposed to do, Ari? Tell her thanks but no thanks? Tell her we really weren’t interested after all in getting our hands on her husband’s most precious secrets?”
     
     
    “No, Gabriel, but you could have at least consulted your superiors first.”
     
     
    “There wasn’t time to consult my superiors. Ivan was tearing Saint-Tropez to pieces looking for her.”
     
     
    “And what do you think he’s going to do if you take Elena and the children away from him? Raise the white flag of surrender and roll up his networks?” Shamron answered his own question with a slow shake of his bald head. “Ivan Kharkov is a powerful man with powerful friends. Even if you somehow manage to get Elena and those computer disks—and, in my humble opinion, that remains an open question— Ivan will retaliate and retaliate hard. Diplomats will be expelled en masse. Already testy political relations between Russia and the West will go into the deep freeze. And there could be financial