Moscow Rules

eventually surrendered. She paid the information out slowly, inch by inch. The drive into the hills. The lunch that had been waiting on the table. The wine. The little bedroom with its tacky Monet prints. Her baptismal shower. Ivan had demanded to know how many times they had made love. “Twice,” she confessed. “He wanted to do it a third time but I told him I had to be going.”
     
     
    Mikhail’s predictions had proven accurate; Ivan’s rage, while immense, had subsided quickly once he realized he had brought the mess upon himself. He sent a team of bodyguards to Cannes to eject Yekatarina from her suite at the Carlton Hotel, then began to deluge Elena with apologies, promises, diamonds, and gold. Elena appeared to accept the acts of contrition and made several of her own. The matter was now closed, they declared jointly over dinner at Villa Romana. Life could resume as normal.
     
     
    Many of Ivan’s gestures were surely hollow. Many others were not. He spent less time talking on his mobile phone and more time with the children. He kept his Russian friends at bay and canceled a large birthday party he had been planning to throw for a business associate whom Elena did not like. He brought her coffee each morning and read the papers in bed instead of rushing into his office to work. And when her mother called that morning at seven o’clock, he did not grimace the way he usually did but handed Elena the phone with genuine concern on his face. The conversation that followed was brief. Elena hung up the phone and looked at Ivan in distress.
     
     
    “What’s wrong?” he asked.
     
     
    "She’s very sick again, darling. She needs me to come right away.”
     
     
    In Moscow, Svetlana Federov gently returned the receiver to its cradle and looked at the man she knew as Feliks.
     
     
    "She says she’ll be here later this evening.”
     
     
    "And Ivan?”
     
     
    “He wanted to come with her, but Elena convinced him to stay in France with the children. He was kind enough to let her borrow his airplane.”
     
     
    “Did she happen to say what time she was departing?”
     
     
    “She’s leaving Nice airport at eleven o’clock, provided there are no problems with the plane, of course.”
     
     
    He smiled and withdrew a small device from the breast pocket of his rumpled jacket. It had a tiny screen and lots of buttons, like a miniature typewriter. Svetlana Federov had seen such devices before. She did not know what they were called, only that they were usually carried by the sort of men she did not like. He typed something rapidly with his agile little thumbs and returned the device to his pocket. Then he looked at his watch.
     
     
    “Knowing your son-in-law, he’ll have you and your building under surveillance within the hour. Do you remember what you’re supposed to say if anyone asks about me?”
     
     
    “I’m to tell them that you were a con artist—a thief who had come to swindle an old woman out of her money.”
     
     
    “There really are a lot of unscrupulous characters in the world.”
     
     
    ‟Yes,” she said. “One can never be too careful.”
     
     
    In the aftermath of the most recent terrorist attacks in London, many improvements in security and operational capabilities had been made to the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, some the public could see, many others they could not. Among those that fell into the second category was a sparkling new operations center, located in a bunkerlike annex beneath the square itself. At precisely 6:04 A.M. London time, Eli Lavon’s message was handed to Adrian Carter with funereal silence by a young CIA factotum. Carter, after reading it, handed it to Shamron, who in turn handed it to Graham Seymour. “Looks like we’re on,” said Seymour. “I suppose you’d better cue the Frogs.”
     
     
    Carter activated a secure line to Paris with the press of a button and brought the receiver to his ear. “Bonjour, gentlemen. The ball is now heading toward your side of the court. Do try to enjoy yourselves.”
     
     
    This time there was no indecision in her grooming. Elena bathed hastily, expended little effort on her hair and makeup, and dressed in a rather simple but comfortable Chanel pantsuit. She put on more jewelry than she might otherwise have worn on such an occasion and slipped several more expensive pieces into her handbag. Finally, she placed two additional changes of clothing in an overnight bag and took several