Moscow Rules

barricaded in a room at the Excelsior. He’ll be there until the day after tomorrow; then he’s heading back to Russia. He’s made it clear he wants no contact from us in Moscow.”
     
     
    Navot drew a photograph from the breast pocket of his blazer and handed it to Gabriel. It showed a balding, overweight man in his early fifties with a florid face.
     
     
    “We’ve given him a set of instructions for a surveillance detection run tomorrow afternoon. He’s supposed to leave the hotel at one-thirty sharp and visit four destinations: the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and the Piazza Navona. When he gets to Navona, he’s supposed to walk around the piazza once, then take a table at Tre Scalini.”
     
     
    “What happens when he gets to Tre Scalini?”
     
     
    “If he’s under watch, we walk away.”
     
     
    “And if he’s clean?”
     
     
    “We’ll tell him where to go next.”
     
     
    “And where’s that? A safe flat?”
     
     
    Navot shook his head. “I don’t want him near any of our properties. I’d rather do it someplace public—someplace where it will look like you’re just two strangers chatting.” He hesitated, then added, “Someplace a man with a gun can’t follow.”
     
     
    “Ever heard of the Moscow Rules, Uzi?”
     
     
    “I live by them.”
     
     
    “Perhaps you recall rule three: Assume everyone is potentially under opposition control. It’s quite possible we’re going to a great deal of trouble to meet with a man who’s going to spoon-feed us a pile of Russian shit.” Gabriel looked down at the photograph. “Are we sure this man is really Boris Ostrovsky?”
     
     
    “Moscow Station says it’s him.”
     
     
    Gabriel returned the photograph to the envelope and looked around the Lower Church. “In order to get back into the country, I had to make a solemn promise to the Vatican and the Italian services. No operational work of any kind on Italian soil.”
     
     
    “Who says you’re going to operate? You’re just going to have a conversation. ”
     
     
    “With a Russian editor who just lost one of his reporters to a professional assassin in Courchevel.” Gabriel shook his head slowly. “I don’t know about you, Uzi, but I don’t think it’s exactly good karma to lie to a pope.”
     
     
    “Shamron is our pope and Shamron wants it done.”
     
     
    Gabriel led Navot from the basilica, and they walked together through the darkened streets, with the bat leveyha trailing quietly after them. He didn’t like it but he had to admit he was curious about the nature of the message the Russian wanted to deliver. The assignment had one other potential windfall. It could be used as leverage to get Shamron off his back once and for all. As they crossed the Piazza del Commune, he listed his demands.
     
     
    “I listen to what he has to say, then I file a report and I’m done with it.”
     
     
    “That’s it.”
     
     
    “I go back to my farm in Umbria and finish my painting. No more complaints from Shamron. No more warnings about my security.”
     
     
    Navot hesitated, then nodded his head.
     
     
    “Say it, Uzi. Say it before God, here in the sacred city of Assisi.”
     
     
    “You can go back to Umbria and restore paintings to your heart’s content. No more complaints from Shamron. No more warnings from me or anyone else about the legion of terrorists who wish you dead.”
     
     
    “Is Ostrovsky under surveillance by assets from Rome Station?”
     
     
    “We put him under watch within an hour of the first contact.”
     
     
    “Tell them to back off. Otherwise, you run the risk of inadvertently telegraphing our interest to the Italian security services and anyone else who might be watching him.”
     
     
    “Done.”
     
     
    “I need a watcher I can trust.”
     
     
    “Someone like Eli?”
     
     
    “Yes, someone like Eli. Where is he?”
     
     
    “On a dig somewhere near the Dead Sea.”
     
     
    “Get him on the sunrise express out of Ben-Gurion. Tell him to meet me at Piperno. Tell him to have a bottle of Frascati and a plate of filetti di baccalà waiting.”
     
     
    “I love fried cod,” Navot said.
     
     
    "Piperno makes the best filetti in Rome. Why don’t you join us for lunch?”
     
     
    “Bella says I have to stay away from fried food.” Navot patted his ample midsection. “She says it’s very fattening.”
     

 
    5
     
     
    LLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
     
     
    To restore an Old Master painting,