Moscow Rules

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