Moscow Rules

Gabriel’s meticulously planned operation was in serious danger of crashing and burning, with significant loss of life a distinct possibility.
     
     
    “They’re your boys,” Carter said. “It’s your call.”
     
     
    Shamron flicked ash into his coffee cup. “We sit tight. We give her a chance.”
     
     
    Carter looked at the digital clock. “It is now four-fifteen, Ari. If your team is to have any chance of getting on that plane, they need to be in their cars and heading to the airport in the next ten minutes.”
     
     
    “Airplanes are complicated machines, Adrian. A lot of little things can go wrong with an airplane.”
     
     
    “It might be a good idea to get that over and done with.” Shamron picked up a secure telephone connected to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard. A few terse words in Hebrew. A calm glance at Carter.
     
     
    “It appears a cabin pressure warning light is now flashing in the cockpit of El Al Flight 1612. Until that problem is resolved to the satisfaction of the captain, a man who happens to be a decorated former IAF fighter pilot, that aircraft isn’t going anywhere.”
     
     
    “Well played,” said Carter.
     
     
    “How long can our French friends keep Ivan tied up in Nice?”
     
     
    “Monsieur Boisson is just getting started. The children, however, are another matter entirely. We have a decision to make, Ari. What do we do about the children?”
     
     
    “I wouldn’t want my children sitting around a gendarmerie station, would you, Adrian?”
     
     
    “Can’t say I would.”
     
     
    “Then let’s take them. Who knows? Depending on what happens inside the apartment building in the next ten minutes, we may need them.”
     
     
    “For what?”
     
     
    “I’m not going to give her up without a fight, Adrian, and you can be sure Gabriel isn’t either.” Shamron dropped his cigarette into his coffee cup and gave it a swirl. “Call the French. Get me Ivan’s children.”
     
     
    Carter picked up the secure line connected to the French ops center in Paris. Shamron looked at the message screen, where Uzi Navot’s last message flashed incessantly.
     
     
    AM ENTERING HOTE . . . ADVISE . . .
     
     
    AM ENTERING HOTE . . . ADVISE . . .
     
     
    AM ENTERING HOTE . . . ADVISE . . .
     
     
    They had placed Sonia and the children in a pleasant holding room and plied them with cold fruit juice and ice cream. A pretty young female gendarme remained with them at all times, more for company than for reasons of security. They watched cartoons and played a noisy game of cards that made no sense to anyone, least of all the children themselves. The chief duty officer made them honorary gendarmes for the day and even allowed Nikolai to inspect his firearm. Later, he would tell his colleagues that the boy knew rather too much about guns for a child of seven.
     
     
    After receiving a telephone call from headquarters in Paris, the duty officer returned to the holding room and announced that it was time for everyone to go home. Anna and Nikolai greeted this news not with joy but tears; for them, the arrest and detention had been a great adventure and they were in no hurry to return home to their palace by the sea. They were finally coaxed into leaving with a promise they could come back to play anytime they wished. As they headed down the central corridor of the station, Anna held the hand of the female gendarme while Nikolai lectured the duty officer about the superiority of Russian-made weapons. Sonia asked after the whereabouts of the bodyguards but received no response.
     
     
    They left the station not through the front entrance but through a rear door that gave onto an enclosed courtyard. Several official Renaults were parked there, along with an older-model Peugeot wagon. Seated behind the wheel, wearing a white Lacoste polo, was a man with gray hair. Seeing the children, he climbed out of the car with a tranquil smile on his face and opened the rear door. Sonia froze and turned to the duty officer in confusion.
     
     
    “What’s going on? Who is this man?”
     
     
    “This is Monsieur Henri. He’s a good man. He’s going to take you and the children somewhere safe.”
     
     
    “I don’t understand.”
     
     
    “I’m afraid Mr. Kharkov is in a bit of trouble at the moment. Mrs. Kharkov has made arrangements to place the children in the care of Monsieur Henri until she returns. She has asked that you remain with them. She promises you