Moscow Rules

take Eli with you. He’s a fine watcher, but he’s never been one for the rough stuff.”
     
     
    Navot gave Gabriel a Shamronian stare. He was done arguing.
     
     
    “If I were you, I’d stay away from your hotel.” He reached into his coat pocket and handed Gabriel a single key. “I’ve been carrying this around in case we needed a crash pad. It’s an old Soviet wreck of a building near Dinamo Stadium, but it will do.”
     
     
    Navot recited the street address, the building number, and the number of the apartment. “Once you’re inside, signal the station and bar the door. We’ll put in an extraction team. With a bit of luck, you’ll still be there when they arrive.”
     
     
    Then he turned away without another word and pounded across the rain-swept square toward his car. Lavon watched him for a moment, then looked at Gabriel.
     
     
    “Sure you don’t want some company?”
     
     
    “Get to the airport, Eli. Get on that plane.”
     
     
    “What would you like me to tell your wife?”
     
     
    Gabriel hesitated a moment, then said, “Tell her I’m sorry, Eli. Tell her I’ll make it up to her somehow.”
     
     
    “It’s possible you might be making a terrible mistake.”
     
     
    “It won’t be the first time.”
     
     
    “Yes, but this is Moscow. And it could be the last.”
     
     
    Navot’s transmission appeared on the screen of the London ops center at 5:04 Moscow time: LEAVING FOR SVO ... MINUS ONE . . . Adrian Carter swore softly and looked at Shamron, who was turning over his old Zippo lighter in his fingertips.
     
     
    Two turns to the right, two turns to the left . . .
     
     
    “It seems you were right,” Carter said.
     
     
    Shamron said nothing.
     
     
    Two turns to the right, two to the left . . .
     
     
    “The French say Ivan is about to blow, Ari. They say the situation at Nice is getting tenuous. They would like a resolution, one way or the other.”
     
     
    “Perhaps it’s time to let Ivan see the scope of the dilemma he is now facing. Tell your cyberwarriors to turn the phones back on in Moscow. And tell the French to confiscate Ivan’s plane. And, while they’re at it, take his passport, too.”
     
     
    “That should get his attention.”
     
     
    Shamron closed his eyes.
     
     
    Two turns to the right, two to the left . . .
     
     
    By the time Ivan Kharkov emerged from the airport conference room at the Côte d’Azur International Airport, his anger had reached dangerous levels. It exploded into mild physical violence when he found his two bodyguards dozing on the couch. They stormed down a flight of stairs together, Ivan ranting in Russian to no one in particular, and climbed into the armored Mercedes limousine for the return trip to Saint-Tropez. When the car was two hundred feet from the building, Ivan’s phone rang. It was Arkady Medvedev calling from Moscow.
     
     
    “Where have you been, Ivan Borisovich?”
     
     
    “Stuck at the airport, dealing with my plane.”
     
     
    “Do you have any idea what’s been going on?”
     
     
    “The French are trying to steal my plane. And my passport. That’s what’s going on, Arkady.”
     
     
    “They’re trying to steal more than that. They’ve got your children, too. It’s part of some elaborate operation against you. And it’s not just going on there in France. Something’s happening here in Moscow, too.”
     
     
    Ivan made no response. Arkady Medvedev knew it was a dangerous sign. When Ivan was merely angry, he swore violently. But when he was mad enough to kill, he went dead silent. He finally instructed his chief of security to tell him everything he knew. Medvedev did so in a form of colloquial Russian that was nearly indecipherable to a Western ear.
     
     
    “Where is she now, Arkady?”
     
     
    “Still in the apartment.”
     
     
    “Who put her up to this?”
     
     
    “She claims she did it on her own.”
     
     
    “She’s lying. I need to know what I’m up against. And quickly.”
     
     
    “You need to get out of France.”
     
     
    “With no plane and no passport?”
     
     
    “What do you want me to do?”
     
     
    “Throw a party, Arkady. Somewhere outside the city. See if anyone shows up without an invitation.”
     
     
    “And if they do?”
     
     
    “Give them a message from me. Let them know that if they fuck with Ivan Kharkov, Ivan Kharkov is going to fuck with them.”
     

 
    61
     
     
    SHEREMET YEVO 2 AIRPORT, MOSCOW
     
     
    They arrived at