Moscow Rules

Gabriel always said, was to surrender oneself body and soul to the canvas and the artist who had produced it. The painting was always the first thing in his thoughts when he woke and the last thing he saw before dropping off to sleep. Even in his dreams, he could not escape it; nor could he ever walk past a restoration in progress without stopping to examine his work.
     
     
    He switched off the halogen lamps now and climbed the stone steps to the second floor. Chiara was propped on one elbow in bed, leafing distractedly through a thick fashion magazine. Her skin was dark from the Umbrian sun and her auburn hair was moving faintly in the breeze of the open window. A dreadful Italian pop song was issuing from the bedside clock radio; two Italian celebrities were engaged in a deep but silent conversation on the muted television. Gabriel pointed the remote at the screen and fired.
     
     
    “I was watching that,” she said without looking at him.
     
     
    “Oh, really? What was it about?”
     
     
    “Something to do with a man and a woman.” She licked her forefingerand elaborately turned the page of her magazine. “Did you boys have a nice time?”
     
     
    “Where’s your gun?”
     
     
    She lifted the corner of the bedcover and the walnut grip of a Beretta 9mm shone in the light of her reading lamp. Gabriel would have preferred the weapon be more accessible, but he resisted the impulse to chide her. Despite the fact that she had never handled a gun before her recruitment, Chiara routinely outscored him in accuracy on the basement firing range at King Saul Boulevard—a rather remarkable achievement, considering the fact she was the daughter of the chief rabbi of Venice and had spent her youth in the tranquil streets of the city’s ancient Jewish Ghetto. Officially, she was still an Italian citizen. Her association with the Office was a secret, as was her marriage to Gabriel. She covered the Beretta again and flipped another page.
     
     
    “How’s Uzi?”
     
     
    “He and Bella are going to get married.”
     
     
    “Is it serious or just idle talk?”
     
     
    “You should see the eyeglasses she has him wearing.”
     
     
    “When a man lets a woman choose his eyeglasses, it’s only a matter of time before he’s standing under a chuppah with his foot on a glass.” She looked up and scrutinized him carefully. “Maybe it’s time you had your eyes checked, Gabriel. You were squinting last night when you were watching television.”
     
     
    “I was squinting because my eyes were fatigued from working all day.”
     
     
    “You never used to squint. You know, Gabriel, you’ve reached an age when most men—”
     
     
    “I don’t need glasses, Chiara. And, when I do, I’ll be sure to consult you before choosing the frames.”
     
     
    “You look very distinguished when you wear false eyeglasses for cover.” She closed her magazine and lowered the volume on the clock radio. “So is that why Uzi came all the way to Italy to see you? To tell you he was getting married?”
     
     
    “The Sword of Allah has hung a contract around my neck. Shamron is concerned about our security.”
     
     
    “That sounds like something that could have been handled with a phone call, darling. Surely Uzi had more to say than that.”
     
     
    “He wants me to run an errand for him in Rome.”
     
     
    “Really? What sort of errand?”
     
     
    “It’s need-to-know, Chiara.”
     
     
    “Good, Gabriel, because I need to know why you would interrupt our honeymoon to run off on an assignment.”
     
     
    “It’s not an assignment. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
     
     
    “What’s the job, Gabriel? And don’t hide behind silly Office rules and regulations. We’ve always told each other everything.” She paused. “Haven’t we?”
     
     
    Gabriel sat down on the edge of the bed and told her about Boris Ostrovsky and his unorthodox request for an audience.
     
     
    “And you agreed to this?” She gathered her hair into a bun and patted the bed distractedly for a clasp. “Am I the only one who’s considered the possibility that you’re walking straight into a trap?”
     
     
    “It may have crossed my mind.”
     
     
    “Why didn’t you just tell them to send a stand-in? Surely Uzi can find someone from Special Ops who looks enough like you to fool a Russian journalist who’s never seen you in person before.” Greeted by Gabriel’s silence, Chiara supplied her own answer. “Because