Moscow Rules

Kharkov’s operations in a way no other outsider ever had. In fact, Bulganov was quite confident he knew more about Ivan’s arms-trafficking activities than any other intelligence officer in the world. In Russia, such knowledge could be dangerous. Sometimes, it could even be fatal, which explained why Bulganov was careful to stay on Arkady Medvedev’s good side. And why, when Medvedev called his cell at 11:15 P.M. on a Sunday night, he didn’t dare consider not answering it.
     
     
    Grigori Bulganov did not speak for the next three minutes. Instead, he tore a sheet of notepaper into a hundred pieces while he listened to the account of what had taken place in Moscow that afternoon. He was glad Medvedev had called him. He only wished he had done it on a secure line.
     
     
    “Are you sure it’s him?” Bulganov asked.
     
     
    “No question.”
     
     
    “How did he get back into the country?”
     
     
    “With an American passport and a crude disguise.”
     
     
    “Where is he now?”
     
     
    Medvedev told him the location.
     
     
    “What about Ivan’s wife?”
     
     
    “She’s here, too.”
     
     
    “What are your plans, Arkady?”
     
     
    “I’m going to give him one more chance to answer a few questions. Then I’m going to drop him in a hole somewhere.” A pause. “Unless you’d like to do that for me, Grigori?”
     
     
    “Actually, I might enjoy that. After all, he did disobey a direct order.”
     
     
    “How quickly can you get down here?”
     
     
    “Give me an hour. I’d like to have a word with the woman, too.”
     
     
    “A word, Grigori. This matter doesn’t concern you.”
     
     
    “I’ll be brief. Just make sure she’s there when I arrive.”
     
     
    “She’ll be here.”
     
     
    “How many men do you have there?”
     
     
    “Five.”
     
     
    “That’s a lot of witnesses.”
     
     
    “Don’t worry, Grigori. They’re not the talkative sort.”
     

 
    64
     
     
    KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
     
     
    When Gabriel woke next, it was to the sensation of a dressing being applied to his wounded eye. He opened the one that still functioned and saw the task was being performed by none other than Arkady Medvedev. The Russian was working with a single hand. The other held a gun. A Stechkin, thought Gabriel, but he couldn’t be sure. He had never cared much for Russian guns.
     
     
    “Feeling sorry for me, Arkady?”
     
     
    “It wouldn’t stop bleeding. We were afraid you were going to die on us.”
     
     
    “Aren’t you going to kill me anyway?”
     
     
    “Of course we are, Allon. We just need a little bit of information from you first.”
     
     
    “And who said former KGB hoods didn’t have any manners?”
     
     
    Medvedev finished applying the bandage and regarded Gabriel in silence. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I know your real name?” he asked finally.
     
     
    “I assume you could have got it from your friends at the FSB. Or, it’s possible you saved yourself a phone call by simply beating it out of Elena Kharkov. You strike me as the type who enjoys hitting women.”
     
     
    “Keep that up and I’ll bring Dmitri back for another go at you. You’re not some kid anymore, Allon. One or two blows from Dmitri and you might not come to again.”
     
     
    “He has a lot of wasted motion in his punch. Why don’t you let me give him a couple of pointers?”
     
     
    “Are you serious or is that just your Jewish sense of humor talking?”
     
     
    “Our sense of humor came from living with Russians as neighbors. It helps to have a sense of humor during a pogrom. It takes the sting out of having your village burned down.”
     
     
    “You have a choice, Allon. You can lie there and tell jokes all night or you can start talking.” The Russian removed a cigarette from a silver case and ignited it with a matching silver lighter. “You don’t need this shit and neither do I. Let’s just settle this like professionals.”
     
     
    “By professional, I suppose you mean I should tell you everything I know, so then you can kill me.”
     
     
    “Something like that.” The Russian held the cigarette case toward Gabriel. “Would you like one?”
     
     
    “They’re bad for your health.”
     
     
    Medvedev closed the case. “Are you up for a little walk, Allon? I think you might find this place quite interesting.”
     
     
    “Any chance of taking off these handcuffs?”
     
     
    “None whatsoever.”
     
     
    “I thought