Moscow Rules

you’re curious what this Russian has to say.”
     
     
    “Aren’t you?”
     
     
    “Not enough to interrupt my honeymoon.” Chiara gave up trying to find the clasp and allowed her hair to tumble about her shoulders once more. “Uzi and Shamron will always dream up something to keep pulling you back into the Office, Gabriel, but you only get one honeymoon.”
     
     
    Gabriel walked over to the closet and took down a small leather overnight bag from the top shelf. Chiara watched him silently as he filled it with a change of clothing. She could see that further debate was futile.
     
     
    “Did Uzi have a bat leveyha ?”
     
     
    “A very pretty one, actually.”
     
     
    “We’re all pretty, Gabriel. You middle-aged Office hacks love to go into the field with a pretty girl on your arm.”
     
     
    “Especially when she has a big gun in her handbag.”
     
     
    “Who was it?”
     
     
    “He said her name was Tamara.”
     
     
    “She is pretty. She’s also trouble. Bella better keep an eye on her.” Chiara looked at Gabriel packing his bag. “Will you really be back tomorrow night?”
     
     
    “If everything goes according to plan.”
     
     
    “When was the last time one of your assignments went according to plan?” She took hold of the Beretta and held it out toward him. “Do you need this?”
     
     
    “I have one in the car.”
     
     
    “Who’s going to be watching your back? Not those idiots from Rome Station.”
     
     
    “Eli’s flying to Rome in the morning.”
     
     
    “Let me come with you.”
     
     
    “I’ve already lost one wife to my enemies. I don’t want to lose another. ”
     
     
    “So what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
     
     
    “Make sure no one steals the Poussin. His Holiness will be rather miffed if it vanishes while in my possession.” He kissed her and started toward the door. “And whatever you do, don’t try to follow me. Uzi put a security detail at the front gate.”
     
     
    “Bastard,” she murmured as he started down the steps.
     
     
    “I heard that, Chiara.”
     
     
    She picked up the remote and pointed it at the television.
     
     
    “Good.”
     

 
    6
     
     
    ROME
     
     
    To call it a safe flat was no longer accurate. Indeed, Gabriel had spent so much time in the pleasant apartment near the top of the Spanish Steps that the lords of Housekeeping, the division of the Office that handled secure accommodations, referred to it as his Rome address. There were two bedrooms, a large, light-filled sitting room, and a spacious terrace that looked west toward the Piazza di Spagna and St. Peter’s Basilica. Two years earlier, Gabriel had been standing in the shadow of Michelangelo’s dome, at the side of His Holiness Pope Paul VII, when the Vatican was attacked by Islamic terrorists. More than seven hundred people were killed that October afternoon, and the dome of the Basilica had nearly been toppled. At the behest of the CIA and the American president, Gabriel had hunted down and killed the two Saudis who masterminded and financed the operation. The pope’s powerful private secretary, Monsignor Luigi Donati, knew of Gabriel’s involvement in the killings and tacitly approved. So, too, Gabriel suspected, did the Holy Father himself.
     
     
    The flat had been fitted with a system capable of recording the time and duration of unwanted entries and intrusions. Even so, Gabriel inserted an old-fashioned telltale between the door and the jamb as he let himself out. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the geniuses in the Office’s Technical division; he was simply a man of the sixteenth century at heart and clung to antiquated ways when it came to matters of tradecraft and security. Computerized telltales were wonderful devices, but a scrap of paper never failed, and it didn’t require an engineer with a Ph.D. from MIT to keep it running.
     
     
    It had rained during the night, and the pavements of the Via Gregoriana were still damp as Gabriel stepped from the foyer. He turned to the right, toward the Church of the Trinità dei Monti, and descended the Spanish Steps to the piazza, where he drank his first cappuccino of the day. After deciding that his return to Rome had gone unnoticed by the Italian security services, he hiked back up the Spanish Steps and climbed aboard a Piaggio motorbike. Its little four-stroke engine buzzed like an insect as he sped down the graceful sweep of the Via Veneto.
     
     
    The Excelsior Hotel