Moscow Rules

shores. Olga is locked away in a safe house outside London, surrounded by armed guards. Grigori is another story. He’s told Graham he can look after himself.”
     
     
    “Did Graham agree to this?”
     
     
    “Not entirely. He’s got Grigori under full-time watch.”
     
     
    “Watchers? Watchers can’t protect anyone from a Russian assassin. Grigori should be surrounded by men with guns.”
     
     
    “So should you.” Shamron didn’t bother trying to conceal his irritation. “If it were up to me, you’d be locked away someplace in Israel where Ivan would never think to look for you.”
     
     
    “And you wonder why I’d rather be here.”
     
     
    “Just don’t think about setting foot outside this estate. Not until Ivan’s had a chance to cool down.”
     
     
    “Ivan doesn’t strike me as the sort to forget a grudge.”
     
     
    “No, he doesn’t.”
     
     
    “Perhaps we should just kill him now and get it over with.”
     
     
    Shamron looked at the bandage on Gabriel’s eye. “Ivan can wait, my son. You have more important things to worry about.”
     
     
    They had arrived at the stables. In an adjacent pen, a pair of pigs were rolling about in the mud. Shamron looked at the animals and winced in disgust.
     
     
    “First a crucifix. Now pigs. What’s next?”
     
     
    “We have our own chapel.”
     
     
    Shamron ignited another cigarette. “I’m getting tired,” he said. “Let’s head back.”
     
     
    They turned around and started toward the villa. Shamron produced an envelope from the breast pocket of his leather bomber jacket and handed it to Gabriel.
     
     
    “It’s a letter from Elena,” Shamron said. “Adrian Carter had it couriered to Tel Aviv.”
     
     
    “Did you read it?”
     
     
    “Of course.”
     
     
    Gabriel removed the letter and read it for himself.
     
     
    “Are you up to it?” Shamron asked.
     
     
    “I’ll know after the great unveiling.”
     
     
    “Maybe Gilah and I should stay here for a few days, just in case things don’t go well.”
     
     
    “What about Mozart and Pinter?”
     
     
    “I’d rather be here”—he looked around theatrically—“with the pigs and the crucifixes.”
     
     
    “Then we’d love to have you.”
     
     
    “Do the staff really have no idea who you are?”
     
     
    “They think I’m an eccentric restorer who suffers from melancholia and mood swings.”
     
     
    Shamron placed his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “It sounds to me as if they know you quite well.”
     

 
    73
     
     
    VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
     
     
    The doctor came the following morning. Israeli by way of Queens, he wore a rabbinical beard and had the small soft hands of a baby. He removed the dressing from Gabriel’s eye, frowned heavily, and began snipping away the sutures.
     
     
    “Let me know if anything I do hurts.”
     
     
    “Trust me, you’ll be the first to know.”
     
     
    He shone a light directly into Gabriel’s eye and frowned some more.
     
     
    “How does it feel?”
     
     
    “Like you’re burning a hole in my cornea.”
     
     
    The doctor switched off the light.
     
     
    “How does it feel now?”
     
     
    “Like it’s covered in cotton wool and Vaseline.”
     
     
    “Can you see?”
     
     
    “I wouldn’t go that far.”
     
     
    He covered Gabriel’s good eye. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
     
     
    “Twelve.”
     
     
    “Come on. How many?”
     
     
    “Four, I think, but I can’t be sure.”
     
     
    The doctor uncovered the good eye. He was holding up two fingers. He put some drops in the damaged eye that burned like battery acid and covered it with a black patch.
     
     
    “I look like an idiot.”
     
     
    “Not for long. Your retina looks remarkably good for what you’ve been through. You’re a very lucky man. Wear the patch on and off for a few days until your eye regains some of its strength. An hour on, an hour off. Do you understand?”
     
     
    “Yes, I think I do.”
     
     
    “Avoid bright lights. And don’t do anything that might give you unnecessary eyestrain.”
     
     
    “How about painting?”
     
     
    “Don’t even think about it. Not for at least three days.”
     
     
    The doctor put his light and suture cutters back in his bag and pulled the zipper closed. Gabriel thanked him for coming all the way from Tel Aviv for a five-minute job. “Just don’t tell anyone you were here,” he added. “If you do, that angry-looking little man over there