Moscow Rules

the Chapel of the Pietà; his final walk to the Monument to Pius XII. Precisely sixty-seven seconds after his arrival, he fell to his knees before the statue and began clutching his throat. Gabriel appeared twenty-two seconds after that, advancing spiritlike across the screen, one frame per second. The detective appeared moved by the sight of Gabriel lowering the dying Russian carefully to the floor.
     
     
    “Did he say anything to you?” the detective asked.
     
     
    “No, nothing. He couldn’t speak.”
     
     
    “What were you telling him?”
     
     
    “I was telling him that it was all right to die. I was telling him he would be going to a better place.”
     
     
    “You are a believer, Signore Allon?”
     
     
    “Take it back to the shot at fifteen-fifty.”
     
     
    The Vatican detective did as Gabriel requested and for the second time they watched as Ostrovsky advanced toward the Basilica. And as the solitary figure approached him from the left . . .
     
     
    “Stop it right there,” Gabriel said suddenly.
     
     
    Cassani immediately clicked PAUSE.
     
     
    “Back it up to the previous frame, please.”
     
     
    The Vatican detective complied with the request.
     
     
    “Can you enlarge the image?”
     
     
    “I can,” Cassani said, “but the resolution will be poor.”
     
     
    “Do it anyway.”
     
     
    The Vatican detective used the mouse to crop the image to the necessary dimensions, then clicked the ENLARGE icon. The resolution, as promised, was nebulous at best. Even so, Gabriel could clearly see the right hand of the solitary figure wrapped around the upper portion of Boris Ostrovsky’s right arm.
     
     
    “Where’s Ostrovsky’s body?”
     
     
    “In our morgue.”
     
     
    “Has anyone examined it yet?”
     
     
    “I gave it a brief examination to see if there were any signs of physical trauma or wounds. There was nothing.”
     
     
    “If you check again, I suspect you’ll find a very small perforation to the skin of his upper arm. It’s where the assassin injected him with a Russian poison that paralyzes the respiratory system within minutes. It was developed by the KGB during the Cold War.”
     
     
    “I’ll have a look right away.”
     
     
    “There’s something I need from you first.” Gabriel tapped the screen. “I need to know what time this man entered the square and which direction he went when he left. And I need the five best pictures of him you can find.”
     
     
    He was a professional, and, like all professionals, he had been aware of the cameras. He had lowered his guard just once, at 15:47:33, ten seconds after Boris Ostrovsky was first picked up by Vatican surveillance on the edge of the square. The image had been captured by a camera near the Bronze Doors of the Apostolic Palace. It showed a sturdy-jawed man with wide cheekbones, heavy sunglasses, and thick blond hair. Eli Lavon examined the photograph by the glow of a streetlamp atop the Spanish Steps. Fifty yards away, an Office security team was hastily searching the safe flat for traces of toxins or radioactive material.
     
     
    “The hair is artificial, but I’d say those cheekbones are real. He’s a Russian, Gabriel, and he’s not someone I’d ever care to meet in a dark alley.” Lavon studied the photo showing the assassin’s hand wrapped around Ostrovsky’s upper arm. “Poor Boris barely gives him a look after they bump into each other. I don’t think he ever knew what hit him.”
     
     
    “He didn’t,” Gabriel said. “He walked straight into the Basilica and followed your instructions as though there was nothing out of the ordinary. Even as he was dying, he didn’t seem to realize why.”
     
     
    Lavon looked at the photograph of the assassin again. “I stand by what I said as we were leaving the Basilica. Ostrovsky was clean. I didn’t see anyone following him. And there’s no way I could have missed someone who looks like this.”
     
     
    “Maybe Ostrovsky was clean, but we weren’t.”
     
     
    “You’re suggesting they were watching the watchers?”
     
     
    “Exactly.”
     
     
    “But how did they know we were going to be there?”
     
     
    “Ostrovsky’s probably been under watch in Moscow for months. When he came to Rome, he made contact with our embassy on an insecure line. Someone from the other side picked up the call, either here in Rome or from a listening post in Moscow. The assassin is a real pro. He knew we wouldn’t go near Ostrovsky