Moscow Rules

possession of Ostrovsky’s body and removed all his luggage and personal effects from his room at the Excelsior. Hazmat teams are now searching the hotel for evidence of poisons and other toxins. As for the Basilica, it’s been cordoned off and is being treated as a crime scene. The Ministry of Justice has asked all those who witnessed the death to come forward immediately. I suppose that would include you.” Shamron scrutinized Gabriel for a moment. “It seems to me your position vis-à-vis Boris Ostrovsky is somewhat tenuous at the moment.”
     
     
    “Donati has promised to keep my name out of it.”
     
     
    “God knows the Vatican is good at keeping secrets, but surely there are others there who know about your connection to this affair. If one of them wants to embarrass Donati—or us, for that matter—all they have to do is make a quiet phone call to the Polizia di Stato.”
     
     
    “Boris Ostrovsky was killed by a professional Russian assassin in St. Peter’s Square.” Gabriel removed a manila folder from the side flap of his bag and handed it to Shamron. “And these pictures prove it.”
     
     
    Shamron switched on his overhead reading light and examined the photos. “It’s a brazen act, even by Russian standards. Ostrovsky must have known something very important for them to resort to this.”
     
     
    “I take it you have a theory?”
     
     
    “Unfortunately, we do.” Shamron slipped the photos back into the file folder and switched off the lamp. “Our good friends in the Kremlin have been selling sophisticated weapons systems to the rogue regimes of the Middle East at an unprecedented rate. The mullahs of Iran are one of their best customers, but they’ve also been selling antiaircraft and antitank systems to their old friends in Damascus. We’ve been picking up reports that the Syrians and the Kremlin are about to close a major deal involving an advanced Russian missile known as the Iskander. It’s a road-mobile weapon with a range of one hundred seventy miles, which means Tel Aviv would be well within Syria’s range. I don’t need to explain the ramifications of that to you.”
     
     
    “It would alter the strategic balance in the Middle East overnight.”
     
     
    Shamron nodded his head slowly. “And unfortunately, given the track record of the Kremlin, it’s only one of many unsettling possibilities. The entire region is bristling with rumors of some kind of new deal some where. We’ve been hammering away at the issue for months. So far, we’ve been unable to come up with anything we can take to the prime minister. I’m afraid he’s beginning to get annoyed.”
     
     
    “It’s part of his job description.”
     
     
    “And mine.” Shamron smiled humorlessly. “All of this goes to explain why we were so interested in having you meet with Boris Ostrovsky in the first place. And why we would now like you to travel to Russia to find out what he intended to say to you.”
     
     
    “ Me? I’ve never set foot in Russia. I don’t know the terrain. I don’t even speak the language.”
     
     
    “You have something more important than local knowledge and language.”
     
     
    “What’s that?”
     
     
    “A name and a face that the extremely nervous staff of Moscovsky Gazeta will recognize.”
     
     
    “Chances are, the Russian security services will recognize it, too.”
     
     
    “We have a plan for that,” Shamron said.
     
     
    The Old Man smiled. He had a plan for everything.
     

 
    11
     
     
    JERUSALEM
     
     
    There were security agents at either end of Narkiss Street, a quiet, leafy lane in the heart of Jerusalem, and another standing watch outside the entrance of the dowdy little limestone apartment house at Number 16. Gabriel, as he crossed the tiny foyer with Shamron at his heels, didn’t bother checking the postbox. He never received mail, and the name on the box was false. As far as the bureaucracy of the State of Israel was concerned, Gabriel Allon did not exist. He was no one, he lived nowhere. He was the eternal wandering Jew.
     
     
    Uzi Navot was seated on the living-room couch in Gabriel’s apartment, with his feet propped on the coffee table and an Israeli diplomatic passport wedged between the first two fingers of his right hand. He adopted an expression of bored indifference as he handed it over for inspection. Gabriel opened the cover and looked at the photograph. It showed a silver-haired man with a neat gray beard and round