Moscow Rules

exclusive?”
     
     
    “Let us worry about that.”
     
     
    “And if she comes?”
     
     
    “Then you will pull her aside for a private conversation within the secure environment of the residence. And you will reveal yourself to her in whatever manner, and in whatever detail, you deem appropriate. And you will prevail upon her to share anything she knows about why Boris Ostrovsky went to Rome to see you.”
     
     
    “What if she doesn’t know anything? Or she’s too afraid to talk?”
     
     
    “Then I suppose you’ll have to be charming, which, as we all know, comes quite naturally to you. Besides, Gabriel, there are worse ways to spend an evening.”
     
     
    Navot reached back into his attaché case and withdrew a file. Gabriel opened the cover and removed Olga Sukhova’s photograph. She was an attractive woman in her mid-forties, with sleek Slavic features, ice-blue eyes, and satiny blond hair swept over one shoulder. He closed the file and looked at Shamron, who was standing before a pair of open French doors, twirling his old Zippo lighter between his fingertips. Talk of an operation was clearly testing his newfound commitment not to smoke.
     
     
    “You’ll go to Moscow, Gabriel. You’ll have a nice evening with Olga at the embassy, and, at the very least, you’ll pick up whatever information you can about why the journalists at the Gazeta are being targeted. Then you can go back to your farm in Umbria—back to your wife and your painting.”
     
     
    “And what happens if the FSB doesn’t fall for your little ruse?”
     
     
    “Your diplomatic passport will protect you.”
     
     
    “The Russian mafia and FSB assassins don’t bother much with diplomatic niceties. They shoot first and worry about the political fallout later.”
     
     
    “Moscow Station will be watching your back from the moment you land in St. Petersburg,” Navot said. “You’ll never be out of our reach. And if things start to look dicey, we can always arrange for an official security detail for you.”
     
     
    “What makes you think Moscow Station will ever see it coming, Uzi? A man brushed against Boris Ostrovsky in Rome yesterday afternoon and, before anyone knew what had happened, he was lying dead on the floor of the Basilica.”
     
     
    “So don’t let anyone touch you. And whatever you do, don’t drink the tea.”
     
     
    “Sound advice, Uzi.”
     
     
    “Your protection isn’t your diplomatic passport,” Shamron said. “It’s the reputation of the Office. The Russians know that if anyone lays a finger on you, we’ll declare open season on them and no Russian agent anywhere in the world will ever be safe again.”
     
     
    “A war against the Russian services is the last thing we need now.”
     
     
    “They’re selling advanced weaponry to countries and terror groups that wish to exterminate us. We’re already at war with them.” Shamron slipped the lighter into his pocket. “You have a lot to do in six days, including learning how to speak and act like an employee of the Ministry of Culture. The deputy minister is expecting you in his office tomorrow morning at ten. He’ll brief you thoroughly on your other mission in Russia. I want you to behave yourself at that conference, Gabriel. It’s important you do nothing to make our position at the UN any worse than it already is.”
     
     
    Gabriel stared at the passport photograph and ran a hand absently over his chin. It had been four days since he’d shaved last. He already had a good start on the beard.
     
     
    “I need to get a message to Chiara. I need to tell her I won’t be coming back to Umbria anytime soon.”
     
     
    “She already knows,” Shamron said. “If you want, we can bring her here to Jerusalem.”
     
     
    Gabriel closed the passport and shook his head. “Someone needs to keep an eye on the Poussin. Let her stay in Italy until I get back.”
     
     
    He looked up and saw Navot gazing dubiously at him through his spindly modern eyeglasses.
     
     
    “What’s your problem, Uzi?”
     
     
    “Don’t tell me the great Gabriel Allon is afraid to let his beautiful young wife see him with a gray beard.”
     
     
    “Thirty pounds,” said Gabriel. “Thirty pounds.”
     

 
    12
     
     
    ST. PETERSBURG
     
     
    Pulkovo 2, St. Petersburg’s aging international airport, had thus far been spared the wrecking ball of progress. The cracked tarmac was dotted with forlorn-looking Soviet-era planes that seemed no