Moscow Rules

Chechen contract killers. But unlike the younger man, he spoke a bit of English. His first questions were directed not at the famous reporter from the Gazeta but at Gabriel. He seemed most interested in hearing how a middle-aged Israeli diplomat from the Ministry of Culture had managed to disarm a professional assassin, shoot him twice in the head, and then kill his partner. Listening to Gabriel’s account, his expression was one of open skepticism. He scrutinized Gabriel’s passport carefully, then slipped it into his coat pocket and said they would have to continue this conversation at headquarters.
     
     
    “I must protest,” Gabriel said.
     
     
    “I understand,” said Markov sadly.
     
     
    For reasons never made clear, Gabriel was handcuffed and taken by unmarked car to a busy Militia headquarters. There, he was led into the central processing area and placed on a wooden bench, next to a weathered man in his sixties who had been roughed up and robbed by street toughs. An hour passed; Gabriel finally walked over to the duty officer and asked for permission to phone his embassy. The duty officer translated Gabriel’s request to his colleagues, who immediately erupted into uproarious laughter. “They want money,” the elderly man said when Gabriel returned to the bench. “You cannot leave until you pay them what they want.” Gabriel managed a brief smile. If only it were that simple.
     
     
    Shortly after 1 A.M., Markov reappeared. He ordered Gabriel to stand, removed the handcuffs, and led him into an interrogation room. Gabriel’s possessions—his billfold, diplomatic passport, wristwatch, and mobile—were laid out neatly on a table. Markov picked up the phone and made a show of calling up the directory of recent calls.
     
     
    “You dialed your embassy before the first Militia officers arrived.”
     
     
    “That’s correct.”
     
     
    “What did you say to them?”
     
     
    “That I had been attacked and that the police were going to be involved.”
     
     
    “You didn’t mention this when I questioned you at the apartment house.”
     
     
    “It’s standard procedure to contact the embassy immediately in a situation like this.”
     
     
    “Are you often in situations like this?”
     
     
    Gabriel ignored the question. “I am a diplomat of the State of Israel, entitled to every and all diplomatic protection and immunity. I assume an officer of your rank and position would realize that my first responsibility is to contact my embassy and report what has transpired.”
     
     
    “Did you report that you killed two men?”
     
     
    “No.”
     
     
    “Did this detail slip your mind? Or did you neglect to tell them this for other reasons?”
     
     
    “We are instructed to keep telephone communications brief in all situations. I’m sure you understand.”
     
     
    “Who’s we , Mr. Golani?”
     
     
    “The ministry.”
     
     
    “I see.”
     
     
    Gabriel thought he could see a trace of a smile.
     
     
    “I want to see a representative of my embassy immediately.”
     
     
    “Unfortunately, due to the special circumstances of your case, we’re going to have to detain you a little longer.”
     
     
    Gabriel focused on a single word: detain.
     
     
    “What special circumstances?”
     
     
    Markov led Gabriel silently out of the room. This time, he was locked in a fetid holding cell with a pair of bloodied drunks and three anorexic prostitutes, one of whom immediately propositioned him. Gabriel found a relatively clean spot along one wall and lowered himself cautiously to the concrete floor. “You have to pay them,” the prostitute explained. “Consider yourself lucky. I have to give them something else.”
     
     
    Several hours crawled past with no more contact from Markov— precisely how many Gabriel did not know, because he had no watch and there was no clock visible from the holding cell. The drunks passed the time debating Pushkin; the three prostitutes slept against the opposite wall, one leaning against the next, like dress-up dolls on a little girl’s shelf. Gabriel sat with his arms wrapped around his shins and his forehead to his knees. He shut out the sounds around him—the slamming of doors, the shouting of orders, the cries of a man being beaten—and kept his thoughts focused only on Olga Sukhova. Was she somewhere in this building with him, he wondered, or had she been taken elsewhere due to the “special circumstances” of her case? Was she