Moscow Rules

nothing. She said the president and the Russian Unity Party will win in a landslide and claim another sweeping mandate. The only question is, how many votes will they feel compelled to steal in order to achieve their goals.”
     
     
    “The Russian Federation is a democracy. Miss Sukhova’s political commentary, while entertaining and provocative, is slanderous and completely false.”
     
     
    The interrogator turned to a fresh page of his notebook.
     
     
    “Did you and Miss Sukhova spend any time alone at the party?”
     
     
    “Olga said she needed a cigarette. She invited me to join her.”
     
     
    “There were no cigarettes among your possessions tonight.”
     
     
    “That’s hardly surprising, given the fact that I don’t smoke.”
     
     
    “But you joined her in any case?”
     
     
    “Yes.”
     
     
    “Because you wanted to have a word alone with her in a place where no one could overhear?”
     
     
    “Because I was attracted to her—and, yes, because I wanted to have a word alone with her in a place no one else could hear.”
     
     
    “Where did you go?”
     
     
    “The terrace.”
     
     
    “How long were you alone?”
     
     
    “A minute or two, no more.”
     
     
    “What did you discuss?”
     
     
    “I asked if I could see her again. If she would be willing to give me a tour of Moscow.”
     
     
    “Did you also tell her you were a married man?”
     
     
    “We’d already discussed that.”
     
     
    “At dinner?”
     
     
    “Yes.”
     
     
    “Whose idea was it to visit Novodevichy?”
     
     
    “Hers.”
     
     
    “Why did she select this place?”
     
     
    “She said that to understand Russia today you had to walk among her bones.”
     
     
    “Did you travel to the cemetery together?”
     
     
    “No, I met her there.”
     
     
    “How did you travel? By taxi?”
     
     
    “I took the Metro.”
     
     
    “Who arrived first?”
     
     
    “Olga was waiting at the gates when I got there.”
     
     
    “And you entered the cemetery together?”
     
     
    “Of course.”
     
     
    “Which grave did you visit first?”
     
     
    “It was Chekhov’s.”
     
     
    “Are you certain?”
     
     
    “Yes.”
     
     
    “Describe it for me.”
     
     
    Gabriel closed his eyes, as if trying to summon an image of the gravestone, but instead he heard the voice of Olga whispering softly into his ear. You mustn’t give them her name , she was saying. If Ivan discovers it was Elena who betrayed him, he’ll kill her .
     

 
    19
     
     
    FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW
     
     
    They forged on together—for how long, Gabriel could only guess. At times, they wandered through unexplored territory. At others, they retraced their steps over familiar ground. Trivial inconsistencies were pounced upon as proof of treachery, minor lapses in memory as proof of deceit. There is a strange paradox to an interrogation: it can often impart more information to the subject than to the officer posing the questions. Gabriel had concluded that his opponent was but a small cog in a much larger machine. His questions, like Russia’s campaign politics, were much sound and fury signifying nothing. Gabriel’s real enemies resided elsewhere. Since he was supposed to be dead by now, his very presence in Lubyanka was something of an inconvenience for them. One factor would determine whether he survived the night: Did they have the power to reach into the basement of Lubyanka and kill him?
     
     
    The interrogator’s final questions were posed with the bored air of a traffic cop recording the details of a minor accident. He jotted the responses in his notebook, then closed the cover and regarded Gabriel through his little spectacles.
     
     
    “I find it interesting that, after killing the two Chechen gangsters, you did not become ill. I take it you’ve killed before, Mr. Golani?”
     
     
    “Like all Israeli men, I had to serve in the IDF. I fought in Sinai in ’seventy-three and in Lebanon in ’eighty-two.”
     
     
    “So you’ve killed many innocent Arabs?”
     
     
    “Yes, many.”
     
     
    “You are a Zionist oppressor of innocent Palestinians?”
     
     
    “An unrepentant one.”
     
     
    “You are not who you say you are, Mr. Golani. Your diplomatic passport is false, as is the name written in it. The sooner you confess your crimes, the better.”
     
     
    The interrogator placed the cap on his pen and screwed it slowly into place. It must have been a signal, for the door flew