Moscow Rules

lips and a cocked lighter poised before it. “You don’t get to take up smoking again just because I got thrown into Lubyanka. Besides, if Chiara smells smoke in here when she comes home I’ll never hear the end of it.”
     
     
    “So you’ll blame it on me.”
     
     
    “I blame everything on you. The impact has been diluted by overuse. ”
     
     
    Shamron extinguished the lighter and laid the cigarette on the coffee table, where it would be easily accessible for a sneak attack at a moment when Gabriel’s back was turned.
     
     
    “I should have left you in Russia,” Shamron muttered.
     
     
    “How did you get me out?”
     
     
    “When it became clear to our ambassador and Moscow Station chief that the FSB had no intention of respecting your diplomatic passport, we decided to go on offense. Shin Bet regularly monitors the movements of Russian Embassy employees. As it turned out, four of them were drinking heavily in the bar of the Sheraton Hotel.”
     
     
    “How surprising.”
     
     
    “A mile from the hotel, they were pulled over for what appeared to be a routine traffic stop. It wasn’t, of course.”
     
     
    “So you kidnapped four Russian diplomats and held them hostage in order to coerce them into releasing me.”
     
     
    “We Israelites invented tit for tat. Besides, they weren’t just diplomats. Two of them were known intelligence officers of the SVR.”
     
     
    When the KGB was disbanded and reorganized, the directorate that conducted espionage activities abroad became a separate agency known as the Foreign Intelligence Service, or SVR. Like the FSB, the SVR was merely KGB with a new name and a pretty wrapper.
     
     
    “When we received confirmation from the Ukrainians that you’d made it safely across the border, we released them from custody. They’ve been quietly recalled to Moscow for consultations. With a bit of luck, they’ll stay there forever.”
     
     
    The teakettle screamed. Gabriel went into the kitchen and removed it from the stove, then switched on the television while he saw to the coffee. It was tuned to the BBC; a gray-haired reporter was standing before the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral bellowing about the possible motives behind the attempt on Olga Sukhova’s life. None of his theories were even remotely close to the truth, but they were delivered with an authority that only a British accent can bestow. Shamron, who was now standing at Gabriel’s shoulder, seemed to find the report vaguely amusing. He viewed the news media only as a source of entertainment or as a weapon to be wielded against his enemies.
     
     
    “As you can see, the Russians are being rather circumspect about exactly what transpired inside that apartment building. They’ve acknowledged Olga was the target of an attack, but they’ve released few other details about the incident. Nothing about the identity of the gunmen. Nothing about the man who saved her life.”
     
     
    “Where is she now?”
     
     
    “Back in her apartment, surrounded by private security guards and brave Western reporters like our friend from the BBC. She’s as safe as one can be in Russia, which is to say not terribly safe at all. Eventually, she might want to consider a new life in the West.” His eyes settled on Gabriel. “Is she as good as she appears or is it possible she’s something else entirely?”
     
     
    “Are you asking whether she’s been turned by the FSB and was blowing smoke in my face?”
     
     
    “That is precisely what I’m asking.”
     
     
    “She’s golden, Ari. She’s a gift from the intelligence gods.”
     
     
    “I’m just wondering why she asked you to take her home. I’m wondering whether it’s possible she led you into that stairwell to be killed.”
     
     
    “Or maybe that wasn’t Olga Sukhova at all. Maybe it was Ivan Kharkov in a clever disguise.”
     
     
    “I’m paid to think dark thoughts, Gabriel. And so are you.”
     
     
    “I saw her reaction to the shooting. She’s the real thing, Ari. And she agreed to help us at great risk to herself. Remember, I was allowed to leave. Olga is still in Moscow. If the Kremlin wants her dead, they’ll kill her. And there’s nothing those security guards and brave reporters can do to protect her.”
     
     
    They sat down at the kitchen table. The BBC had moved on from Russia and was now showing footage of a fatal bomb blast in a Baghdad market. Gabriel aimed the remote at the screen and, frowning, pressed