Moscow Rules

before the Wall came down.”
     
     
    “You’re upset about something. I can always tell when you’re upset. You make terrible jokes to cover it up.”
     
     
    “I’m upset because it appears a Russian arms trafficker named Ivan Kharkov is planning to sell some very dangerous weapons to al-Qaeda. And because the woman who risked her life to tell us about it is now in very serious danger.” He hesitated, then added, “And because it’s going to be a while before we can resume our honeymoon in Umbria.”
     
     
    “You’re not thinking about going back to Russia?”
     
     
    “Just Washington.”
     
     
    She stroked his beard and said, “Have a nice trip, Abraham.”
     
     
    Then she walked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
     
     
    She’s Office , he told himself. She’ll understand .
     
     
    Eventually.
     

 
    23
     
     
    GEORGETOWN
     
     
    The CIA sent a plane for him, a Gulfstream G500, with leather club chairs, in-flight action movies, and a galley stocked with a vast amount of unwholesome snack food. It touched down at Andrews Air Force Base in the equatorial heat of midday and was met in a secure hangar by a pair of Agency security agents. Gabriel recognized them; they were the same two officers who had dragged him against his will to CIA Headquarters during his last visit to Washington. He feared a return engagement now but was pleasantly surprised when their destination turned out to be a graceful redbrick town house in the 3300 block of N Street in Georgetown. Waiting in the entrance hall was a man of retirement age, dressed in a navy blue blazer and crumpled gabardine trousers. He had the tousled thinning hair of a university professor and a mustache that had gone out of fashion with disco music, Crock-Pots, and the nuclear freeze. “Gabriel,” said Adrian Carter as he extended his hand. “So good of you to come.”
     
     
    “You’re looking well, Adrian.”
     
     
    “And you’re still a terrible liar.” He looked at Gabriel’s face and frowned. “I assume that lovely bruise on your cheek is a souvenir of your night in Lubyanka?”
     
     
    “I wanted to bring you something, but the gift shop was closed.”
     
     
    Carter gave a faint smile and took Gabriel by the elbow. “I thought you might be hungry after your travels. I’ve arranged for some lunch. How was the flight, by the way?”
     
     
    “It was very considerate of you to send your plane on such short notice.”
     
     
    “That one isn’t mine,” Carter said without elaboration.
     
     
    “Air Guantánamo?”
     
     
    “And points in between.”
     
     
    “So that explains the handcuffs and the hypodermics.”
     
     
    “It beats having to listen to them talk. Your average jihadi makes a damn lousy traveling companion.”
     
     
    They entered the living room. It was a formal Georgetown salon, rectangular and high-ceilinged, with French doors overlooking a small terrace. The furnishings were costly but in poor taste, the sort of pieces one finds in the hospitality suite of a luxury business hotel. The impression was made complete by the catered buffet-style meal that had been laid upon the sideboard. All that was missing was a pretty young hostess to offer Gabriel a glass of mediocre chardonnay.
     
     
    Carter wandered over to the buffet and selected a ham sandwich and a ginger ale. Gabriel drew a cup of black coffee from a silver pump-action thermos and sat in a wing chair next to the French doors. Carter sat down next to him and balanced his plate on his knees.
     
     
    “Shamron tells me Ivan has been a bad boy again. Give me everything you’ve got. And don’t spare me any of the details.” He cracked open his soft drink. “I happen to love stories about Ivan. They serve as helpful reminders that there are some people in this world who will do absolutely anything for money.”
     
     
    It wasn’t long after Gabriel began his briefing that Carter seemed to lose his appetite. He placed his partially eaten sandwich on the table next to his chair and sat motionless as a statue, with his legs crossed and his hands bunched thoughtfully beneath his chin. It had been Gabriel’s experience that any decent spy was at his core a good listener. It came naturally to Carter, like his gift for languages, his ability to blend into his surroundings, and his humility. Little about Carter’s clinical demeanor suggested that he was one of the most powerful members of Washington’s intelligence