Moscow Rules

Otherwise, I’m going to pick up that phone over there and call my friend at the White House. I still have that number you gave me in Copenhagen, the one that rings directly in the Oval Office.”
     
     
    “You wouldn’t.”
     
     
    “In a heartbeat.”
     
     
    “I’ll get the material released to you within twenty-four hours. What else do you need?”
     
     
    “A Russian speaker.”
     
     
    “Believe it or not, we’ve still got a few of those.”
     
     
    “Actually, I have one in mind. I need you to get him into the country right away.”
     
     
    “Who is it?”
     
     
    Gabriel told him the name.
     
     
    “Done,” said Carter. “Where do you intend to set up shop? At your embassy?”
     
     
    “I’ve never been fond of embassies.” Gabriel looked around the room. “This will do quite nicely. But do me a favor, Adrian. Ask your techs to come over here and remove all the cameras and microphones. I don’t want your bloodhounds watching me while I shower.”
     

 
    24
     
     
    GEORGETOWN
     
     
    It took Adrian Carter the better part of the next morning to secure the authorization necessary to release the Kharkov files into Gabriel’s custody. Then several additional hours elapsed while they were gathered, sorted, and purged of anything remotely embarrassing to the Central Intelligence Agency or the government of the United States. Finally, at seven that evening, the material was delivered to the house on N Street by an unmarked Agency van. Carter stopped by to supervise the load in and to secure Gabriel’s signature on a draconian release form. Hastily drafted by a CIA lawyer, it threatened criminal prosecution and many other forms of punishment if Gabriel shared the documents or their contents with anyone else.
     
     
    “This document is ridiculous, Adrian. How can I operate without sharing the intelligence?”
     
     
    “Just sign it,” Carter said. “It doesn’t mean what it says. It’s just the lawyers being lawyers.”
     
     
    Gabriel scribbled his name in Hebrew across the bottom of the form and handed it to Eli Lavon, who had just arrived from Tel Aviv. Lavon signed it without protest and gave it back to Adrian Carter.
     
     
    “No one is allowed in or out of the house while this material is on the premises. And that includes you two. Don’t think about trying to sneak out, because I’ve got a team of watchers on N Street and another in the alley.”
     
     
    When Carter departed, they divided up the files and retreated to separate quarters. Gabriel took several boxes of Agency cables, along with the data assembled by the now-defunct NSC task force, and settled into the library. Eli Lavon took everything from NSA—the transcripts and the original recordings—and set up shop in the drawing room.
     
     
    For the remainder of the evening, and late into the night, they were treated to the sound of Ivan Kharkov’s voice. Ivan the banker and Ivan the builder. Ivan the real estate mogul and Ivan the international investor. Ivan the very emblem of a Russia resurgent. They listened while he negotiated with the mayor of Moscow over a prime piece of riverfront property where he wished to develop an American-style shopping mall. They listened while he coerced a fellow Russian businessman into surrendering his share of a lucrative Bentley dealership located near the Kremlin walls. They listened while he threatened to castrate the owner of a London moving company over damage to his mansion in Belgravia incurred during the delivery of a Bösendorfer piano. And they listened to a rather tense conversation with an underling called Valery who was having difficulty obtaining the clearance for a large shipment of medical equipment to Sierra Leone. The equipment must have been urgently needed, for, twenty minutes later, NSA intercepted a second call to Valery, during which Ivan said the papers were now in order and that the flight could proceed to Freetown without delay.
     
     
    When not tending to his far-flung business empire, Ivan juggled his many women. There was Yekatarina, the supermodel whom he kept for personal viewing in an apartment in Paris. There was Tatyana, the Aeroflot flight attendant who saw to his needs each time their paths happened to intersect. And there was poor Ludmila, who had come to London looking for a way out of her dreary Siberian village and had found Ivan instead. She had believed Ivan’s lies and, when cast aside, had threatened to tell Elena