Moscow Rules

World War. Ran captured German spies back to their masters in Berlin. And, yes, he was a ruthless bastard. But there are times when one has to be. These are such times, Alistair.”
     
     
    “I’m wondering whether there’s a chance Sir John might have had a change of heart,” Gabriel said. “I’m wondering whether it might be time to have another go at him.”
     
     
    “He’s not going to sell that painting—at least, not to Elena Kharkov.”
     
     
    “Why not?”
     
     
    “Because in a moment of professional indiscretion, I may have mentioned that the prospective buyer was the wife of a Russian oligarch. Boothby’s father spent the final years of his career battling KGB spies. The old man didn’t hold with the Russians. Neither does Sir John.”
     
     
    “Sounds like a patriot to me,” said Graham Seymour.
     
     
    “I might use another word to describe him,” Leach muttered. “Elena Kharkov would have paid a premium for that painting. Two million pounds, maybe a bit more. He would have been wise to take the deal. From what I hear, Sir John is not exactly flush with funds at the moment.”
     
     
    “Perhaps we can convince him to see the error of his ways.”
     
     
    “Good luck. But remember, if that Cassatt changes hands, I get my cut.”
     
     
    “How much are you getting these days, Alistair?” asked Gabriel.
     
     
    Leach smiled. “You have your secrets, Signore Delvecchio. And I have mine.”
     

 
    31
     
     
    GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND
     
     
    Havermore, the ancestral home of the Boothby clan, lay five miles to the northwest of the picturesque Cotswold Hills market town of Chipping Camden. At its zenith, the estate had sprawled over eight hundred acres of rolling pastures and wooded hills and had employed several dozen men and women from the surrounding villages. Its fortunes had dwindled in recent years, along with those of the family that owned it. All but a hundred acres had been sold off, and the manor house, a honey-colored limestone monstrosity, had fallen into a state of rather alarming disrepair. As for the staff, it now consisted of a single farmhand called Old George Merrywood and a plump housekeeper named Mrs. Lillian Devlin.
     
     
    She greeted Gabriel and Graham Seymour early the next afternoon and informed them Sir John was eagerly awaiting their arrival. They found him standing before an easel in a patch of overgrown grass called the East Meadow, flailing away at a dreadful landscape. Boothby and Graham Seymour shook hands cordially and regarded each other for a moment in silence. They were of similar size and shape, though John Boothby was several years older and several inches bigger around the middle. He wore Wellington boots and a tan smock. His thick gray hair and tangled eyebrows gave him the appearance of a bottlebrush come to life.
     
     
    “This is an associate of mine,” Seymour said, his hand resting on Gabriel’s shoulder. “He’s a fellow traveler, Sir John. He works for an intelligence service in the Middle East whose interests occasionally intersect with our own.”
     
     
    “So you’re an Israeli then,” said Boothby, shaking Gabriel’s hand.
     
     
    “I’m afraid so,” replied Gabriel contritely.
     
     
    “No apologies necessary around here, my dear fellow. I have no quarrel with Israelis— or Jews, for that matter. We Europeans dropped you into the swamp, didn’t we? And now we condemn you for daring to stand your ground.” He released Gabriel’s hand. “Do I get to know your name or are names off-limits?”
     
     
    “His name is Gabriel, Sir John. Gabriel Allon.”
     
     
    Boothby gave a wry smile. “I thought it was you. An honor, Mr. Allon.” He returned to the easel and looked morosely at the painting. “Bloody awful, isn’t it? I can never seem to get the trees right.”
     
     
    “May I?” asked Gabriel.
     
     
    “Do you paint, too?”
     
     
    “When I get the chance.”
     
     
    Boothby handed him the brush. Gabriel worked on the painting for thirty seconds, then stepped aside.
     
     
    “Good Lord! But that’s bloody marvelous . You’re obviously a man of considerable talent.” He took Gabriel by the arm. “Let’s go up to the house, shall we? Mrs. Devlin has made a roast.”
     
     
    They ate outside on the terrace beneath an umbrella that gave their faces the sepia coloring of an old photograph. Gabriel remained largely silent during the meal while Graham Seymour talked at length about