Moscow Rules

see,” she said. “Shall I make a batch of scones?”
     
     
    “She’s not exactly a scone person, if you catch my meaning.”
     
     
    “I’m not sure I do, Sir John.”
     
     
    “She’s a Russian , Lillian. A very well-to-do Russian. I doubt she’ll be staying for tea. With a bit of luck, she’ll have a very quick look and be on her way.”
     
     
    Mrs. Devlin remained rooted in the doorway.
     
     
    “Something bothering you, Lillian?”
     
     
    “May I speak bluntly, Sir John?”
     
     
    “You usually do.”
     
     
    “Is there something going on at Havermore that you’re not telling me?”
     
     
    “Many things, I suppose. You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”
     
     
    “The odd man in the gamekeeper’s cottage. The lovely young girl who claims to be the daughter of your American friend. The men doing the electrical work all through the house. Old George is convinced they’re up to no good in the barn!”
     
     
    “Old George sees conspiracies everywhere, Lillian.”
     
     
    “And now you’re thinking about selling that beautiful painting to a Russian ? Your poor father, may he rest in peace, would be spinning in his grave.”
     
     
    “I need the money, Lillian. We need the money.”
     
     
    She tugged skeptically on the drawstring of her apron. “I’m not sure I believe you, Sir John. I think something important is going on in this house. Something to do with secrets, just like when your father was alive.”
     
     
    Boothby gave her a conspiratorial look over his whiskey. “The Russians will be arriving at four o’clock sharp, Lillian.” He paused. “If you would rather not be here—”
     
     
    “I’ll be here, Sir John,” she said quickly.
     
     
    “What about Old George?”
     
     
    “Perhaps we should give him the afternoon off, sir.”
     
     
    “Perhaps we should.”
     

 
    34
     
     
    HAVERMORE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE
     
     
    The limousines passed the concealed checkpoint on the Station Road at 3:45: two custom Mercedes-Benz S65s with blacked-out windows, riding low and heavy with bulletproof glass and armor. They flashed down the terraced High Street of Chipping Camden, past the quaint shops and the old limestone St. James’ Church, and roared out of town again on Dyers Lane. One shopkeeper timed the run at sixteen seconds, shortest visit to Chipping Camden in recorded history.
     
     
    At the once-grand estate known as Havermore, there was no visible evidence to suggest that anyone was aware of the cars’ rapid approach. Mrs. Devlin was in the kitchen, where, in contravention of Sir John’s direct orders, she was putting the final touches on a tray of fresh scones, strawberry jam, and Cotswold clotted cream. Sir John was unaware of her rebellion, for he was sequestered in the library, pondering serious and weighty matters. As for the attractive young woman known to them as Sarah Crawford, she was coming up the footpath from the East Meadow wearing a pair of green Wellington boots, with Punch and Judy watching her back like tiny tan bodyguards.
     
     
    Only in the hayloft of the tumbledown barn were there hints that something truly out of the ordinary was about to take place. Four men were there, seated before a bank of video and audio monitors. Two of the men were young, scruffy technicians. The third was a tall figure of authority who looked as though he had stepped out of a magazine advertisement. The fourth had short dark hair with ash-colored temples. His eyes were fixed on a video image of the young woman, who was in the process of removing her Wellingtons in the mudroom and changing into a pair of sensible black flats. She entered the kitchen and playfully dipped a finger into Mrs. Devlin’s fresh cream, then passed through a pair of double doors and made her way into the entrance hall. There, standing before a long mirror, she smoothed the front of her white blouse and pale yellow pedal pushers and adjusted the sweater knotted with feigned casualness round her shoulders. She wore only a hint of blush on her alabaster cheeks and cat-eyed spectacles instead of contact lenses. Your beauty must pose no challenge to Elena’s , the man with ash-colored temples had told her. Elena’s not used to finishing second at anything .
     
     
    At precisely 4:04, the pair of armored Mercedes limousines turned through the gates of Havermore and started up the long drive. The men in the hayloft saw them first, followed by Sir John, whose library window gave