Moscow Rules

England. Two hours later, they checked into their suite at the Château de la Messardière, a luxury five-star hotel located a few minutes from the centre ville. The bellman who showed the young couple to an ocean-view room reported to his colleagues that they could barely keep their hands off one another. The next morning, while the guests were partaking of a buffet breakfast, the chambermaids found their king-size bed in a shambles.
     
     
    They drifted through the same world but along distinctly parallel planes. When Elena and the children chose to remain cloistered at the Villa Soleil, Sarah and her lover would spend the day poolside at the Messardière—or “the Mess,” as they referred to it privately. And when Elena and the children chose to spend the day frolicking in the gentle surf of Tahiti Beach, Sarah and her lover would be stretched out on the sands of the Plage de Pampelonne instead. And if Elena chose to do a bit of late-afternoon shopping on the rue Gambetta, Sarah and her lover could be found strolling past the storefronts of the rue Georges Clemenceau or having a quiet drink in one of the bars on the Place Carnot. And at night, when Elena and Ivan dined at Villa Romana or one of the other Russian haunts, Sarah and her lover would dine quietly at the Mess—in close proximity to their room, lest the urge to ravage each other grow too strong to resist.
     
     
    It proceeded in this seemingly directionless fashion until the early afternoon of the fourth day, when Elena decided the time had finally come to have lunch at Grand Joseph, her favorite restaurant in Saint-Tropez. She reserved early—a requirement in August, even for the wife of an oligarch—and although she did not know it, her call was intercepted by an NSA spy satellite floating high overhead. Due to a minor traffic accident on the D61, she and the children arrived at the restaurant seventeen minutes late, accompanied, as usual, by a team of four bodyguards. Jean-Luc, the maître d’, greeted Elena effusively with kisses on both cheeks before conveying the party to their tables along the creamy white banquette. Elena took a seat with her back turned discreetly to the room, while her bodyguards settled at each end of the table. They took only scant notice of the postcard that arrived with her bottle of rosé, though it sent a jolt of fear the length of Elena’s body. She concealed it with a look of mild displeasure, then picked up the card and read the handwritten note scribbled on the back:
     
     
     
    Elena,
     
     
    I hope you’re enjoying the Cassatt. May we join you?
     
     
    Sarah
     
     

 
    37
     
     
    SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
     
     
    Wineglass in hand, Mikhail at her side, Sarah gazed calmly across the crowded dining room toward Elena’s long back. The postcard was still in Elena’s grasp. She was gazing down at it with an air of mild curiosity, as was Oleg, her chief bodyguard. She laid the postcard on the tablecloth and turned slowly around to survey the room. Twice, her gaze passed over Sarah with no visible sign of recognition. Elena Kharkov was a child of Leningrad, Sarah thought. A child of the Party. She knew how to scan a room for watchers before making a meeting. She knew how to play the game by the Moscow Rules.
     
     
    On its third sweep over the room, her gaze finally settled on Sarah’s face. She lifted the postcard dramatically and opened her mouth wide in a show of surprise. The smile was forced and illuminated with artificial light, but her bodyguards could not see it. Then, before they could react, she was suddenly on her feet and flowing across the dining room, her hips swiveling as she maneuvered between the tightly packed tables, her white skirt swirling around her suntanned thighs. Sarah stood to greet her; Elena kissed her formally on each cheek and pressed her mouth to Sarah’s ear. The right ear, Sarah noted. The one her bodyguardscouldn’t see. “I can’t believe it’s really you! What a wonderful surprise!” Then, in a quiet voice that caused a cavernous ache in Sarah’s abdomen: “You’ll be careful, won’t you? My husband is a very dangerous man.”
     
     
    Elena released her tense grip on Sarah and looked at Mikhail, who had risen to his feet and was standing silently at his chair. She appraised him carefully, as though he were a painting propped on a viewing easel, then extended a bejeweled hand while Sarah saw to the introduction.
     
     
    “This is my very good friend, Michael