Moscow Rules

Russians.”
     
     
    “Let’s just say that no one expressed any surprise at my accent there,” Mikhail replied.
     
     
    “I hope our countrymen are behaving themselves.”
     
     
    “For the most part. But I’m afraid there was one minor incident at the pool involving a middle-aged Moscow businessman and his extremely young girlfriend.”
     
     
    “What sort of incident?”
     
     
    Mikhail made a show of thought. “I suppose uncontrolled lust would be the best way to describe it in polite company.”
     
     
    “I hear there’s a great deal of that going around,” Elena said. “We Russians love it here in France, but I’m not so sure the French love us in return. Some of my countrymen don’t know how to conduct themselves in polite company yet. They like to drink vodka instead of wine. And they like to flaunt their pretty young mistresses.”
     
     
    “The French like anyone with money and power,” said Mikhail. “And, at the moment, the Russians have both.”
     
     
    “Now, if we could only learn some manners.” Elena turned her gaze from Mikhail to Sarah. “By the way, the answer to your question is yes.”
     
     
    Sarah was momentarily confused. Elena tapped the postcard with her fingertip. “The Cassatt,” she said. “I am enjoying it. In fact, I’m enjoying it a great deal. I’m not sure whether you know this, Sarah, but I own six other paintings by Madame Cassatt. I know her work extremely well. I think this one might actually be my favorite.”
     
     
    “I’m glad you feel that way. It takes away some of the sting of losing it.”
     
     
    “Has it been hard for you?”
     
     
    “The first night was hard. And the first morning was even worse.”
     
     
    “Then you must come see it again. It’s here, you know.”
     
     
    “We wouldn’t want to impose.”
     
     
    “Not at all. In fact, I insist that you come tomorrow. You’ll have lunch and a swim.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added: “And you can see the painting, of course.”
     
     
    A waiter appeared and placed a plate of steak haché avec pomme frites in front of each child. Elena instructed Sarah and Mikhail to have a look at the menu and was opening her own when her mobile phone began to chime. She drew it from her handbag and looked at the display screen before lifting the cover. The conversation that followed was brief and conducted in Russian. When it was over, she closed the phone with a snap and placed it carefully on the table before her. Then she looked at Sarah and treated her to another smile filled with false light.
     
     
    “Ivan was planning to take his yacht out to sea this afternoon but he’s decided to join us for lunch instead. He’s just over in the harbor. He’ll be here in a minute or two.”
     
     
    “How lovely,” said Sarah.
     
     
    Elena closed her menu and shot a glance at the bodyguards. “Yes,” she said. “Ivan can be very thoughtful when he wants to be.”
     

 
    38
     
     
    SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
     
     
    The "arrival,"” as it would become known in the lexicon of the operation, took place precisely forty-seven seconds after Elena laid her mobile phone upon the white tablecloth. Though Ivan had been standing just three hundred yards away at the moment he placed the call, he came by armored Mercedes rather than on foot, lest one of his enemies was lurking amid the sea of humanity shuffling listlessly along the quays of the Old Port. The car roared into the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville at high speed and stopped abruptly a few feet from Grand Joseph’s entrance. Ivan waited in the backseat another fifteen seconds, long enough to ignite a murmur of intense speculation inside the restaurant as to his identity, nationality, and profession. Then he emerged in an aggressive blur, like a prizefighter charging from his corner to finish off a hapless opponent. Once inside the restaurant, he paused again in the entranceway, this time to survey the room and to allow the room to survey him in return. He wore loose-fitting trousers of black linen and a shirt of luminous white cotton. His iron hair shone with a fresh coat of oil, and around his thick left wrist was a gold watch the size of a sundial. It glittered like plundered treasure as he strode over to the table.
     
     
    He did not sit down immediately; instead, he stood for a moment at Elena’s back and placed his huge hands proprietarily around the base of her neck. The faces of Nikolai and Anna brightened with