Moscow Rules

considerate, somewhat shy young man was actually locking dissidents away in mental hospitals and the gulag.”
     
     
    “What happened?”
     
     
    “The money happened. The money changed everything. It’s changed Russia, too. Money is the new KGB in Russia. Money controls our lives. And the pursuit of money prevents us from questioning the actions of our so-called democratic government.”
     
     
    Elena reached toward the face of one of the children, the little boy, and stroked the cracks on his cheek.
     
     
    “Whoever did this is quite good,” she said. “I assume you know him?”
     
     
    “Very well, actually.” A silence, then: “Would you like to meet him?”
     
     
    “Who is he?”
     
     
    “It’s not important. It’s only important that you agree to see him. He’s trying to save innocent lives. He needs your help.”
     
     
    Elena’s finger moved to the face of the other child. “How will we do it? Ivan sees everything.”
     
     
    “I’m afraid we’re going to need to tell a small lie.”
     
     
    “What kind of small lie?”
     
     
    “I want you to spend the rest of the afternoon flirting with Mikhail,” Sarah said. “Mikhail will tell you everything you need to know.”
     
     
    Sarah’s BlackBerry had one feature not available on over-the-counter models: the ability to encode and "squirt” data messages to a nearby receiver in less than a thousandth of a second. The message she transmitted early that evening was greeted with much celebration at the villa in Gassin. Gabriel immediately sent word to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard and the Global Ops Center at CIA Headquarters in Langley. Then he gathered his team and began putting the final touches on the next phase of the operation. The small lie they were going to tell Ivan. The small lie to cover the much bigger one.
     

 
    41
     
     
    SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
     
     
    The storms had come down from the Maritime Alps after midnight and laid siege to Ivan Kharkov’s fortress on the Baie de Cavalaire. Elena Kharkov had not been awakened by the violent weather. Having endured two sleepless nights already, she had taken twice her normal dose of sedative. Now, she woke grudgingly and in stages, like a diver rising to the surface from a great depth. She lay motionless for some time, eyes closed, head throbbing, unable to recall her dreams. Finally, she reached blindly toward Ivan’s side of the bed and her hand caressed the warm supple form of a young girl. For an instant, she feared Ivan had been so audacious as to bring Yekatarina into their bed. Then she opened her eyes and saw it was only Anna. The child was wearing Ivan’s gold reading glasses and was scribbling with Ivan’s gold fountain pen on the back of some important business documents. Elena smiled in spite of her headache.
     
     
    “Tell Maria to bring me a café au lait. A very large café au lait.”
     
     
    “I’m very busy. I’m working, just like Papa.”
     
     
    “Get me a coffee, Anna, or I’ll beat you severely.”
     
     
    “But you never beat me, Mama.”
     
     
    “It’s never too late to start.”
     
     
    Anna scribbled stubbornly away.
     
     
    “Please, Anna, I’m begging. Mama’s not feeling well.”
     
     
    The child exhaled heavily; then, in a gesture that mimicked her father to perfection, she flung the papers and pen onto the nightstand in mock anger and threw aside the blanket. As she started to climb out of bed, Elena reached out suddenly and drew her tightly to her body.
     
     
    “I thought you wanted coffee.”
     
     
    “I do. But I want to hold you for a minute first.”
     
     
    “What’s wrong, Mama? You seem sad.”
     
     
    “I just love you very much.”
     
     
    “Does that make you sad?”
     
     
    “Sometimes.” Elena kissed Anna’s cheek. “Go, now. And don’t come back without coffee.”
     
     
    She closed her eyes again and listened to the patter of Anna’s bare feet receding. A gust of cool wind moved in the curtains and made shadows dance and play for her on the walls of the bedroom. Like all the rooms of the house, it was far too large for familial or marital intimacy, and now, alone in the cavernous space, Elena felt a prisoner to its vastness. She pulled the blankets tightly to her chin, creating a small space for herself, and thought of Leningrad before the fall. As a child of a senior Communist Party official, she had lived a life of Soviet privilege—a life of special stores,