Moscow Rules

open wooden gate and, beyond the gate, the courtyard of a tiny stucco villa. Mikhail switched off the engine.
     
     
    “Remember how it looks, Elena. It’s important you’re able to recall small details. Ivan will expect that when he questions you.”
     
     
    “Where are we?”
     
     
    “Somewhere in the mountains. You’re not exactly sure. We were attracted to one another from the moment we met at Grand Joseph. Ivan didn’t notice because he was thinking about Yekatarina. You were vulnerable; I could see that. I just had to think of some way to get you alone. I knew a hotel wouldn’t do, so I took the liberty of renting this place from a local estate agent for the week.”
     
     
    He removed the keys from the ignition.
     
     
    “You did everything the way we asked? You dialed Yekatarina’s room at the Carlton? You left clothes all over your room for Ivan and the housekeepers to see?”
     
     
    “I did everything.”
     
     
    “Then you have nothing to worry about. You’ll tell Ivan that you’ve suspected he was being unfaithful for years. You’ll tell him you’ve had suspicions about Yekatarina for a long time and that these suspicions were confirmed by the numbers you found on his mobile phone. You’ll tell him I made a pass at you the afternoon we came to the villa. That you were so angry and hurt that you were unable to resist. You’ll tell him you wanted to punish him and that the only way was to give your body to another man. He’s going to be furious, of course, but he’ll have no reason to doubt the veracity of your story since he knows he is guilty of the sins you accuse him of committing. Sleeping with me was a crime of passion and anger, something Ivan understands all too well. In due time, he’ll forgive you.”
     
     
    “He might forgive me but not you.”
     
     
    “I’m none of your concern. In fact, you will soon hate me for the trouble I’ve caused you. As far as you’re concerned, I can look after myself.”
     
     
    “Can you?”
     
     
    “Quite well, actually.” He opened the door. “Time to go inside, Elena. There’s someone inside who’s very anxious to meet you.”
     
     
    It was the antithesis of Villa Soleil, a small, tidy space of whitewashed walls, terra-cotta floors, and rustic Provençal furniture. Seated at a rough-hewn wood table was a man of indeterminate age and nationality, with a long nose that looked as though it had been carved with a chisel and the greenest eyes Elena had ever seen. He rose slowly to his feet as she approached and extended his hand without speaking. Mikhail handled the introductions.
     
     
    “Meet the man who painted your Cassatt, Elena. I am about to commit the grave professional sin of telling you his real name, which is Gabriel Allon. He wants you to know it, because he admires you deeply and does not wish to lie to you. You are in the presence of royalty, Elena—at least as far as the inhabitants of our world are concerned. I’ll leave you to your business.”
     
     
    Mikhail withdrew. Gabriel looked at Elena in silence for a moment, then, with a glance, invited her to sit. He retook his seat on the opposite side of the table and folded his hands before him. They were dark and smooth, with slender, articulate fingers. The hands of a musician, thought Elena. The hands of an artist.
     
     
    “I would like to begin by thanking you,” he said.
     
     
    “For what?”
     
     
    “For having the courage to come forward.”
     
     
    “What are you talking about?”
     
     
    “We’re here because of you, Elena. We’re here because you summoned us.”
     
     
    “But I didn’t summon you. I didn’t summon anyone.”
     
     
    “Of course you did. You summoned us with Olga Sukhova. And with Aleksandr Lubin. And with Boris Ostrovsky. Whether you realized it or not, Elena, you sent them to us. But you only gave them a part of the story. Now you have to tell us the rest.”
     
     
    There was something in his accent she could not quite place. He was a polyglot, she decided. A man without roots. A man who had lived many places. A man with many names.
     
     
    “Who do you work for?”
     
     
    “I am employed by a small agency answerable only to the prime minister of the State of Israel. But there are other countries involved as well. Your husband’s actions have caused an international crisis. And the response to this crisis has been international as well.”
     
     
    “Is Sarah an Israeli,