Moscow Rules

bodyguards. Arkady Medvedev was there as well. Arkady is the chief of my husband’s personal security service. The bodyguards have a joke about Arkady. They say Arkady is Ivan on his worst day.”
     
     
    “Where was the delegation from?”
     
     
    “They were from Africa. Sub-Saharan Africa.” She managed a smile. “Sarah’s area of expertise.”
     
     
    “Which country?”
     
     
    “I couldn’t say.”
     
     
    “Did you meet them?”
     
     
    “I’m never allowed to meet them.”
     
     
    “Had you ever seen any of them before?”
     
     
    “No, just different versions of them. They’re all the same, really. They speak different languages. They fly different flags. They fight for different causes. But in the end they’re all the same.”
     
     
    “Where were you while they were in the dacha?”
     
     
    “Upstairs in our bedroom.”
     
     
    “Were you ever able to hear their voices?”
     
     
    “Sometimes. Their leader was a giant of a man. He was a baritone. His voice made the walls vibrate. He had a laugh like thunder.”
     
     
    “You’re a linguist, Elena. If they spoke another European language, what would it be?”
     
     
    “French. Most definitely French. It had that lilt, you know?”
     
     
    They drank first, she said. There was always drinking involved when Ivan was planning a dance. By the time the hard bargaining began, the guests were well lubricated, and Ivan made no effort to control the volume of their voices, especially the voice of their baritone leader. Elena began to hear words and terms she recognized: AKs. RPGs. Mortars. Specific types of ammunition. Helicopter gunships. Tanks.
     
     
    “Before long they were arguing about money. The prices of specific weapons and systems. Commissions. Bribes. Shipping and handling. I knew enough about my husband’s business dealings to realize they were discussing a major arms deal—most likely with an African nation that was under international embargo. You see, Mr. Allon, these are the men who come to my husband, men who cannot purchase arms legally on the open market. That’s why Ivan is so successful. He fills a very specific need. And that’s why the poorest nations on earth pay vastly inflated prices for the weaponry they use to slaughter each other.”
     
     
    “How big a deal are we talking about?”
     
     
    “The kind that is measured in hundreds of millions of dollars.” She paused, then said, “Why do you think Ivan didn’t bat an eye when I asked him for two and a half million dollars for your worthless Cassatt?”
     
     
    “How long did these men stay in your home?”
     
     
    “Until early the next morning. When they finally left, Ivan came upstairs to our room. He was soaring. I’d seen him in moods like that, too. It was bloodlust. He crawled into bed and practically raped me. He needed a body to pillage. Any body. He settled for mine.”
     
     
    “When did you realize this deal was different?”
     
     
    “Two nights later.”
     
     
    “What happened?”
     
     
    “I answered a phone I shouldn’t have answered. And I listened long after I should have hung up. Simple as that.”
     
     
    “You were still at the dacha?”
     
     
    “No, we’d left the dacha by then and had returned to Zhukovka.”
     
     
    “Who was on the line?”
     
     
    “Arkady Medvedev.”
     
     
    “Why was he calling?”
     
     
    “There was a problem with final arrangements for the big dance.”
     
     
    “What sort of trouble?”
     
     
    "Big trouble. Merchandise-gone-astray trouble.”
     
     
    Ivan had a tradition after big transactions. The blowout, he called it. A night on the town for the clients, all expenses paid, the bigger the deal, the bigger the party. Drinks in the hottest bars. Dinner in the trendiest restaurants. A nightcap with the most beautiful young girls Moscow had to offer. And a team of Ivan’s bodyguards serving as chaperones to make sure there was no trouble. The blowout with the African delegation was a rampage. It began at six in the evening and went straight through till nine the next night, when they finally crawled back to their beds at the Ukraina Hotel and passed out.
     
     
    “It’s one of the reasons Ivan has so many repeat customers. He always treats them well. No delays, no missing stock, no rusty bullets. The dictators and the warlords hate rusty bullets. They say Ivan’s stock is always top drawer, just like Ivan’s parties.”
     
     
    The post-transaction