Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

“Did he say anything to you?” the detective asked.

“No, nothing. He couldn’t speak.”

“What were you telling him?”

“I was telling him that it was all right to die. I was telling him he would be going to a better place.”

“You are a believer, Signore Allon?”

“Take it back to the shot at fifteen-fifty.”

The Vatican detective did as Gabriel requested and for the second time they watched as Ostrovsky advanced toward the Basilica. And as the solitary figure approached him from the left…

“Stop it right there,” Gabriel said suddenly.

Cassani immediately clicked PAUSE.

“Back it up to the previous frame, please.”

The Vatican detective complied with the request.

“Can you enlarge the image?”

“I can,” Cassani said, “but the resolution will be poor.”

“Do it anyway.”

The Vatican detective used the mouse to crop the image to the necessary dimensions, then clicked the ENLARGE icon. The resolution, as promised, was nebulous at best. Even so, Gabriel could clearly see the right hand of the solitary figure wrapped around the upper portion of Boris Ostrovsky’s right arm.

“Where’s Ostrovsky’s body?”

“In our morgue.”

“Has anyone examined it yet?”

“I gave it a brief examination to see if there were any signs of physical trauma or wounds. There was nothing.”

“If you check again, I suspect you’ll find a very small perforation to the skin of his upper arm. It’s where the assassin injected him with a Russian poison that paralyzes the respiratory system within minutes. It was developed by the KGB during the Cold War.”

“I’ll have a look right away.”

“There’s something I need from you first.” Gabriel tapped the screen. “I need to know what time this man entered the square and which direction he went when he left. And I need the five best pictures of him you can find.”

He was a professional, and, like all professionals, he had been aware of the cameras. He had lowered his guard just once, at 15:47:33, ten seconds after Boris Ostrovsky was first picked up by Vatican surveillance on the edge of the square. The image had been captured by a camera near the Bronze Doors of the Apostolic Palace. It showed a sturdy-jawed man with wide cheekbones, heavy sunglasses, and thick blond hair. Eli Lavon examined the photograph by the glow of a streetlamp atop the Spanish Steps. Fifty yards away, an Office security team was hastily searching the safe flat for traces of toxins or radioactive material.

“The hair is artificial, but I’d say those cheekbones are real. He’s a Russian, Gabriel, and he’s not someone I’d ever care to meet in a dark alley.” Lavon studied the photo showing the assassin’s hand wrapped around Ostrovsky’s upper arm. “Poor Boris barely gives him a look after they bump into each other. I don’t think he ever knew what hit him.”

“He didn’t,” Gabriel said. “He walked straight into the Basilica and followed your instructions as though there was nothing out of the ordinary. Even as he was dying, he didn’t seem to realize why.”

Lavon looked at the photograph of the assassin again. “I stand by what I said as we were leaving the Basilica. Ostrovsky was clean. I didn’t see anyone following him. And there’s no way I could have missed someone who looks like this.”

“Maybe Ostrovsky was clean, but we weren’t.”

“You’re suggesting they were watching the watchers?”

“Exactly.”

“But how did they know we were going to be there?”

“Ostrovsky’s probably been under watch in Moscow for months. When he came to Rome, he made contact with our embassy on an insecure line. Someone from the other side picked up the call, either here in Rome or from a listening post in Moscow. The assassin is a real pro. He knew we wouldn’t go near Ostrovsky without sending him on a surveillance detection run. And he did what real pros are trained to do. He ignored the target and watched us instead.”

“But how did he get to the Vatican ten minutes before Ostrovsky?”

“He must have been following me . I missed him, Eli. It’s my fault Ostrovsky died a miserable death on the floor of the Basilica.”

“It makes sense, but it’s not something your average run-of-the-mill Russian gangster could pull off.”

“We’re not dealing with gangsters. These are professionals.”

Lavon handed the photographs back to Gabriel. “Whatever it was Boris intended to tell you, it must have been important. Someone needs to find out who this man is and whom he’s working for.”

“Yes, someone should.”

“I could be wrong, Gabriel, but I think King Saul Boulevard already has a candidate in mind for the job.”

Lavon handed him a slip of paper.

“What’s this?”

“A message from Shamron.”

“What does it say?”

“It says your honeymoon is now officially over.”

There is a VIP reception room at Ben-Gurion Airport that few people know and where even fewer have set foot. Reached by an unmarked door near passport control, it has walls of Jerusalem limestone, furnishings of black leather, and a permanent odor of burnt coffee and male tension. When Gabriel entered the room the following evening, he found it occupied by a single man. He had settled himself at the edge of his chair, with his legs slightly splayed and his large hands resting atop an olive-wood cane, like a traveler on a rail platform resigned to a long wait. He was dressed, as always, in a pair of pressed khaki trousers and a white oxford cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His head was bullet-shaped and bald, except for a monkish fringe of white hair. His ugly wire-framed spectacles magnified a pair of blue eyes that were no longer clear.

“How long have you been sitting there?” Gabriel asked.

“Since the day you returned to Italy,” replied Ari Shamron.

Gabriel regarded him carefully.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m just wondering why you’re not smoking.”

“Gilah told me I have to quit-or else .”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“This time she means it.”

Gabriel kissed Shamron on the top of the head. “Why didn’t you just let someone from Transport pick me up?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“You live in Tiberias! You’re retired now, Ari. You should be spending time with Gilah to make up for all those years when you were never around.”

“I’m never going to retire!” Shamron thumped the arm of his chair for emphasis. “As for Gilah, she was the one who suggested I come here to wait for you. She told me to get out of the house for a few hours. She said I was underfoot.”

Shamron closed his hooded eyes for a moment and gave a ghost of a smile. His loved ones, like his power and influence, had slowly slipped through his fingers. His son was a brigadier general in the IDF’s Northern Command and used almost any excuse to avoid spending time with his famous father, as did his daughter, who had finally returned to Israel after spending years abroad. Only Gilah, his long-suffering wife, remained faithfully by his side, but now that Shamron had no formal role in the affairs of state, even Gilah, a woman of infinite patience, found his constant presence a burden. His real family were men like Gabriel, Navot, and Lavon-men whom he had recruited and trained, men who operated by a creed, even spoke a language, written by him. They were the secret guardians of the State, and Ari Shamron was their overbearing, tyrannical father.

“I made a foolish wager a long time ago,” Shamron said. “I devoted my life to building and protecting this country and I assumed that my wife and children would forgive my sins of absence and neglect. I was wrong, of course.”