Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

“Chances are, the Russian security services will recognize it, too.”

“We have a plan for that,” Shamron said.

The Old Man smiled. He had a plan for everything.

There were security agents at either end of Narkiss Street, a quiet, leafy lane in the heart of Jerusalem, and another standing watch outside the entrance of the dowdy little limestone apartment house at Number 16. Gabriel, as he crossed the tiny foyer with Shamron at his heels, didn’t bother checking the postbox. He never received mail, and the name on the box was false. As far as the bureaucracy of the State of Israel was concerned, Gabriel Allon did not exist. He was no one, he lived nowhere. He was the eternal wandering Jew.

Uzi Navot was seated on the living-room couch in Gabriel’s apartment, with his feet propped on the coffee table and an Israeli diplomatic passport wedged between the first two fingers of his right hand. He adopted an expression of bored indifference as he handed it over for inspection. Gabriel opened the cover and looked at the photograph. It showed a silver-haired man with a neat gray beard and round eyeglasses. The silver hair was the handiwork of a stylist who worked for Identity. The gray beard, unfortunately, was his own.

“Who’s Natan Golani?”

“A midlevel functionary in the Ministry of Culture. He specializes in building artistic bridges between Israel and the rest of the world: peace through art, dance, music, and other pointless endeavors. I’m told Natan is rather handy with a paintbrush himself.”

“Has he ever been to Russia?”

“No, but he’s about to.” Navot removed his feet from the coffee table and sat up. “Six days from now, the deputy minister is scheduled to travel from Jerusalem to Russia for an official visit. We’ve prevailed upon him to become ill at the last moment.”

“And Natan Golani will go in his place?”

“Provided the Russians agree to grant him a visa. The ministry anticipates no problems on that front.”

“What’s the purpose of his trip?”

Navot reached into his stainless steel attaché case and removed a glossy magazine-sized brochure. He held it aloft for Gabriel to see the cover, then dropped it on the coffee table. Gabriel’s eyes focused on a single word: UNESCO.

“Perhaps it escaped your notice, but the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, better known as UNESCO, has declared this ‘the decade for the promotion of a culture of peace and nonviolence for the children of the world.’ ”

“You’re right, Uzi. Somehow I missed that.”

“In furtherance of that noble goal, it holds a conference each year to assess progress and discuss new initiatives. This year’s conference will be held at the Marble Palace in St. Petersburg.”

“How many days of this nonsense do I have to sit through?”

“Three,” said Navot. “Your speech is scheduled for day two of the conference. Your remarks will focus on a groundbreaking new program we’ve instituted to improve cultural ties between Israelis and our Arab neighbors. You will be roundly criticized and, in all likelihood, denounced as an oppressor and an occupier. Many of those in attendance will not hear your remarks, however, because, as is customary, they will walk out of the hall en masse as you mount the rostrum.”

“It’s better that way, Uzi. I’ve never really enjoyed speaking to large crowds. What happens next?”

“At the conclusion of the conference, our ambassador to Russia, who happens to be an old friend of yours, will invite you to visit Moscow. If you are fortunate enough to survive the Aeroflot flight, you will check into the Savoy Hotel and sample the cultural delights of the capital. The true purpose of your visit, however, will be to establish contact with one Olga Sukhova. She’s one of Russia ’s best-known and most controversial investigative journalists. She’s also the acting editor in chief of Moskovsky Gazeta . If there’s anyone at the Gazeta who knows why Boris Ostrovsky went to Rome, it’s Olga.”

“Which means she’s probably under full-time FSB surveillance. And as a visiting Israeli diplomat, I will be, too.”

The Russian Federal Security Service, or FSB, had assumed most of the internal security functions that were once the province of the KGB, including counterintelligence. Though the FSB liked to present itself to the outside world as a modern European security service, it was staffed largely by KGB veterans and even operated from the KGB’s notorious old headquarters in Lubyanka Square. Many Russians didn’t even bother calling it by its new name. To them, it was still the KGB.

“Obviously,” said Navot, “we’ll have to be a bit creative.”

“How creative?” Gabriel asked warily.

“Nothing more dangerous than a dinner party. Our ambassador has agreed to host a small affair at the official residence while you’re in town. The guest list is being drawn up as we speak. It will be an interesting mix of Russian journalists, artists, and opposition figures. Obviously, the ambassador will do his utmost to make certain Olga Sukhova is in attendance.”

“What makes you think she’ll come? Dinner at the home of the Israeli ambassador is hardly a coveted invitation, even in Moscow.”

“Unless it comes attached with a promise of an exclusive scoop of some sort. Then it will be irresistible.”

“What sort of exclusive?”

“Let us worry about that.”

“And if she comes?”

“Then you will pull her aside for a private conversation within the secure environment of the residence. And you will reveal yourself to her in whatever manner, and in whatever detail, you deem appropriate. And you will prevail upon her to share anything she knows about why Boris Ostrovsky went to Rome to see you.”

“What if she doesn’t know anything? Or she’s too afraid to talk?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to be charming, which, as we all know, comes quite naturally to you. Besides, Gabriel, there are worse ways to spend an evening.”

Navot reached back into his attaché case and withdrew a file. Gabriel opened the cover and removed Olga Sukhova’s photograph. She was an attractive woman in her mid-forties, with sleek Slavic features, ice-blue eyes, and satiny blond hair swept over one shoulder. He closed the file and looked at Shamron, who was standing before a pair of open French doors, twirling his old Zippo lighter between his fingertips. Talk of an operation was clearly testing his newfound commitment not to smoke.

“You’ll go to Moscow, Gabriel. You’ll have a nice evening with Olga at the embassy, and, at the very least, you’ll pick up whatever information you can about why the journalists at the Gazeta are being targeted. Then you can go back to your farm in Umbria -back to your wife and your painting.”

“And what happens if the FSB doesn’t fall for your little ruse?”

“Your diplomatic passport will protect you.”

“The Russian mafia and FSB assassins don’t bother much with diplomatic niceties. They shoot first and worry about the political fallout later.”

“Moscow Station will be watching your back from the moment you land in St. Petersburg,” Navot said. “You’ll never be out of our reach. And if things start to look dicey, we can always arrange for an official security detail for you.”

“What makes you think Moscow Station will ever see it coming, Uzi? A man brushed against Boris Ostrovsky in Rome yesterday afternoon and, before anyone knew what had happened, he was lying dead on the floor of the Basilica.”

“So don’t let anyone touch you. And whatever you do, don’t drink the tea.”

“Sound advice, Uzi.”