Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

“Go on,” said Leach to no one in particular.

Seymour resumed his slow pacing. “Because the threat is international, our effort to counter it is international as well. You are about to meet an officer from the intelligence service of another country, a country allied with our own in the struggle against terrorism and global Islamic extremism. What’s more, it is quite possible you will recognize this gentleman from your professional life. The document you signed covers your contact with this man as well as us.”

“Please tell me he isn’t a bloody American.”

“Worse, I’m afraid.”

“The only thing worse than an American is an Israeli.”

Whitcombe gave Leach an admonitory tap on the side of the knee.

“Have I put my foot in it?” Leach asked.

“I’m afraid so,” said Seymour.

“You won’t say anything to him, will you? They do tend to get their back up at even the slightest insult.”

Seymour gave a ghost of a smile. “It will be our little secret.”

Gabriel entered the drawing room and, without a word, lowered himself into the armchair opposite Leach.

"Dear heavens, you’re-”

"I’m no one,” said Gabriel, finishing the sentence for him. “You don’t know me. You’ve never seen me before in your life. You’ve never heard my name. You’ve never seen my face. Are we clear, Alistair?”

Leach looked at Seymour and appealed for assistance. “Are you going to stand there and do nothing? For Christ’s sake! The man just threatened me.”

“He did nothing of the sort,” Seymour said. “Now, answer his question.”

“But I do know his name. I know both his names. He’s Mario Delvecchio. He used to clean pictures for juicy Julian Isherwood. He was the best. Painted like an angel and could authenticate a work simply by running his fingers over the brushstrokes. Then he broke our hearts. You see, the entire time he was cleaning for Julian, he was killing on behalf of the Israeli secret service.”

“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else, Alistair.”

“That’s not what The Times says. According to The Times , you were one of the gunmen who killed those poor sods in front of Westminster Abbey on Christmas morning.”

“ ‘Those poor sods,’ as you call them, were hardened terrorists who were about to commit an act of mass murder. As for the affiliation of the men who killed them, the official record states that they were attached to the S019 division of the Metropolitan Police.”

“ The Times had your picture, though, didn’t it?”

“Even a newspaper as reputable as The Times occasionally makes a mistake,” said Graham Seymour.

Gabriel silently handed Leach a single sheet of paper.

“Read this.”

“What is it?”

“A transcript of a phone conversation.”

“Whose telephone conversation?”

“ Read it, Alistair.”

Leach did as instructed, then looked up at Gabriel in anger.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s not important.”

“Tell me where you got this or this conversation is over.”

Gabriel capitulated. In recruitments, Shamron always said, it was sometimes necessary to accept small defeats in order to secure ultimate victory.

“It was given to us by the Americans.”

“The Americans? Why in God’s name are the Americans tapping my phones?”

“Don’t be grandiose,” Seymour interjected. “They’re not tapping your telephones. They’re tapping hers .”

“Are you trying to tell me Elena Kharkov is an arms dealer?”

“Ivan Kharkov is the arms dealer,” Gabriel said pedantically. “Elena just gets caught when she happens to place a call from one of the phones they’re monitoring. On that day, she was calling you from her home in Knightsbridge. Look at the transcript, Alistair. Refresh your memory, if you need to.”

“I don’t need to refresh anything. I remember the conversation quite clearly. The Americans have no right to record these calls and store them away in their supercomputers. It’s like opening someone else’s mail. It’s unseemly.”

“If it makes you feel any better, no one bothered to read it-until I came along. But let’s put all that aside and focus on what’s important. You were talking to her about a painting that day-a painting by Mary Cassatt, to be precise.”

“Elena has a thing for Cassatt. An obsession, really. Buys anything that comes on the market. I thought I’d managed to pry loose a painting for her from a minor collector-a picture called Two Children on a Beach that Cassatt painted in 1884 while convalescing from a case of bronchitis. The collector kept us hanging for several weeks before finally telling me that he wasn’t ready to sell. I placed a call to Elena and got her machine. She called me back and I gave her the bad news.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“The painting? Yes, it’s quite lovely, actually.”

“Did you ever tell Elena the name of the owner?”

“You know better than to ask that, Signore Delvecchio.”

Gabriel looked at Graham Seymour, who had wandered over to the shelves and was pulling down books for inspection. “Who is he, Alistair? And don’t try to hide behind some claim of dealer-client privilege.”

“Can’t do it,” said Leach obstinately. “Owner wishes to remain anonymous.”

Nigel Whitcombe made a church steeple with his fingertips and pressed it thoughtfully against his lips, as if pondering the morality of Leach’s refusal to answer.

“And if the owner was aware of the stakes involved? I suspect he-or she , if that’s the case-might actually relish the chance to help us. I suspect the owner is a patriot, Alistair.” A pause. “Just like you.”

The official recording of the interrogation would contain no evidence of what transpired next, for there would be no sound for the microphones to capture. It was a hand. The hand that Whitcombe placed gently upon Leach’s shoulder, as though he were petitioning him to reclaim his lost faith.

“Boothby,” Leach said, as if the name had popped suddenly into his memory. “Sir John Boothby. Lives in a big Edwardian pile on a couple hundred acres in the Cotswolds. Never worked a day in his life, as far as I can tell. The father worked for your lot. Rumor has it he had a wonderful war.”

Seymour twisted his head around. “You’re not talking about Basil Boothby, are you?”

“That’s him. Ruthless bastard, from what I hear.”

“Basil Boothby was one of the legends of the Service. He was involved in our deception program during the Second World War. Ran captured German spies back to their masters in Berlin. And, yes, he was a ruthless bastard. But there are times when one has to be. These are such times, Alistair.”

“I’m wondering whether there’s a chance Sir John might have had a change of heart,” Gabriel said. “I’m wondering whether it might be time to have another go at him.”

“He’s not going to sell that painting-at least, not to Elena Kharkov.”

“Why not?”

“Because in a moment of professional indiscretion, I may have mentioned that the prospective buyer was the wife of a Russian oligarch. Boothby’s father spent the final years of his career battling KGB spies. The old man didn’t hold with the Russians. Neither does Sir John.”

“Sounds like a patriot to me,” said Graham Seymour.

“I might use another word to describe him,” Leach muttered. “Elena Kharkov would have paid a premium for that painting. Two million pounds, maybe a bit more. He would have been wise to take the deal. From what I hear, Sir John is not exactly flush with funds at the moment.”