Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

“If you’ve nothing else for me, Sir John, I’ll be going home now. Your dinner’s in the oven.”

“What are we having tonight?”

“Rack of lamb.”

“Divine,” he murmured.

Mrs. Devlin bade him a good evening and started toward the door. Boothby lowered his newspaper. “Oh, Lillian?”

“Yes, Sir John?”

“We’ll be having a visitor tomorrow afternoon.”

“ More visitors, Sir John?”

“I’m afraid so. She won’t be staying long. She’s just going to have a look at the painting in the nursery.”

The painting in the nursery… The painting that spent a week in the gamekeeper’s cottage, in the possession of the man whose presence she had been told to say nothing about.

“I see,” she said. “Shall I make a batch of scones?”

“She’s not exactly a scone person, if you catch my meaning.”

“I’m not sure I do, Sir John.”

“She’s a Russian , Lillian. A very well-to-do Russian. I doubt she’ll be staying for tea. With a bit of luck, she’ll have a very quick look and be on her way.”

Mrs. Devlin remained rooted in the doorway.

“Something bothering you, Lillian?”

“May I speak bluntly, Sir John?”

“You usually do.”

“Is there something going on at Havermore that you’re not telling me?”

“Many things, I suppose. You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“The odd man in the gamekeeper’s cottage. The lovely young girl who claims to be the daughter of your American friend. The men doing the electrical work all through the house. Old George is convinced they’re up to no good in the barn!”

“Old George sees conspiracies everywhere, Lillian.”

“And now you’re thinking about selling that beautiful painting to a Russian ? Your poor father, may he rest in peace, would be spinning in his grave.”

“I need the money, Lillian. We need the money.”

She tugged skeptically on the drawstring of her apron. “I’m not sure I believe you, Sir John. I think something important is going on in this house. Something to do with secrets, just like when your father was alive.”

Boothby gave her a conspiratorial look over his whiskey. “The Russians will be arriving at four o’clock sharp, Lillian.” He paused. “If you would rather not be here-”

“I’ll be here, Sir John,” she said quickly.

“What about Old George?”

“Perhaps we should give him the afternoon off, sir.”

“Perhaps we should.”

The limousines passed the concealed checkpoint on the Station Road at 3:45: two custom Mercedes-Benz S65s with blacked-out windows, riding low and heavy with bulletproof glass and armor. They flashed down the terraced High Street of Chipping Camden, past the quaint shops and the old limestone St. James’ Church, and roared out of town again on Dyers Lane. One shopkeeper timed the run at sixteen seconds, shortest visit to Chipping Camden in recorded history.

At the once-grand estate known as Havermore, there was no visible evidence to suggest that anyone was aware of the cars’ rapid approach. Mrs. Devlin was in the kitchen, where, in contravention of Sir John’s direct orders, she was putting the final touches on a tray of fresh scones, strawberry jam, and Cotswold clotted cream. Sir John was unaware of her rebellion, for he was sequestered in the library, pondering serious and weighty matters. As for the attractive young woman known to them as Sarah Crawford, she was coming up the footpath from the East Meadow wearing a pair of green Wellington boots, with Punch and Judy watching her back like tiny tan bodyguards.

Only in the hayloft of the tumbledown barn were there hints that something truly out of the ordinary was about to take place. Four men were there, seated before a bank of video and audio monitors. Two of the men were young, scruffy technicians. The third was a tall figure of authority who looked as though he had stepped out of a magazine advertisement. The fourth had short dark hair with ash-colored temples. His eyes were fixed on a video image of the young woman, who was in the process of removing her Wellingtons in the mudroom and changing into a pair of sensible black flats. She entered the kitchen and playfully dipped a finger into Mrs. Devlin’s fresh cream, then passed through a pair of double doors and made her way into the entrance hall. There, standing before a long mirror, she smoothed the front of her white blouse and pale yellow pedal pushers and adjusted the sweater knotted with feigned casualness round her shoulders. She wore only a hint of blush on her alabaster cheeks and cat-eyed spectacles instead of contact lenses. Your beauty must pose no challenge to Elena’s , the man with ash-colored temples had told her. Elena’s not used to finishing second at anything .

At precisely 4:04, the pair of armored Mercedes limousines turned through the gates of Havermore and started up the long drive. The men in the hayloft saw them first, followed by Sir John, whose library window gave him a superb outpost from which to monitor their approach. Sarah, from her position in the entrance hall, could not see the cars but heard them a few seconds later as they came prowling into the gravel forecourt. Two powerful engines went silent; several doors opened and six young bodyguards with faces of chiseled marble emerged. The men in the hayloft knew their names. Three were Oleg, Yuri, and Gennady: Elena Kharkov’s permanent detail. The other three were Vadim, Vasily, and Viktor: “the three V’s,"” as they were known to Kharkov watchers the world over. Their presence at Havermore was curious, since they served almost exclusively as Ivan’s praetorian guard.

Having established a loose perimeter around the lead Mercedes, two of the guards opened the rear doors. Elena Kharkov emerged from the driver’s side, a radiant flash of lustrous dark hair and green silk. From the passenger side came a sturdy figure, well dressed, with hair the color of steel. For a few seconds, the men in the hayloft mistook him for a seventh security man. Then, as he turned his face toward the cameras, they realized he was no bodyguard. He was the man who was supposed to be on a conference call with Zurich. The man who was not supposed to be here.

The men in the hayloft attempted to warn Sarah-they had hidden a tiny audio speaker in the entrance hall for just such a contingency- but she had already opened Havermore’s impressive door and was stepping into the forecourt. Punch and Judy scampered past her ankles and shot across the gravel like a pair of honey-colored torpedoes. By some natural instinct, they advanced directly toward the most authoritative-looking member of the entourage. The three V’s formed a wall in front of their target: Ivan Kharkov.

He was standing calmly behind them, an expression of mild bemusement on the heavy features of his face. Sarah used a moment of mock anger at the dogs to help conceal the shock of seeing the monster face to face for the first time. She seized the dogs by the collars and gave them each a firm shove on the hindquarters toward the house. By the time she turned around again, a small crack opened between Vadim and Viktor. She extended her hand through it toward Ivan and managed a smile. “I’m afraid herding instincts take over when they see a large group of people,” she heard herself say. “I’m Sarah Crawford.”

Ivan’s right hand rose from the seam of his trousers. It looked, thought Sarah, like a manicured mallet. It gave her hand a testing squeeze and quickly released it.

“You’re an American,” he pointed out.

And you forgot to tell me your name , she thought.

“Actually, I’m only half American.”