Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

“Which half?”

“The self-centered half, according to my uncle. This is his home. I’m just visiting.”

“From America?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live in America?”

“ Washington, D.C. And you?”

“I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world, Miss Crawford. ”

A citizen of the world, perhaps, but exposure to the West had yet to buff away the last traces of KGB English. It was surprisingly fluent but still flecked with the intonation of a Radio Moscow propagandist. He was proud of his English, thought Sarah, just like he was proud of his armored limousines, his bodyguards, his handmade suit, his three-thousand-dollar necktie, and the rich aftershave that hung round him like a vaporous cloud. No amount of Western clothing and cologne could conceal his Russianness, though. It was etched in the sturdy forehead, the almond-shaped eyes, and the angular cheekbones. Nor could it hide the fact that he was a KGB hood who had stumbled into a mountain of money.

Almost as an afterthought, he lifted his left hand and, with his eyes still fixed on Sarah, said, “My wife.” She was standing several feet away, surrounded by her own palace guard. She was taller than Ivan by an inch or two and held herself with the erect carriage of a dancer. Her skin was pale, her eyes liquid green, her hair black. She wore it long and allowed it to fall loosely about her shoulders. As for the prospect of Sarah’s beauty posing a challenge to Elena’s, there was little chance of that, for at forty-six years, seven months and nineteen days, she was still a strikingly attractive woman. She took a step forward and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sarah. I’m Elena Kharkov. ” Her accent, unlike Ivan’s, was authentic and rich, and completely beguiling. “I believe Alistair told you I would be coming alone. My husband decided to join me at the last minute.”

A husband who still has no name , Sarah thought.

“Actually, Alistair told me a woman would be coming alone. He didn’t give me a name. He was very discreet, Mrs. Kharkov.”

“And we trust that you will be discreet as well,” Ivan said. “It is important for people such as ourselves to conduct our acquisitions and business transactions with a certain amount of privacy.”

“You may rest assured my uncle feels precisely the same way, Mr. Kharkov.”

As if on cue, Boothby emerged, with Punch and Judy now swirling noisily at his feet. “Did my ears deceive me,” he trumpeted, “or is it true that the great Ivan Kharkov has come to Havermore? That dolt from Christie’s told me to expect a VIP, but no one of your stature.” He took Ivan’s hand in his own and pumped it vigorously. “It is indeed an honor to have you here, Mr. Kharkov. I do admire your accomplishments. I knew you were a man of many interests, but I never knew art was one of them.”

Ivan’s stony face broke briefly into something approaching a genuine smile. Ivan, they knew, was vulnerable to flattery, from pretty young girls, and even from tattered English landed gentry.

“Actually, my wife is the expert when it comes to art,” he said. “I just felt like getting out of London for a few hours.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Can’t stand London any longer, what with the traffic and the terrorism. Go there now to see the odd play or hear a bit of music at Covent Garden, but I’d choose the Cotswold Hills over Kensington any day of the week. Too expensive in London, these days. Too many people such as yourself buying everything up. No insult intended, of course.”

“None taken.”

“Do you have a country estate yet or just your London residence?”

“Just the house in Knightsbridge at the moment.”

Boothby gestured toward the façade of Havermore. “This has been in my family for five generations. I’d love to give you a tour while our two art experts have a look at the painting.”

A glance passed between Ivan and Elena: coded, secure, inscrutable to an outsider. She murmured a few words in Russian; Ivan responded by looking at Boothby and giving a single nod of his sturdy head. “I’d love a tour,” he said. “But we’ll have to make it brief. I’m afraid my wife tends to make decisions quickly.”

“Brilliant!” said Boothby. “Allow me to show you the grounds.”

He lifted his hand and started toward the East Meadow. Ivan, after a brief hesitation, followed after him, with the three V’s flying close behind in tight formation. Boothby looked at the bodyguards and politely objected.

“I say, but is that really necessary? I can assure you, Mr. Kharkov, that you have no enemies here. The most dangerous things at Havermore are the dogs and my martinis.”

Ivan glanced once again at Elena, then spoke a few words in Russian to the bodyguards in a baritone murmur. When he started toward the meadow a second time, the guards remained motionless. Elena watched her husband’s departure in silence, then looked at Sarah.

“I’m sorry about the security, Miss Crawford. I would do almost anything to be rid of them, but Ivan insists they stay by my side wherever I go. I imagine that it must seem very exciting to be surrounded by men in dark suits. I can assure you it is not.”

Sarah was momentarily taken aback by the intimacy of her words. They constituted a betrayal. A small one, thought Sarah, but a betrayal nonetheless. “A woman in your position can’t be too careful,” she said. “But I can assure you that you are among friends here.”

Boothby and Ivan disappeared around the corner of the house. Sarah placed her hand gently on Elena’s arm.

“Would you like to see my uncle’s Cassatt, Mrs. Kharkov?”

“I would love to see your uncle’s Cassatt, Miss Crawford.”

When they started toward the portico, the bodyguards remained motionless.

“You know, Mrs. Kharkov, I really think it’s best we see the painting alone. I’ve always found Cassatt to be a painter of women for women. Most men don’t understand her.”

“I couldn’t agree more. And I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“What’s that?”

"Ivan loathes her.”

In the hayloft of the barn, the four men standing before the video monitors moved for the first time in three minutes.

"Looks like Uncle John just saved our asses,” said Graham Seymour.

"His father would be very proud.”

“Ivan’s not the world’s most patient man. I suspect you’ll have five minutes with Elena at most.”

“I’d kill for five minutes.”

“Let’s hope there’s no killing today, Gabriel. Ivan’s the one with all the guns.”

The two women climbed the central staircase together and paused on the landing to admire a Madonna and Child.

"Is that actually a Veronese?” Elena asked.

“Depends on whom you ask. My uncle’s ancestors did the Grand Tour of Italy in the nineteenth century and came home with a boat-load of paintings. Some were quite lovely. Some of them were just copies made by lesser artists. I’ve always thought this one was among the best.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“The Cassatt is still in the nursery. My uncle thought you would enjoy seeing it in its original setting.”

Sarah took Elena carefully by the arm and led her down the hall. The key was resting on the woodwork above the door. Standing on tiptoe, Sarah removed it, then raised a finger to her lips in a gesture of mock conspiracy.

“Don’t tell anyone where we keep the key.”

Elena smiled. "It will be our little secret.”

Ivan’s starting to get restless.” “I can see that, Graham.”

"She’s burned three minutes already.”

"Yes, I can see that, too.”

“She should have done it on the staircase.”