Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

Sarah and Mikhail settled themselves between the wife of the nickel magnate, who looked deeply bored, and the timber trader, who was genial but dull. Ivan and Elena returned to the colonnade, where more guests were arriving in boisterous packs. They came down the steps in waves, like revolutionaries storming the Winter Palace, and with each new group the volume and intensity of the party seemed to rise a notch. Several frosted bottles of vodka appeared; dance music pulsated from invisible speakers. On the terrace, a second table was set for lunch, then a third. The vast pool soon took on the appearance of just another of Ivan’s fountains, as nubile nymphs were groped and tossed about by fat millionaires and muscled bodyguards. Elena moved effortlessly from group to group, kissing cheeks and refreshing drinks, but Ivan remained aloof, gazing upon the merriment as though it were a performance arranged for his own private amusement.

It was nearly three o’clock by the time he summoned them all to lunch. By Sarah’s count, the guests now numbered seventy in all, but from Ivan’s kitchens miraculously emerged more than enough food to feed a party twice as large. She sat next to Mikhail at Ivan’s end of the table, where they were well within his sphere of influence and the scent of his cologne. It was a gluttonous affair; Ivan ate heavily but without pleasure, stabbing punitively at his food, his thoughts remote. At the end of the meal, his mood improved when Anna and Nikolai appeared, along with Sonia, their Russian nanny. The children sat together on his lap, imprisoned in his massive arms. “These two are my world,” he said directly to Sarah. “If anything ever happened to them…” His voice trailed off, as if he were suddenly at a loss for words. Then he added menacingly: “God help the man who ever harms my children.”

It was an oddly gloomy note on which to end lunch, though the rest of Ivan’s guests seemed to think nothing of it as they rose from the table and filed down the steps to the pool for a final swim. Ivan released his grip on the children and seized Mikhail’s wrist as he stood. “Don’t go so quickly,” he said. “You promised to give me a chance to convince you to come home to Russia and work for me.”

“I’m not sure I remember that promise.”

“But I remember it quite clearly and that’s all that matters.” He stood and smiled charmingly at Sarah. “I can be rather persuasive. If I were you, I would begin planning a move to Moscow.”

He guided Mikhail to a distant corner of the terrace and sat with him in the shade of a cupola. Sarah looked at Elena. The children were now seated on her lap, in a pose as tender as Ivan’s was fierce.

“You look like a painting by Mary Cassatt.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Elena kissed Anna’s cheek and whispered something to the child that caused her to smile and nod. Then she whispered something to Nikolai, with the same result.

“Are you saying naughty things about me?” Sarah asked playfully.

“The children think you’re very pretty.”

“Please tell the children I think they’re very pretty as well.”

“They were also wondering whether you would like to see their room. It contains a new painting, and they’re very anxious for you to see it.”

“Please tell the children that I would like nothing more.”

"Come, then,” said Elena. “The children will show us the way.”

They flitted in and out of the colonnade like starlings and hop-scotched along the checkerboard marble floor. Ascending the sweeping main staircase, Nikolai pretended to be a ferocious Russian bear and Sarah pretended to be terribly afraid in return. At the top of the stairs, Anna took hold of Sarah’s hand and pulled her down a glorious corridor filled with buttery light. It ended at the children’s room, which was not a room at all but an elaborate suite. Two Children on a Beach hung in the entrance foyer, next to a similarly sized portrait of a young dancer by Degas. Elena Kharkov, student of art history and former employee of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad, slipped effortlessly into tour guide mode.

“They knew each other well quite well, Cassatt and Degas. In fact, Degas had a profound influence on her work. I thought it was appropriate they be together.” She looked at Sarah and gave a faint smile. “Until two weeks ago, I was certain the Degas was actually painted by Degas. Now I’m not so sure.”

Elena sent the children off to play. In their absence, a heavy silence fell over the foyer. The two women stood several feet apart, Elena before the Degas, Sarah before the Cassatt. Overhead, a camera peered down at them like a gargoyle.

“Who are you?” Elena asked, her eyes straight ahead. “And why are you in my home?”

Sarah glanced up at the camera.

“Don’t be frightened,” said Elena. “Ivan is watching but not listening. I told him long ago I would never live in a house filled with microphones. And he swore to me he would never install them.”

“And you trust him?”

“On this matter, yes. Remember, microphones would pick up everyone’s voice, including Ivan’s. And their signals can also be intercepted by law enforcement agencies and intelligence services.” She paused. “I would have thought you would be aware of that. Who are you? And who do you work for?”

Sarah stared straight ahead at Gabriel’s immaculate brushstrokes. Under no circumstances are you to tell her your real name or occupation when you’re on hostile territory, he had said. Your cover is everything. Wear it like body armor, especially when you’re on Ivan’s turf.

“My name is Sarah Crawford. I work for the Dillard Center for Democracy in Washington. We met for the first time in the Cotswolds, when you purchased this painting by Mary Cassatt from my uncle.”

“Quickly, Sarah. We haven’t much time.”

“I’m a friend, Elena. A very good friend. I’m here to help you finish what you started. You have something you want to tell us about your husband. I’m here to listen.”

Elena was silent for a moment. “He’s quite fond of you, Sarah. Was it always your intention to seduce my husband?”

“I assure you, Elena, your husband has absolutely no interest in me.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because he’s brought his mistress into your house.”

Elena’s head turned sharply toward Sarah. “Who is she?”

“Yekatarina.”

“It’s not possible. She’s a child.”

“That child is staying in a suite at the Carlton Hotel. Ivan is paying her bills.”

“How do you know this?”

“We know, Elena. We know everything.”

“You’re lying to me. You’re trying to-”

“We’re not trying to do anything but help you. And the only lies we tell are the ones necessary to deceive Ivan. We haven’t lied to you, Elena, and we never will.”

“How do you know he’s seeing her?”

“Because we follow him. And we listen to him. Did you see those pearls she was wearing today?”

Elena gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“He gave those pearls to her in June when he went to Paris. You remember his trip to Paris, don’t you, Elena? You were in Moscow. Ivan said he needed to go for business. It was a lie, of course. He went there to see Yekatarina. He called you three times while he was in her apartment.You took the third call while you were having lunch with friends at Café Pushkin. We have a photograph if you’d like to see it.”

Elena was forced to absorb this news of her husband’s treachery with a tranquil smile-Ivan’s cameras were watching. Sarah was tempted to spare her the rest. She didn’t, more out of loathing for Ivan than any other reason.