Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

“Yekatarina thinks she’s the only one, but she’s not. There’s a flight attendant called Tatyana. And there was a girl in London named Ludmila. I’m afraid Ivan treated her very badly. Eventually, he treats them all badly.”

Elena’s eyes filled with tears.

“You mustn’t cry, Elena. Ivan might be watching us. You have to smile while I tell you these awful things.”

Elena went to Sarah’s side, and their shoulders touched. Sarah could feel her trembling. Whether it was with grief or fear, she could not tell.

“How long have you been watching me?”

“It’s not important, Elena. It’s only important that you finish what you started.”

Elena laughed softly to herself, as though she found Sarah’s remark mildly amusing. Her gaze swept over the surface of the painting while her fingertips explored the texture of the faux craquelure.

“You had no right to pry into my private life.”

“We had no choice.”

Elena lapsed into silence. Sarah, for the moment, was listening to another voice.

Place the sales contract carefully before her and lay the pen next to it. But don’t pressure her into signing. She has to reach the decision on her own. Otherwise, she’s no use to us.

“He wasn’t always like this,” Elena said finally. “Even when he worked for the KGB. You might find this hard to believe, Sarah, but Ivan was really quite charming when I first met him.”

“I don’t find it hard to believe at all. He’s still quite charming.”

“When he wants to be.” She was still touching the craquelure. “When I first met Ivan, he told me he worked in some dreary Soviet agricultural office. A few weeks later, after we’d fallen in love, he told me the truth. I almost didn’t believe him. I couldn’t imagine this considerate, somewhat shy young man was actually locking dissidents away in mental hospitals and the gulag.”

“What happened?”

“The money happened. The money changed everything. It’s changed Russia, too. Money is the new KGB in Russia. Money controls our lives. And the pursuit of money prevents us from questioning the actions of our so-called democratic government.”

Elena reached toward the face of one of the children, the little boy, and stroked the cracks on his cheek.

“Whoever did this is quite good,” she said. “I assume you know him?”

“Very well, actually.” A silence, then: “Would you like to meet him?”

“Who is he?”

“It’s not important. It’s only important that you agree to see him. He’s trying to save innocent lives. He needs your help.”

Elena’s finger moved to the face of the other child. “How will we do it? Ivan sees everything.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to need to tell a small lie.”

“What kind of small lie?”

“I want you to spend the rest of the afternoon flirting with Mikhail,” Sarah said. “Mikhail will tell you everything you need to know.”

Sarah’s BlackBerry had one feature not available on over-the-counter models: the ability to encode and "squirt” data messages to a nearby receiver in less than a thousandth of a second. The message she transmitted early that evening was greeted with much celebration at the villa in Gassin. Gabriel immediately sent word to the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard and the Global Ops Center at CIA Headquarters in Langley. Then he gathered his team and began putting the final touches on the next phase of the operation. The small lie they were going to tell Ivan. The small lie to cover the much bigger one.

The storms had come down from the Maritime Alps after midnight and laid siege to Ivan Kharkov’s fortress on the Baie de Cavalaire. Elena Kharkov had not been awakened by the violent weather. Having endured two sleepless nights already, she had taken twice her normal dose of sedative. Now, she woke grudgingly and in stages, like a diver rising to the surface from a great depth. She lay motionless for some time, eyes closed, head throbbing, unable to recall her dreams. Finally, she reached blindly toward Ivan’s side of the bed and her hand caressed the warm supple form of a young girl. For an instant, she feared Ivan had been so audacious as to bring Yekatarina into their bed. Then she opened her eyes and saw it was only Anna. The child was wearing Ivan’s gold reading glasses and was scribbling with Ivan’s gold fountain pen on the back of some important business documents. Elena smiled in spite of her headache.

“Tell Maria to bring me a café au lait. A very large café au lait.”

“I’m very busy. I’m working, just like Papa.”

“Get me a coffee, Anna, or I’ll beat you severely.”

“But you never beat me, Mama.”

“It’s never too late to start.”

Anna scribbled stubbornly away.

“Please, Anna, I’m begging. Mama’s not feeling well.”

The child exhaled heavily; then, in a gesture that mimicked her father to perfection, she flung the papers and pen onto the nightstand in mock anger and threw aside the blanket. As she started to climb out of bed, Elena reached out suddenly and drew her tightly to her body.

“I thought you wanted coffee.”

“I do. But I want to hold you for a minute first.”

“What’s wrong, Mama? You seem sad.”

“I just love you very much.”

“Does that make you sad?”

“Sometimes.” Elena kissed Anna’s cheek. “Go, now. And don’t come back without coffee.”

She closed her eyes again and listened to the patter of Anna’s bare feet receding. A gust of cool wind moved in the curtains and made shadows dance and play for her on the walls of the bedroom. Like all the rooms of the house, it was far too large for familial or marital intimacy, and now, alone in the cavernous space, Elena felt a prisoner to its vastness. She pulled the blankets tightly to her chin, creating a small space for herself, and thought of Leningrad before the fall. As a child of a senior Communist Party official, she had lived a life of Soviet privilege-a life of special stores, plentiful food and clothing, and trips abroad to other Warsaw Pact countries. Yet nothing in her charmed upbringing could have prepared her for the extravagance of life with Ivan. Homes such as this did not exist, she had been told as a child, not only by the Soviet system but by an orthodox father who kept faith with communism even when it was clear the emperor truly had no clothes. Elena realized now that she had been lied to her entire life, first by her father and now by her husband. Ivan liked to pretend this grand palace by the sea was a reward for his capitalist ingenuity and hard work. In truth, it had been acquired through corruption and connectionsto the old order. And it was awash in blood. Some nights, in her dreams, she saw the blood. It flowed in rivers along the endless marble corridors and spilled like waterfalls down the grand staircases. The blood shed by men wielding Ivan’s weapons. The blood of children forced to fight in Ivan’s wars.

Anna reappeared, a breakfast tray balanced precariously in her hands. She placed it on the bed next to Elena and took great pleasure in pointing out its contents: a bowl of café au lait, two slices of toasted baguette, butter, fresh strawberry preserves, copies of the Financial Times and the Herald Tribune. Then she kissed Elena’s cheek and departed. Elena quickly drank half the coffee, hoping the caffeine would act as an antidote to her headache, and devoured the first slice of the toast. For some reason, she was unusually hungry. A glance at the clock on her bedside table told her why. It was nearly noon.

She slowly finished the rest of the coffee while her headache gradually receded. With its departure, she was granted a sudden clarity of vision. She thought of the woman she knew as Sarah Crawford. And of Mikhail. And of the man who had painted such a beautiful forgery of Two Children on a Beach by Mary Cassatt. She did not know precisely who they were; she only knew that she had no choice but to join them. For the innocent who might die, she told herself now. For Russia. For herself.