Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

It had been two years since he had set foot in the safe flat, yet nothing had changed: the same drab furniture, the same stained carpeting, the same blackout curtains over the windows. Adrian Carter and Uzi Navot were gazing at him curiously from their seats at the cheap dinette set, as though they had just shared a private joke they did not want him to overhear. A few seconds later, Ari Shamron came marching through the kitchen door, a cup and saucer balanced in his hand, his ugly spectacles propped on his bald head like goggles. He was wearing his usual uniform, khaki trousers and a white oxford cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Something about being back in the field always did wonders for Shamron’s appearance-even if the “field” was a comfortable apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris -and he looked fitter than he had in some time.

He paused for a moment to glare at Gabriel, then continued into the sitting room, where a cigarette was smoldering in an ashtray on the coffee table. Gabriel arrived a few seconds sooner than Shamron and hastily stabbed it out.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Shamron asked.

“You’re not supposed to be smoking.”

“How can I quit smoking when my most accomplished operative is planning to go to war with Russia?” He placed his cup and saucer on the coffee table and angrily prowled the room. “You were authorized to arrange a meeting with Elena Kharkov and, if possible, to debrief her on what she knew about her husband’s illicit arms dealing. You performed that task admirably. Indeed, your operation was in keeping with the best traditions of your service. But in the end, you vastly overstepped your authority. You had no right to discuss a break-in operation in the heart of Moscow. Nor were you authorized to enter into an agreement to secure the defection of Elena Kharkov. In fact, you had no right to even discuss the subject of defection with her.”

“What was I supposed to do, Ari? Tell her thanks but no thanks? Tell her we really weren’t interested after all in getting our hands on her husband’s most precious secrets?”

“No, Gabriel, but you could have at least consulted your superiors first.”

“There wasn’t time to consult my superiors. Ivan was tearing Saint-Tropez to pieces looking for her.”

“And what do you think he’s going to do if you take Elena and the children away from him? Raise the white flag of surrender and roll up his networks?” Shamron answered his own question with a slow shake of his bald head. “Ivan Kharkov is a powerful man with powerful friends. Even if you somehow manage to get Elena and those computer disks-and, in my humble opinion, that remains an open question- Ivan will retaliate and retaliate hard. Diplomats will be expelled en masse. Already testy political relations between Russia and the West will go into the deep freeze. And there could be financial repercussions as well-repercussions the West does not need in a time of global economic uncertainty.”

“Diplomatic sanctions ? When was the last time the great Ari Shamron ever let the threat of diplomatic sanctions deter him from doing what was right?”

“More times than you’ll ever know. But I’m not concerned only with the diplomatic fallout. Ivan Kharkov has proven himself to be a man of violence and he’ll lash back at us with violence if you steal his wife and children. He has access to the most dangerous weapons systems in the world, along with nuclear, biological, and chemical agents. It doesn’t take a devious mind to concoct a scenario under which Ivan and his former KGB hoods could put those weapons in the hands of our enemies.”

“They already are,” Gabriel said. “We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“And if they sprinkle a few vials of polonium around Tel Aviv? And if a few thousand innocent people die as a result? What would you say then?”

“I would say that it’s our job to make sure that never happens. And I would remind you of your own words: that our decisions should never be based on fear but what is in the long-term security interests of the State of Israel. Surely you’re not suggesting that it isn’t in our interests to take down Ivan Kharkov? He has more blood on his hands than Hezbollah, Hamas, and al-Qaeda combined. And he’s been operating his little shop of horrors with the full blessing, cooperation, and protection of the Kremlin. I say we let the Russians impose their diplomatic sanctions. And then we hit back, hard enough so that it hurts.”

Shamron stuck a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and ignited it with his old Zippo lighter. Gabriel glanced at Navot and Carter. Their eyes were averted, like accidental witnesses to a public marital spat.

“Is it your intention to personally reignite the Cold War?” Shamron blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Because that is exactly what you’re asking for.”

“The Russians have already done that. And if Ivan Kharkov wants to get in line with the rest of the psychotics who wish to do us harm, then let him.”

“Ivan will come after more than just Israel. He’ll come after you and everything you hold dear.” For Adrian Carter’s benefit, they had been speaking English. Now Shamron switched to Hebrew and lowered his voice a few decibels. “Is that really what you want at this stage of your life, my son? Another determined enemy who wishes you dead?”

“I can look after myself.”

“And what about your new wife? Can you look after her, too? Every second of every day?” Shamron gazed theatrically around the room. “Isn’t this where you brought Leah after the bombing of the Gare de Lyon?” Greeted by Gabriel’s silence, Shamron pressed his case. “The Palestinians were able to get to your wife not once but twice, Gabriel- first in Vienna, then fifteen years later at the psychiatric hospital where you’d tucked her away in England. They were good, the Palestinians, but they’re children compared to the Russians. I suggest you keep that in mind before you declare a shooting war against Ivan Kharkov.”

Shamron placed the cigarette in the ashtray, confident he had prevailed, and picked up his cup and saucer. In his large, liver-spotted hands, they looked like pieces of a child’s toy tea set.

“What about Eichmann?” Gabriel asked quietly. He had spoken in Hebrew, though at the mention of the murderer’s name Adrian Carter’s head perked up a bit, like a student roused from a slumber during a dull lecture.

“What about Eichmann?” Shamron asked stubbornly in return.

“Did you consider the diplomatic consequences before plucking him from that bus stop in Argentina?”

“Of course we did. In fact, we debated long and hard about whether or not to take him. We were afraid the world would condemn us as criminals and kidnappers. We were afraid there would be severe fallout that our young and vulnerable state wasn’t prepared to withstand.”

“But, in the end, you took that bastard down. You did it because it was the right thing to do, Ari. Because it was the just thing to do.”

“We did it because we had no other choice, Gabriel. If we’d requested extradition, the Argentines would have refused and tipped off Eichmann. And then we would have lost him forever.”

“Because the police and security services were protecting him?”

“Correct.”

“Just like the FSB and the Kremlin are protecting Ivan.”

“Ivan Kharkov isn’t Adolf Eichmann. I shouldn’t think I’d need to explain the difference to you. I lost most of my family to Eichmann and the Nazis. So did you. Your mother spent the war in Birkenau and she bore Birkenau’s scars until the day she died. You bear them now.”

“Tell that to the thousands who’ve died in the wars that have been stoked by Ivan’s guns.”