Daniel Silva: Moscow Rules

“That’s it, Uzi? Surely you didn’t come all the way to Umbria just to tell me that people wanted me dead.”

“Actually, we were wondering whether you might be willing to do us a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

Navot opened his menu and frowned. “My God, look at all this pasta.”

“You don’t like pasta, Uzi?”

“I love pasta, but Bella says it makes me fat.”

He massaged the bridge of his nose and put on his new eyeglasses.

“How much weight do you have to lose before the wedding, Uzi?”

“Thirty pounds,” Navot said sullenly. “Thirty pounds.”

They left the restaurant in darkness and joined a procession of brown-robed Capuchin friars filing slowly along the narrow street toward the Basilica di San Francesco. A cool wind was chasing about the vast forecourt. Uzi Navot lowered himself onto a stone bench and spoke of death.

“His name was Aleksandr Lubin. He worked for a magazine called Moskovsky Gazeta . He was killed in a hotel room in Courchevel a few days after Christmas. At the time, the rest of the world didn’t take much notice. As you may recall, its attention was focused on London, where the daughter of the American ambassador had just been rescued from the clutches of the Sword of Allah.”

Gabriel sat down next to Navot and watched two boys playing football near the steps of the basilica.

“The Gazeta claimed that Lubin went to Courchevel on holiday, but the French police concluded otherwise. They said he was there on an assignment. Unfortunately, there was nothing in his room to indicate exactly what that assignment might be.”

“How did he die?”

“A single stab wound to the chest.”

“That’s not easily done.”

“Better yet, the killer managed to do it in a way that no one heard a thing. It’s a small hotel with poor security. No one even remembered seeing him.”

“A professional?”

“So it would appear.”

“Russian journalists are dropping like flies these days, Uzi. What does this have to do with us?”

“Three days ago, our embassy in Rome received a phone call. It was from a man claiming to be Boris Ostrovsky, the Gazeta ’s editor in chief. He said he had an important message to pass along regarding a grave threat to the security of the West and to the State of Israel. He said he wanted to meet with someone from Israeli intelligence in order to explain the nature of this threat.”

“What is it?”

“We don’t know yet. You see, Ostrovsky wants to meet with a specific agent of Israeli intelligence, a man who has made a habit of getting his picture in the paper saving the lives of important people.”

The flash of a camera illuminated the forecourt like lightning. Navot and Gabriel stood in unison and started toward the basilica. Five minutes later, after descending a long flight of steps, they were seated in the gloom of the Lower Church before the Tomb of St. Francis. Navot spoke in a whisper.

“We tried to explain to Ostrovsky that you weren’t free to take a meeting at the moment, but I’m afraid he’s not the sort to take no for an answer.” He looked at the tomb. “Are the old boy’s bones really in there?”

Gabriel shook his head. “The Church keeps the exact location of the remains a carefully guarded secret because of relic hunters.”

Navot pondered this piece of information in silence for a moment, then continued with his briefing. “ King Saul Boulevard has determined that Boris Ostrovsky is a credible figure. And they’re eager to hear what he has to say.”

“And they want me to meet with him?”

Navot gave a single nod of his big head.

“Let someone else do it, Uzi. I’m on my honeymoon, remember? Besides, it goes against every convention of tradecraft. We don’t agree to the demands of walk-ins. We meet with whom we want under circumstances of our choosing.”

“The assassin is lecturing the agent-runner about matters of tradecraft? ”

A nun in full habit materialized out of the gloom and pointed toward a sign that forbade talking in the area surrounding the tomb. Gabriel apologized and led Navot into the nave, where a group of Americans were listening intently to a lecture by a cassocked priest. No one appeared to notice the two Israeli spies conversing softly before a stand of votive candles.

“I know it violates all our rules,” Navot resumed, “but we want to hear what Ostrovsky has to say. Besides, we’re not going to give up control of the environment. You can still decide how and where you’ll make the meeting.”

“Where is he staying?”

“He’s barricaded in a room at the Excelsior. He’ll be there until the day after tomorrow; then he’s heading back to Russia. He’s made it clear he wants no contact from us in Moscow.”

Navot drew a photograph from the breast pocket of his blazer and handed it to Gabriel. It showed a balding, overweight man in his early fifties with a florid face.

“We’ve given him a set of instructions for a surveillance detection run tomorrow afternoon. He’s supposed to leave the hotel at one-thirty sharp and visit four destinations: the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and the Piazza Navona. When he gets to Navona, he’s supposed to walk around the piazza once, then take a table at Tre Scalini.”

“What happens when he gets to Tre Scalini?”

“If he’s under watch, we walk away.”

“And if he’s clean?”

“We’ll tell him where to go next.”

“And where’s that? A safe flat?”

Navot shook his head. “I don’t want him near any of our properties. I’d rather do it someplace public-someplace where it will look like you’re just two strangers chatting.” He hesitated, then added, “Someplace a man with a gun can’t follow.”

“Ever heard of the Moscow Rules, Uzi?”

“I live by them.”

“Perhaps you recall rule three: Assume everyone is potentially under opposition control. It’s quite possible we’re going to a great deal of trouble to meet with a man who’s going to spoon-feed us a pile of Russian shit.” Gabriel looked down at the photograph. “Are we sure this man is really Boris Ostrovsky?”

“Moscow Station says it’s him.”

Gabriel returned the photograph to the envelope and looked around the Lower Church. “In order to get back into the country, I had to make a solemn promise to the Vatican and the Italian services. No operational work of any kind on Italian soil.”

“Who says you’re going to operate? You’re just going to have a conversation. ”

“With a Russian editor who just lost one of his reporters to a professional assassin in Courchevel.” Gabriel shook his head slowly. “I don’t know about you, Uzi, but I don’t think it’s exactly good karma to lie to a pope.”

“Shamron is our pope and Shamron wants it done.”

Gabriel led Navot from the basilica, and they walked together through the darkened streets, with the bat leveyha trailing quietly after them. He didn’t like it but he had to admit he was curious about the nature of the message the Russian wanted to deliver. The assignment had one other potential windfall. It could be used as leverage to get Shamron off his back once and for all. As they crossed the Piazza del Commune, he listed his demands.

“I listen to what he has to say, then I file a report and I’m done with it.”

“That’s it.”

“I go back to my farm in Umbria and finish my painting. No more complaints from Shamron. No more warnings about my security.”

Navot hesitated, then nodded his head.

“Say it, Uzi. Say it before God, here in the sacred city of Assisi.”

“You can go back to Umbria and restore paintings to your heart’s content. No more complaints from Shamron. No more warnings from me or anyone else about the legion of terrorists who wish you dead.”