Daniel Silva: Moscow Rules

“Is Ostrovsky under surveillance by assets from Rome Station?”

“We put him under watch within an hour of the first contact.”

“Tell them to back off. Otherwise, you run the risk of inadvertently telegraphing our interest to the Italian security services and anyone else who might be watching him.”

“Done.”

“I need a watcher I can trust.”

“Someone like Eli?”

“Yes, someone like Eli. Where is he?”

“On a dig somewhere near the Dead Sea.”

“Get him on the sunrise express out of Ben-Gurion. Tell him to meet me at Piperno. Tell him to have a bottle of Frascati and a plate of filetti di baccalà waiting.”

“I love fried cod,” Navot said.

"Piperno makes the best filetti in Rome. Why don’t you join us for lunch?”

“Bella says I have to stay away from fried food.” Navot patted his ample midsection. “She says it’s very fattening.”

To restore an Old Master painting, Gabriel always said, was to surrender oneself body and soul to the canvas and the artist who had produced it. The painting was always the first thing in his thoughts when he woke and the last thing he saw before dropping off to sleep. Even in his dreams, he could not escape it; nor could he ever walk past a restoration in progress without stopping to examine his work.

He switched off the halogen lamps now and climbed the stone steps to the second floor. Chiara was propped on one elbow in bed, leafing distractedly through a thick fashion magazine. Her skin was dark from the Umbrian sun and her auburn hair was moving faintly in the breeze of the open window. A dreadful Italian pop song was issuing from the bedside clock radio; two Italian celebrities were engaged in a deep but silent conversation on the muted television. Gabriel pointed the remote at the screen and fired.

“I was watching that,” she said without looking at him.

“Oh, really? What was it about?”

“Something to do with a man and a woman.” She licked her forefingerand elaborately turned the page of her magazine. “Did you boys have a nice time?”

“Where’s your gun?”

She lifted the corner of the bedcover and the walnut grip of a Beretta 9mm shone in the light of her reading lamp. Gabriel would have preferred the weapon be more accessible, but he resisted the impulse to chide her. Despite the fact that she had never handled a gun before her recruitment, Chiara routinely outscored him in accuracy on the basement firing range at King Saul Boulevard -a rather remarkable achievement, considering the fact she was the daughter of the chief rabbi of Venice and had spent her youth in the tranquil streets of the city’s ancient Jewish Ghetto. Officially, she was still an Italian citizen. Her association with the Office was a secret, as was her marriage to Gabriel. She covered the Beretta again and flipped another page.

“How’s Uzi?”

“He and Bella are going to get married.”

“Is it serious or just idle talk?”

“You should see the eyeglasses she has him wearing.”

“When a man lets a woman choose his eyeglasses, it’s only a matter of time before he’s standing under a chuppah with his foot on a glass.” She looked up and scrutinized him carefully. “Maybe it’s time you had your eyes checked, Gabriel. You were squinting last night when you were watching television.”

“I was squinting because my eyes were fatigued from working all day.”

“You never used to squint. You know, Gabriel, you’ve reached an age when most men-”

“I don’t need glasses, Chiara. And, when I do, I’ll be sure to consult you before choosing the frames.”

“You look very distinguished when you wear false eyeglasses for cover.” She closed her magazine and lowered the volume on the clock radio. “So is that why Uzi came all the way to Italy to see you? To tell you he was getting married?”

“The Sword of Allah has hung a contract around my neck. Shamron is concerned about our security.”

“That sounds like something that could have been handled with a phone call, darling. Surely Uzi had more to say than that.”

“He wants me to run an errand for him in Rome.”

“Really? What sort of errand?”

“It’s need-to-know, Chiara.”

“Good, Gabriel, because I need to know why you would interrupt our honeymoon to run off on an assignment.”

“It’s not an assignment. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“What’s the job, Gabriel? And don’t hide behind silly Office rules and regulations. We’ve always told each other everything.” She paused. “Haven’t we?”

Gabriel sat down on the edge of the bed and told her about Boris Ostrovsky and his unorthodox request for an audience.

“And you agreed to this?” She gathered her hair into a bun and patted the bed distractedly for a clasp. “Am I the only one who’s considered the possibility that you’re walking straight into a trap?”

“It may have crossed my mind.”

“Why didn’t you just tell them to send a stand-in? Surely Uzi can find someone from Special Ops who looks enough like you to fool a Russian journalist who’s never seen you in person before.” Greeted by Gabriel’s silence, Chiara supplied her own answer. “Because you’re curious what this Russian has to say.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not enough to interrupt my honeymoon.” Chiara gave up trying to find the clasp and allowed her hair to tumble about her shoulders once more. “Uzi and Shamron will always dream up something to keep pulling you back into the Office, Gabriel, but you only get one honeymoon.”

Gabriel walked over to the closet and took down a small leather overnight bag from the top shelf. Chiara watched him silently as he filled it with a change of clothing. She could see that further debate was futile.

“Did Uzi have a bat leveyha ?”

“A very pretty one, actually.”

“We’re all pretty, Gabriel. You middle-aged Office hacks love to go into the field with a pretty girl on your arm.”

“Especially when she has a big gun in her handbag.”

“Who was it?”

“He said her name was Tamara.”

“She is pretty. She’s also trouble. Bella better keep an eye on her.” Chiara looked at Gabriel packing his bag. “Will you really be back tomorrow night?”

“If everything goes according to plan.”

“When was the last time one of your assignments went according to plan?” She took hold of the Beretta and held it out toward him. “Do you need this?”

“I have one in the car.”

“Who’s going to be watching your back? Not those idiots from Rome Station.”

“Eli’s flying to Rome in the morning.”

“Let me come with you.”

“I’ve already lost one wife to my enemies. I don’t want to lose another. ”

“So what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

“Make sure no one steals the Poussin. His Holiness will be rather miffed if it vanishes while in my possession.” He kissed her and started toward the door. “And whatever you do, don’t try to follow me. Uzi put a security detail at the front gate.”

“Bastard,” she murmured as he started down the steps.

“I heard that, Chiara.”

She picked up the remote and pointed it at the television.

“Good.”

To call it a safe flat was no longer accurate. Indeed, Gabriel had spent so much time in the pleasant apartment near the top of the Spanish Steps that the lords of Housekeeping, the division of the Office that handled secure accommodations, referred to it as his Rome address. There were two bedrooms, a large, light-filled sitting room, and a spacious terrace that looked west toward the Piazza di Spagna and St. Peter’s Basilica. Two years earlier, Gabriel had been standing in the shadow of Michelangelo’s dome, at the side of His Holiness Pope Paul VII, when the Vatican was attacked by Islamic terrorists. More than seven hundred people were killed that October afternoon, and the dome of the Basilica had nearly been toppled. At the behest of the CIA and the American president, Gabriel had hunted down and killed the two Saudis who masterminded and financed the operation. The pope’s powerful private secretary, Monsignor Luigi Donati, knew of Gabriel’s involvement in the killings and tacitly approved. So, too, Gabriel suspected, did the Holy Father himself.