Daniel Silva - Moscow Rules

Ari Shamron telephoned a week later to invite himself to lunch. He arrived in a single embassy car, with Gilah at his side. The afternoon was windy and raw, so they ate indoors in the formal dining room with an olive-wood fire blazing in the open hearth. Shamron referred to himself as Herr Heller, one of his many work names, and spoke only German in front of Anna and Margherita. When lunch was over, Chiara and Gilah helped with the dishes. Gabriel and Shamron pulled on coats and walked along the gravel road between the umbrella pines. Shamron waited until they were a hundred yards from the villa before lighting his first Turkish cigarette. “Don’t tell Gilah,” he said. “She’s bothering me to quit again.”

“She’s not as naïve as you think. She knows you smoke behind her back.”

“She doesn’t mind as long as I make at least some effort to conceal it from her.”

“You should listen to her for once. Those things are going to kill you.”

“I’m as old as these hills, my son. Let me enjoy myself while I’m still here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Gilah was coming with you?”

“I suppose it slipped my mind. I’m not used to traveling with my wife. We’re going to Vienna to listen to music next. Then we’re going to London to see a play.”

Shamron made it sound as if he had been sentenced to a month in solitary, with punishment rations.

“This is what people do when they retire, Ari. They travel. They relax.”

“I’m not retired. God, I hate that word. Next, you’ll accuse me of being deceased.”

“Try to enjoy yourself, Ari-if not for your sake, then for Gilah’s. She deserves a nice holiday in Europe. We all love you dearly, but you haven’t exactly been the perfect husband and father.”

“And for my sins, I am to be punished with a week of Mozart and Pinter.”

They walked in silence, Gabriel with his gaze downward, Shamron trailing smoke like a steam engine.

“I hear we’re sending a doctor up here tomorrow to remove your bandages.”

“Is that why you came? To see the great unveiling?”

“Gilah and I thought you would like to have some family around. Were we wrong to come?”

“Of course not, Ari. I just might not be very good company. That gorilla managed to fracture my orbit and cause significant damage to my retina. Even under the best of circumstances, I’m going to have blurred vision for a while.”

“And the worst?”

“Significant loss of vision in one eye. Not exactly a helpful condition for someone who makes his living restoring paintings.”

“You make your living defending the State of Israel.” Greeted by Gabriel’s silence, Shamron looked up at the treetops moving in the wind. “What’s wrong, Gabriel? No speech about how you’re planning to leave the Office for good this time? No lecture about how you’ve given enough to your country and your people already?”

“I’ll always be here for you, Ari-as long as I can see, of course.”

“What are your plans?”

“I’m going to remain a guest of Count Gasparri until I wear out my welcome. And, if my vision permits, I’m going to quietly restore a few paintings for the Vatican Museums. You may recall I was working on one when you asked me to run that little errand in Rome. Unfortunately, I had to let someone else finish it for me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not terribly sympathetic. You saved thousands of lives with that little errand. That’s more important than restoring a painting.”

They came to the fork in the track. Shamron looked up at the large, wood-carved crucifix and shook his head slowly. “Did I mention that Gilah and I had dinner at the Vatican last night with Monsignor Donati and His Holiness?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“His Holiness was quite pleased that the Church was able to play a small role in Ivan’s demise. He’s quite anxious it remain a secret, though. He doesn’t want any more dead bodies in his Basilica.”

“You can see his point,” said Gabriel.

“Absolutely,” Shamron agreed.

It was one of the many aspects of the affair that remained secret- the fact that Ivan’s children, after leaving Saint-Tropez, had been taken to an isolated priory high in the Maritime Alps. They had remained there for nearly a week-under Church protection and with the full knowledge and approval of the Supreme Pontiff-before boarding a CIA Gulfstream jet and flying clandestinely to the United States.

“Where are they?” Gabriel asked.

“Elena and the children?” Shamron dropped his cigarette and crushed it out. “I have no idea. And, quite frankly, I don’t want to know. She’s Adrian ’s problem now. Ivan has started more than divorce proceedings. He’s created a special unit within his personal security service with one job: finding Elena and the children. He wants his children back. He wants Elena dead.”

“What about Olga and Grigori?”

“Your friend Graham Seymour is hearing rumors of Russian assassins heading for British shores. Olga is locked away in a safe house outside London, surrounded by armed guards. Grigori is another story. He’s told Graham he can look after himself.”

“Did Graham agree to this?”

“Not entirely. He’s got Grigori under full-time watch.”

“Watchers? Watchers can’t protect anyone from a Russian assassin. Grigori should be surrounded by men with guns.”

“So should you.” Shamron didn’t bother trying to conceal his irritation. “If it were up to me, you’d be locked away someplace in Israel where Ivan would never think to look for you.”

“And you wonder why I’d rather be here.”

“Just don’t think about setting foot outside this estate. Not until Ivan’s had a chance to cool down.”

“Ivan doesn’t strike me as the sort to forget a grudge.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Perhaps we should just kill him now and get it over with.”

Shamron looked at the bandage on Gabriel’s eye. “Ivan can wait, my son. You have more important things to worry about.”

They had arrived at the stables. In an adjacent pen, a pair of pigs were rolling about in the mud. Shamron looked at the animals and winced in disgust.

“First a crucifix. Now pigs. What’s next?”

“We have our own chapel.”

Shamron ignited another cigarette. “I’m getting tired,” he said. “Let’s head back.”

They turned around and started toward the villa. Shamron produced an envelope from the breast pocket of his leather bomber jacket and handed it to Gabriel.

“It’s a letter from Elena,” Shamron said. “Adrian Carter had it couriered to Tel Aviv.”

“Did you read it?”

“Of course.”

Gabriel removed the letter and read it for himself.

“Are you up to it?” Shamron asked.

“I’ll know after the great unveiling.”

“Maybe Gilah and I should stay here for a few days, just in case things don’t go well.”

“What about Mozart and Pinter?”

“I’d rather be here”-he looked around theatrically-“with the pigs and the crucifixes.”

“Then we’d love to have you.”

“Do the staff really have no idea who you are?”

“They think I’m an eccentric restorer who suffers from melancholia and mood swings.”

Shamron placed his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “It sounds to me as if they know you quite well.”

The doctor came the following morning. Israeli by way of Queens, he wore a rabbinical beard and had the small soft hands of a baby. He removed the dressing from Gabriel’s eye, frowned heavily, and began snipping away the sutures.