Moscow Rules

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Authors: Daniel Silva

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The extraordinary new Gabriel Allon novel from the 'gold standard' (The Dallas Morning News) of

thriller writers.

Over the course of ten previous novels, Daniel Silva has established himself as one of the world's

finest writers of international intrigue and espionage – 'a worthy successor to such legends as Frederick

Forsyth and John le Carr' (Chicago Sun-Times) – and Gabriel Allon as 'one of the most intriguing heroes

of any thriller series' (The Philadelphia Inquirer).

Now the death of a journalist leads Allon to Russia, where he finds that, in terms of spycraft, even he

has something to learn. He's playing by Moscow rules now.

This is not the grim, gray Moscow of Soviet times but a new Moscow, awash in oil wealth and

choked with bulletproof Bentleys. A Moscow where power resides once more behind the walls of the

Kremlin and where critics of the ruling class are ruthlessly silenced. A Moscow where a new generation

of Stalinists is plotting to reclaim an empire lost and to challenge the global dominance of its old enemy,

the United States.

One such man is Ivan Kharkov, a former KGB colonel who built a global investment empire on the

rubble of the Soviet Union. Hidden within that empire, however, is a more lucrative and deadly business:

Kharkov is an arms dealer – and he is about to deliver Russia 's most sophisticated weapons to al-

Qaeda. Unless Allon can learn the time and place of the delivery, the world will see the deadliest terror

attacks since 9/11 – and the clock is ticking fast.

Filled with rich prose and breathtaking turns of plot, Moscow Rules is at once superior

entertainment and a searing cautionary tale about the new threats rising to the East – and Silva's finest

novel yet.

Daniel Silva

PART ONE. THE SUMMONS

1. COURCHEVEL, FRANCE

2 UMBRIA, ITALY

3 ASSISI, ITALY

4 ASSISI, ITALY

5 LLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA

6 ROME

7 ROME

8 VATICAN CITY

9 VATICAN CITY

10 BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL

11 JERUSALEM

12 ST. PETERSBURG

13 MOSCOW

14 NOVODEVICHY CEMETERY

15 MOSCOW

16 MOSCOW

17 MOSCOW

18 FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW

19 FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW

PART TWO. THE RECRUITMENT

20 BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL

21 JERUSALEM

22 JERUSALEM

23 GEORGETOWN

24 GEORGETOWN

25 DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETOWN

26 DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETON

27 LONDON

28 LONDON

29 ST. JAME’S, LONDON

30 CHELSEA, LONDON

31 GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND

32 GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND

33 THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

34 HAVERMORE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE

35 LONDON

36 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

37 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

38 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

39 GASSIN, FRANCE

40 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

41 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

42 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

43 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE

44 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE

45 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE

46 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE

47 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

PART THREE. THE DEFECTION

48 PARIS

49 PARIS

50 MOSCOW

51 GENEVA

52 VILLA SOLEIL, FRANCE

53 NICE, FRANCE

54 MOSCOW

55 MOSCOW

56 SAINT-TROPEZ, MOSCOW

57 MOSCOW

58 MOSCOW

59 GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON

60 MOSCOW

61 SHEREMETYEVO 2 AIRPORT, MOSCOW

62 MOSCOW

63 LUBYANKA SQUARE, MOSCOW

64 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA

65 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA

66 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA

67 KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA

68 MOSCOW

69 BOLOTNAYA SQUARE, MOSCOW

70 MOSCOW

PART FOUR. THE HARVEST

71 VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA

72 VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA

73 VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Daniel Silva

Daniel Silva

Moscow Rules

The eighth book in the Gabriel Allon series

For Jeff Zucker, Ron Meyer, Linda Rappaport,

and Michael Gendler,

for their friendship, wisdom, and guidance.

And as always, for my wife, Jamie,

and my children, Lily and Nicholas.

Don’t look back. You are never completely

alone.

PART ONE. THE SUMMONS

1. COURCHEVEL, FRANCE

The invasion began, as it always did, in the last days of December. They came by armored caravan

up the winding road from the floor of the Rhône Valley or descended onto the treacherous mountaintop

airstrip by helicopter and private plane. Billionaires and bankers, oil tycoons and metal magnates,

supermodels and spoiled children: the moneyed elite of a Russia resurgent. They streamed into the suites

of the Cheval Blanc and the Byblos and commandeered the big private chalets along the rue de Bellecôte.

They booked Les Caves nightclub for private all-night parties and looted the glittering shops of the

Croissette. They snatched up all the best ski instructors and emptied the wineshops of their best

champagne and cognac. By the morning of the twenty-eighth there was not a hair appointment to be had

anywhere in town, and Le Chalet de Pierres, the famous slope-side restaurant renowned for its fire-

roasted beef, had stopped taking reservations for dinner until mid-January. By New Year’s Eve, the

conquest was complete. Courchevel, the exclusive ski resort high in the French Alps, was once more a

village under Russian occupation.

Only the Hôtel Grand Courchevel managed to survive the onslaught from the East. Hardly surprising,

devotees might have said, for, at the Grand, Russians, like those with children, were quietly encouraged

to find accommodations elsewhere. Her rooms were thirty in number, modest in size, and discreet in

appointment. One did not come to the Grand for gold fixtures and suites the size of football pitches. One

came for a taste of Europe as it once was. One came to linger over a Campari in the lounge bar or to

dawdle over coffee and
Le Monde
in the breakfast room. Gentlemen wore jackets to dinner and waited

until after breakfast before changing into their ski attire. Conversation was conducted in a confessional

murmur and with excessive courtesy. The Internet had not yet arrived at the Grand and the phones were

moody. Her guests did not seem to mind; they were as genteel as the Grand herself and trended toward

late middle age. A wit from one of the flashier hotels in the Jardin Alpin once described the Grand’s

clientele as “the elderly and their parents.”

The lobby was small, tidy, and heated by a well-tended wood fire. To the right, near the entrance of

the dining room, was Reception, a cramped alcove with brass hooks for the room keys and pigeonholes

for mail and messages. Adjacent to Reception, near the Grand’s single wheezing lift, stood the concierge

desk. Early in the afternoon of the second of January, it was occupied by Philippe, a neatly built former

French paratrooper who wore the crossed golden keys of the International Concierge Institute on his

spotless lapel and dreamed of leaving the hotel business behind for good and settling permanently on his

family’s truffle farm in Périgord. His thoughtful dark gaze was lowered toward a list of pending arrivals

and departures. It contained a single entry:
Lubin, Alex. Arriving by car from Geneva. Booked into Room

237. Ski rental required.

Philippe cast his seasoned concierge’s eye over the name. He had a flair for names. One had to in

this line of work.
Alex… short for Alexander,
he reckoned.
Or was it Aleksandr? Or Aleksei?
He looked

up and cleared his throat discreetly. An impeccably groomed head poked from Reception. It belonged to

Ricardo, the afternoon manager.

“I think we have a problem,” Philippe said calmly.

Ricardo frowned. He was a Spaniard from the Basque region. He didn’t like problems.

“What is it?”

Philippe held up the arrivals sheet. “Lubin, Alex.”

Ricardo tapped a few keys on his computer with a manicured forefinger.

“Twelve nights? Ski rental required? Who took this reservation?”

“I believe it was Nadine.”

Nadine was the new girl. She worked the graveyard shift. And for the crime of granting a room to

someone called Alex Lubin without first consulting Ricardo, she would do so for all eternity.

“You think he’s Russian?” Ricardo asked.

“Guilty as charged.”

Ricardo accepted the verdict without appeal. Though senior in rank, he was twenty years Philippe’s

junior and had come to rely heavily upon the older man’s experience and judgment.

“Perhaps we can dump him on our competitors.”

“Not possible. There isn’t a room to be had between here and Albertville. ”

“Then I suppose we’re stuck with him-unless, of course, he can be convinced to leave on his own.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Plan B, of course.”

“It’s rather extreme, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but it’s the only way.”

The former paratrooper accepted his orders with a crisp nod and began planning the operation. It

commenced at 4:12 P.M., when a dark gray Mercedes sedan with Geneva registration pulled up at the

front steps and sounded its horn. Philippe remained at his pulpit for a full two minutes before donning his

greatcoat at considerable leisure and heading slowly outside. By now the unwanted Monsieur Alex Lubin-

twelve nights, ski rental required-had left his car and was standing angrily next to the open trunk. He had a

face full of sharp angles and pale blond hair arranged carefully over a broad pate. His narrow eyes were

cast downward into the trunk, toward a pair of large nylon suitcases. The concierge frowned at the bags

as if he had never seen such objects before, then greeted the guest with a glacial warmth.

“May I help you, Monsieur?”

The question had been posed in English. The response came in the same language, with a distinct

Slavic accent.

“I’m checking into the hotel.”

“Really? I wasn’t told about any pending arrivals this afternoon. I’m sure it was just a slipup. Why

don’t you have a word with my colleague at Reception? I’m confident he’ll be able to rectify the

situation.”

Lubin murmured something under his breath and tramped up the steep steps. Philippe took hold of the

first bag and nearly ruptured a disk trying to hoist it out.
He’s a Russian anvil salesman and he’s brought

along a case filled with samples
. By the time he had managed to heave the bags into the lobby, Lubin was

slowly reciting his confirmation number to a perplexed-looking Ricardo, who, try as he might, had been

unable to locate the reservation in question. The problem was finally resolved-
“A small mistake by one

of our staff, Monsieur Lubin. I’ll be certain to have a word with her”
-only to be followed by another.

Due to an oversight by the housekeeping staff, the room was not yet ready. “It will just be a few

moments,” Ricardo said in his most silken voice. “My colleague will place your bags in the storage room.

Allow me to show you to our lounge bar. There will be no charge for your drinks, of course.” There

would be a charge-a rather bloated one, in fact-but Ricardo planned to spring that little surprise when

Monsieur Lubin’s defenses were at their weakest.

Sadly, Ricardo’s optimism that the delay would be brief turned out to be misplaced. Indeed, ninety

additional minutes would elapse before Lubin was shown, sans baggage, to his room. In accordance with

Plan B, there was no bathrobe for trips to the wellness center, no vodka in the minibar, and no remote for

the television. The bedside alarm clock had been set for 4:15 A.M. The heater was roaring. Philippe

covertly removed the last bar of soap from the bathroom, then, after being offered no gratuity, slipped out

the door, with a promise that the bags would be delivered in short order. Ricardo was waiting for him as

he came off the lift.

“How many vodkas did he drink in the bar?”

“Seven,” said Ricardo.

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