Moscow Rules (25 page)

The men in the hayloft attempted to warn Sarah-they had hidden a tiny audio speaker in the entrance

hall for just such a contingency- but she had already opened Havermore’s impressive door and was

stepping into the forecourt. Punch and Judy scampered past her ankles and shot across the gravel like a

pair of honey-colored torpedoes. By some natural instinct, they advanced directly toward the most

authoritative-looking member of the entourage. The three V’s formed a wall in front of their target: Ivan

Kharkov.

He was standing calmly behind them, an expression of mild bemusement on the heavy features of his

face. Sarah used a moment of mock anger at the dogs to help conceal the shock of seeing the monster face

to face for the first time. She seized the dogs by the collars and gave them each a firm shove on the

hindquarters toward the house. By the time she turned around again, a small crack opened between Vadim

and Viktor. She extended her hand through it toward Ivan and managed a smile. “I’m afraid herding

instincts take over when they see a large group of people,” she heard herself say. “I’m Sarah Crawford.”

Ivan’s right hand rose from the seam of his trousers. It looked, thought Sarah, like a manicured

mallet. It gave her hand a testing squeeze and quickly released it.

“You’re an American,” he pointed out.

And you forgot to tell me your name
, she thought.

“Actually, I’m only half American.”

“Which half?”

“The self-centered half, according to my uncle. This is his home. I’m just visiting.”

“From America?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live in America?”

“ Washington, D.C. And you?”

“I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world, Miss Crawford. ”

A citizen of the world, perhaps, but exposure to the West had yet to buff away the last traces of KGB

English. It was surprisingly fluent but still flecked with the intonation of a Radio Moscow propagandist.

He was proud of his English, thought Sarah, just like he was proud of his armored limousines, his

bodyguards, his handmade suit, his three-thousand-dollar necktie, and the rich aftershave that hung round

him like a vaporous cloud. No amount of Western clothing and cologne could conceal his Russianness,

though. It was etched in the sturdy forehead, the almond-shaped eyes, and the angular cheekbones. Nor

could it hide the fact that he was a KGB hood who had stumbled into a mountain of money.

Almost as an afterthought, he lifted his left hand and, with his eyes still fixed on Sarah, said, “My

wife.” She was standing several feet away, surrounded by her own palace guard. She was taller than Ivan

by an inch or two and held herself with the erect carriage of a dancer. Her skin was pale, her eyes liquid

green, her hair black. She wore it long and allowed it to fall loosely about her shoulders. As for the

prospect of Sarah’s beauty posing a challenge to Elena’s, there was little chance of that, for at forty-six

years, seven months and nineteen days, she was still a strikingly attractive woman. She took a step

forward and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sarah. I’m Elena Kharkov. ” Her accent,

unlike Ivan’s, was authentic and rich, and completely beguiling. “I believe Alistair told you I would be

coming alone. My husband decided to join me at the last minute.”

A husband who still has no name
, Sarah thought.

“Actually, Alistair told me a
woman
would be coming alone. He didn’t give me a name. He was

very discreet, Mrs. Kharkov.”

“And we trust that you will be discreet as well,” Ivan said. “It is important for people such as

ourselves to conduct our acquisitions and business transactions with a certain amount of privacy.”

“You may rest assured my uncle feels precisely the same way, Mr. Kharkov.”

As if on cue, Boothby emerged, with Punch and Judy now swirling noisily at his feet. “Did my ears

deceive me,” he trumpeted, “or is it true that the great Ivan Kharkov has come to Havermore? That dolt

from Christie’s told me to expect a VIP, but no one of your stature.” He took Ivan’s hand in his own and

pumped it vigorously. “It is indeed an
honor
to have you here, Mr. Kharkov. I
do
admire your

accomplishments. I knew you were a man of many interests, but I never knew art was one of them.”

Ivan’s stony face broke briefly into something approaching a genuine smile. Ivan, they knew, was

vulnerable to flattery, from pretty young girls, and even from tattered English landed gentry.

“Actually, my wife is the expert when it comes to art,” he said. “I just felt like getting out of London

for a few hours.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Can’t stand London any longer, what with the traffic and the terrorism. Go there

now to see the odd play or hear a bit of music at Covent Garden, but I’d choose the Cotswold Hills over

Kensington any day of the week. Too expensive in London, these days. Too many people such as yourself

buying everything up. No insult intended, of course.”

“None taken.”

“Do you have a country estate yet or just your London residence?”

“Just the house in Knightsbridge at the moment.”

Boothby gestured toward the façade of Havermore. “This has been in my family for five generations.

I’d love to give you a tour while our two art experts have a look at the painting.”

A glance passed between Ivan and Elena: coded, secure, inscrutable to an outsider. She murmured a

few words in Russian; Ivan responded by looking at Boothby and giving a single nod of his sturdy head.

“I’d love a tour,” he said. “But we’ll have to make it brief. I’m afraid my wife tends to make decisions

quickly.”

“Brilliant!” said Boothby. “Allow me to show you the grounds.”

He lifted his hand and started toward the East Meadow. Ivan, after a brief hesitation, followed after

him, with the three V’s flying close behind in tight formation. Boothby looked at the bodyguards and

politely objected.

“I say, but is that really necessary? I can assure you, Mr. Kharkov, that you have no enemies here.

The most dangerous things at Havermore are the dogs and my martinis.”

Ivan glanced once again at Elena, then spoke a few words in Russian to the bodyguards in a baritone

murmur. When he started toward the meadow a second time, the guards remained motionless. Elena

watched her husband’s departure in silence, then looked at Sarah.

“I’m sorry about the security, Miss Crawford. I would do almost anything to be rid of them, but Ivan

insists they stay by my side wherever I go. I imagine that it must seem very exciting to be surrounded by

men in dark suits. I can assure you it is not.”

Sarah was momentarily taken aback by the intimacy of her words. They constituted a betrayal. A

small one, thought Sarah, but a betrayal nonetheless. “A woman in your position can’t be too careful,” she

said. “But I can assure you that you are among friends here.”

Boothby and Ivan disappeared around the corner of the house. Sarah placed her hand gently on

Elena’s arm.

“Would you like to see my uncle’s Cassatt, Mrs. Kharkov?”

“I would
love
to see your uncle’s Cassatt, Miss Crawford.”

When they started toward the portico, the bodyguards remained motionless.

“You know, Mrs. Kharkov, I really think it’s best we see the painting alone. I’ve always found

Cassatt to be a painter
of
women
for
women. Most men don’t understand her.”

“I couldn’t agree more. And I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“What’s that?”

"Ivan loathes her.”

In the hayloft of the barn, the four men standing before the video monitors moved for the first time in

three minutes.

"Looks like Uncle John just saved our asses,” said Graham Seymour.

"His father would be very proud.”

“Ivan’s not the world’s most patient man. I suspect you’ll have five minutes with Elena at most.”

“I’d kill for five minutes.”

“Let’s hope there’s no killing today, Gabriel. Ivan’s the one with all the guns.”

The two women climbed the central staircase together and paused on the landing to admire a

Madonna and Child.

"Is that actually a Veronese?” Elena asked.

“Depends on whom you ask. My uncle’s ancestors did the Grand Tour of Italy in the nineteenth

century and came home with a boat-load of paintings. Some were quite lovely. Some of them were just

copies made by lesser artists. I’ve always thought this one was among the best.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“The Cassatt is still in the nursery. My uncle thought you would enjoy seeing it in its original

setting.”

Sarah took Elena carefully by the arm and led her down the hall. The key was resting on the

woodwork above the door. Standing on tiptoe, Sarah removed it, then raised a finger to her lips in a

gesture of mock conspiracy.

“Don’t tell anyone where we keep the key.”

Elena smiled. "It will be our little secret.”

Ivan’s starting to get restless.” “I can see that, Graham.”

"She’s burned three minutes already.”

"Yes, I can see that, too.”

“She should have done it on the staircase.”

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“I hope to God you’re right.”

So do I
, thought Gabriel.

Elena entered the room first. Sarah closed the door halfway, then walked over to the window and

pushed open the curtains. The golden light fell upon two matching beds, two matching dressers, two

matching hand-painted toy chests, and
Two Children on a Beach
by Gabriel Allon. Elena covered her

mouth with her hands and gasped.

“It’s glorious,” she said. “I must have it.”

Sarah allowed a silence to fall between them. She lowered herself onto the end of the bed nearest the

window and, with her eyes cast downward toward the floor, absently ran her hand over the Winnie the

Pooh spread. Seeing her reaction, Elena said, “My God, I’m so sorry. You must think I’m terribly

spoiled.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Kharkov.” Sarah made a show of looking around the nursery. “I spent every summer

in this room when I was a little girl. That painting was the first thing I saw in the morning and the last

thing I saw at night before my mother switched off the lights. The house just won’t feel the same without

it.”

“I can’t take it from you, then.”

“You must,” Sarah said. “My uncle has to sell it. Trust me, Mrs. Kharkov, if you don’t buy it,

someone else will. I want it to go to someone who loves it as much as I do. Someone like
you,
” she

added.

Elena turned her gaze from Sarah and looked at the painting once more. “I’d like to have a closer

look at it before I make a final decision. Would you help me take it down from the wall, please?”

“Of course.”

Sarah rose to her feet and, passing before the window, glanced downward toward the meadow.

Boothby and Ivan were still there, Boothby with his arm extended toward some landmark in the distance,

Ivan with his patience clearly at an ebb. She walked over to the painting and, with Elena’s help, lifted it

from its hooks and laid it flat upon the second bed. Elena then drew a magnifying glass and a small

Maglite flashlight from her handbag. First she used the magnifying glass to examine the signature in the

bottom left corner of the painting. Then she switched on the Maglite and played the beam over the surface.

Her examination lasted three minutes. When it had ended, she switched off the Maglite and slipped it back

into her handbag.

“This painting is an obvious forgery,” she said.

She regarded Sarah’s face carefully for a moment as if she realized Sarah was a forgery, too.

“Please tell me who you are, Miss Crawford.”

Sarah opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, the door swung open and Ivan

appeared in the threshold, with Boothby at his shoulder. Ivan stared at Elena for a moment, then his gaze

settled on Sarah.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

It was Elena who answered. “Nothing’s wrong, Ivan. Miss Crawford was just telling me how much

the painting means to her and she became understandably emotional.”

“Perhaps they’ve had a change of heart.”

“No, Mr. Kharkov,” Sarah said. “I’m afraid we have no choice but to part with it. The painting

belongs to your wife now-if she wants it, of course.”

“Well, Elena?” Ivan asked impatiently. “Do you want it or not?”

Elena ran her fingers over the faces of the children, then looked at Sarah. “It’s one of the most

extraordinary Cassatts I’ve ever seen.” She turned around and looked at Ivan. “I must have it, my love.

Please pay them whatever they ask.”

35 LONDON

Precisely how Ivan Kharkov had managed to slip past the vaunted watchers of MI5 was never

determined to anyone’s satisfaction. There were recriminations and postmortems. Regrettable letters were

inserted into personnel files. Demerits were handed out. Gabriel paid little attention to the fallout, for by