Moscow Rules (29 page)

of paper, a printout of an NSA intercept. “Five minutes after Ivan left that restaurant, he was on the phone

to Arkady Medvedev, the chief of his private security service, telling him to run a background check on

Mikhail’s father and the Dillard Center.”

“And when he does, he’ll find that Mikhail’s father was indeed a teacher who immigrated to

America in the early nineties. And he’ll find that the Dillard Center occupies a small suite of offices on

Massachusetts Avenue in Washington.”

“Ivan knows about cover stories, and he certainly knows about CIA front organizations. The KGB

was far better at it than Langley ever was. The Russians had a network of fronts all around the globe,

some of them run by Ivan’s father, no doubt. Ivan drank KGB tradecraft with his mother’s milk. It’s in his

DNA.”

“If Ivan had qualms about Sarah and Mikhail, he wouldn’t let them come close to him. He’d push

them away. And he’d make it clear to Elena that they were strictly off-limits.”

“No, he wouldn’t. Ivan’s KGB. If he suspected Sarah and Mikhail weren’t kosher, he’d play it

exactly
like this. He’d put a team of watcherson them. He’d slip a bug in their hotel room to make sure

they’re really who they say they are. And he’d invite them to lunch to try to find out how much they know

about his network.”

Gabriel, with his silence, conceded the point.

“Cancel lunch,” said Lavon. “Arrange another bump.”

“If we cancel, Ivan will know something’s not right. And there’s no way he’ll believe that another

chance encounter is only a coincidence. We’ve flirted long enough. Elena’s clearly interested. It’s time to

start talking about consummating the relationship. And the only way we can talk is by going to lunch at

Ivan’s house.”

Lavon picked up a chicken bone and searched it for a scrap of meat. “Do I need to remind you whom

Sarah works for? And do I also need to remind you that Adrian Carter might not agree with your decision

to send her in there tomorrow?”

“Sarah might work for Langley, but she belongs to us. And as for a decision about what to do, I

haven’t made one yet.”

“What are you going to do, Gabriel?”

“I’m going to sit here for a while and think about it.”

Lavon tossed the bone onto the pile and placed his chin in his palm.

“I’ll help.”

40 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

Next day, the heat arrived. It came from the south on a scalding wind, fierce, dry, and filled with grit.

The pedestrians who ventured into the
centre ville
clung to the false cool of the shadows, while on the

coastline, from the Baie de Pampelonne down to Cap Cartaya, beachgoers huddled motionless beneath

their parasols or sat simmering in the shallows. A few deranged souls stretched themselves prostrate upon

the broiling sands; by late morning, they looked like casualties of a desert battle. At noon, the local radio

reported that it was officially the hottest day ever recorded in Saint-Tropez. All agreed the Americans

were to blame.

Villa Soleil, Ivan Kharkov’s estate on the Baie de Cavalaire, seemed to have been spared the full

force of the heat’s fury. Immediately behind its twelve-foot walls lay a vast circular drive where nymphs

frolicked in splashing fountains and flowers erupted in gardens groomed to hotel brochure perfection. The

villa itself stood hard against the rocky coastline, imposing its own beauty upon the remarkable

landscape. It was more palace than home, an endless series of loggias, marble corridors, statuary halls,

and cavernous sitting rooms where white curtains billowed and snapped like mainsails in the constant

breeze. Each wing of the house seemed to have its own unique view of the sea. And each view, thought

Sarah, was more breathtaking than the last.

They finally came upon Elena at the end of a long, cool colonnade with a checkerboard marble floor.

She wore a strapless top and a floor-length wrap that shimmered with each breath of wind. Ivan stood

next to her, a glass of wine sweating in his grasp. Once again, he was wearing black and white, as if to

illustrate the fact that he was a man of contradictions. This time, however, the colors of his outfit were

reversed: black shirt, white trousers. As they greeted each other with the casualness of an old friendship

renewed, his enormous wristwatch caught the rays of the sun and reflected them into Sarah’s eyes. Before

treating her to a damp kiss and a blast of his rich aftershave, he placed his wineglass carelessly on the

plinth of a statue. It was female, nude, and Greek. For the moment, Sarah thought spitefully, it was the

world’s most expensive coaster.

It was immediately clear that Elena’s invitation to a quiet lunch and swim had been transformed by

Ivan into a more extravagant affair. On the terrace below the colonnade, a table had been set for twenty-

four. Several pretty young girls were already cavorting in a pool the size of a small bay, watched over by

a dozen middle-aged Russians lounging about on chaises and divans. Ivan introduced his guests as if they

were simply more of his possessions. There was a man who did something with nickel, another who

traded in timber, and one, with a face like a fox, who ran a personal and corporate security firm in

Geneva. The girls in the pool he introduced collectively, as though they had no names, only a purpose.

One of them was Yekatarina, Ivan’s supermodel mistress, a gaunt, pouty child of nineteen, all arms, legs,

and breasts, colored to caramel perfection. She gazed hard at Sarah, as though she were a potential rival,

then leapt into the pool like a dolphin and disappeared beneath the surface.

Sarah and Mikhail settled themselves between the wife of the nickel magnate, who looked deeply

bored, and the timber trader, who was genial but dull. Ivan and Elena returned to the colonnade, where

more guests were arriving in boisterous packs. They came down the steps in waves, like revolutionaries

storming the Winter Palace, and with each new group the volume and intensity of the party seemed to rise

a notch. Several frosted bottles of vodka appeared; dance music pulsated from invisible speakers. On the

terrace, a second table was set for lunch, then a third. The vast pool soon took on the appearance of just

another of Ivan’s fountains, as nubile nymphs were groped and tossed about by fat millionaires and

muscled bodyguards. Elena moved effortlessly from group to group, kissing cheeks and refreshing drinks,

but Ivan remained aloof, gazing upon the merriment as though it were a performance arranged for his own

private amusement.

It was nearly three o’clock by the time he summoned them all to lunch. By Sarah’s count, the guests

now numbered seventy in all, but from Ivan’s kitchens miraculously emerged more than enough food to

feed a party twice as large. She sat next to Mikhail at Ivan’s end of the table, where they were well within

his sphere of influence and the scent of his cologne. It was a gluttonous affair; Ivan ate heavily but without

pleasure, stabbing punitively at his food, his thoughts remote. At the end of the meal, his mood improved

when Anna and Nikolai appeared, along with Sonia, their Russian nanny. The children sat together on his

lap, imprisoned in his massive arms. “These two are my world,” he said directly to Sarah. “If anything

ever happened to them…” His voice trailed off, as if he were suddenly at a loss for words. Then he

added menacingly: “God help the man who ever harms my children.”

It was an oddly gloomy note on which to end lunch, though the rest of Ivan’s guests seemed to think

nothing of it as they rose from the table and filed down the steps to the pool for a final swim. Ivan

released his grip on the children and seized Mikhail’s wrist as he stood. “Don’t go so quickly,” he said.

“You promised to give me a chance to convince you to come home to Russia and work for me.”

“I’m not sure I remember that promise.”

“But I remember it quite clearly and that’s all that matters.” He stood and smiled charmingly at

Sarah. “I can be rather persuasive. If I were you, I would begin planning a move to Moscow.”

He guided Mikhail to a distant corner of the terrace and sat with him in the shade of a cupola. Sarah

looked at Elena. The children were now seated on her lap, in a pose as tender as Ivan’s was fierce.

“You look like a painting by Mary Cassatt.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Elena kissed Anna’s cheek and whispered something to the child that caused her to smile and nod.

Then she whispered something to Nikolai, with the same result.

“Are you saying naughty things about me?” Sarah asked playfully.

“The children think you’re very pretty.”

“Please tell the children I think they’re very pretty as well.”

“They were also wondering whether you would like to see their room. It contains a new painting,

and they’re very anxious for you to see it.”

“Please tell the children that I would like nothing more.”

"Come, then,” said Elena. “The children will show us the way.”

They flitted in and out of the colonnade like starlings and hop-scotched along the checkerboard

marble floor. Ascending the sweeping main staircase, Nikolai pretended to be a ferocious Russian bear

and Sarah pretended to be terribly afraid in return. At the top of the stairs, Anna took hold of Sarah’s hand

and pulled her down a glorious corridor filled with buttery light. It ended at the children’s room, which

was not a room at all but an elaborate suite.
Two Children on a Beach
hung in the entrance foyer, next to

a similarly sized portrait of a young dancer by Degas. Elena Kharkov, student of art history and former

employee of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad, slipped effortlessly into tour guide mode.

“They knew each other well quite well, Cassatt and Degas. In fact, Degas had a profound influence

on her work. I thought it was appropriate they be together.” She looked at Sarah and gave a faint smile.

“Until two weeks ago, I was certain the Degas was actually painted by Degas. Now I’m not so sure.”

Elena sent the children off to play. In their absence, a heavy silence fell over the foyer. The two

women stood several feet apart, Elena before the Degas, Sarah before the Cassatt. Overhead, a camera

peered down at them like a gargoyle.

“Who are you?” Elena asked, her eyes straight ahead. “And why are you in my home?”

Sarah glanced up at the camera.

“Don’t be frightened,” said Elena. “Ivan is watching but not listening. I told him long ago I would

never live in a house filled with microphones. And he swore to me he would never install them.”

“And you trust him?”

“On this matter, yes. Remember, microphones would pick up
everyone’s
voice, including Ivan’s.

And their signals can also be intercepted by law enforcement agencies and intelligence services.” She

paused. “I would have thought you would be aware of that. Who are you? And who do you work for?”

Sarah stared straight ahead at Gabriel’s immaculate brushstrokes.
Under no circumstances are you

to tell her your real name or occupation when you’re on hostile territory,
he had said.
Your cover is

everything. Wear it like body armor, especially when you’re on Ivan’s turf.

“My name is Sarah Crawford. I work for the Dillard Center for Democracy in Washington. We met

for the first time in the Cotswolds, when you purchased this painting by Mary Cassatt from my uncle.”

“Quickly, Sarah. We haven’t much time.”

“I’m a friend, Elena. A very good friend. I’m here to help you finish what you started. You have

something you want to tell us about your husband. I’m here to listen.”

Elena was silent for a moment. “He’s quite fond of you, Sarah. Was it always your intention to

seduce my husband?”

“I assure you, Elena, your husband has absolutely no interest in me.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because he’s brought his mistress into your house.”

Elena’s head turned sharply toward Sarah. “Who is she?”

“Yekatarina.”

“It’s not possible. She’s a child.”

“That
child
is staying in a suite at the Carlton Hotel. Ivan is paying her bills.”

“How do you know this?”

“We know, Elena. We know everything.”

“You’re lying to me. You’re trying to-”

“We’re not trying to do anything but help you. And the only lies we tell are the ones necessary to

deceive Ivan. We haven’t lied to you, Elena, and we never will.”

“How do you know he’s seeing her?”

“Because we follow him. And we listen to him. Did you see those pearls she was wearing today?”

Elena gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“He gave those pearls to her in June when he went to Paris. You remember his trip to Paris, don’t

you, Elena? You were in Moscow. Ivan said he needed to go for business. It was a lie, of course. He went

there to see Yekatarina. He called you three times while he was in her apartment.You took the third call

while you were having lunch with friends at Café Pushkin. We have a photograph if you’d like to see it.”

Elena was forced to absorb this news of her husband’s treachery with a tranquil smile-Ivan’s