Moscow Rules

by Daniel Silva

  53

  NICE, FRANCE

  Ivan was preoccupied during the drive, and for that Elena was grateful. He passed the journey alternately talking on his mobile or staring silently out his window, his thick fingers drumming on the center console. Because they were moving against the morning beach traffic, they proceeded without delay: around the Golfe de Saint-Tropez to Saint-Maxime, inland on the D25 to the autoroute, then eastward on the autoroute toward Nice. As they sped through the northern fringes of Cannes, Elena found herself thinking about Ivan and Yekatarina making love in their suite at the Carlton. Ivan must have been thinking the same thing, because he took hold of her hand and said he was sorry for everything that had happened. Elena heard herself say she was sorry, too. Then she looked out her window at the hills rising toward the Alps and began counting the minutes until she would be free of him.

  The exit for the Côte d’Azur International Airport appeared fifteen minutes later. By then, Ivan had received another phone call and was engaged in a heated conversation with an associate in London. He was still on the phone, five minutes later, as they walked into the air-conditioned office of Riviera Flight Services, the airport’s fixed base operator. Standing behind the pristine white counter was a man in his mid-thirties with receding blond hair. He wore navy blue trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt with epaulets. Ivan kept him waiting another two minutes while he concluded the call to London. “Kharkov,” he said finally. “Leaving for Moscow at eleven.”

  The young man hoisted a bureaucrat’s troubled smile. “That’s not going to be possible, Monsieur Kharkov. I’m afraid there’s a rather serious problem with your aircraft.”

  Elena dug a fingernail into her palm and looked down at her shoes.

  "What sort of problem?” asked Ivan.

  "A paperwork problem,” answered the young man. “Your crew has been unable to produce two very important documents: an RVSM authorization letter and a Stage Three certificate. The DGAC will not allow your plane to depart without them.”

  The DGAC was the Direction Générale de l’Aviation Civile, the French equivalent of the Federal Aviation Administration.

  “This is outrageous!” snapped Ivan. “I’ve taken off from this airport dozens of times in that same aircraft and I’ve never been required to produce those documents before.”

  “I understand your frustration, Monsieur Kharkov, but I’m afraid rules are rules. Unless your crew can produce an RVSM authorization and Stage Three certificate, your aircraft isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Is there some sort of fine I can pay?”

  “Perhaps eventually, but not now.”

  “I want to speak to your superior.”

  “I’m the most senior man on duty.”

  “Get someone from the DGAC on the phone.”

  “The DGAC has made its position clear on this matter. They will have nothing further to say until they see those documents.”

  “We have an emergency in Moscow. My wife’s mother is very ill. She has to get there right away.”

  “Then I would suggest that your crew do their utmost to find those documents. In the meantime, your wife might consider flying commercial. ”

  “Commercial?” Ivan brought his palm down on the counter. “My wife can’t fly commercial. We have security issues to consider. It’s simply not possible.”

  “Then I doubt very much that she’ll be going to Moscow today, Monsieur.”

  Elena moved cautiously to the counter. “My mother is expecting me, Ivan. I can’t disappoint her. I’ll just fly commercial.”

  The clerk gestured toward his computer. “I can check departure times and seat availability, if you would like.”

  Ivan frowned, then nodded his head. The clerk sat down at the computer and punched a few keys. A moment later, he pulled his lips downward into a frown and shook his head slowly.

  “I’m afraid there are no seats available on any direct flights between Nice and Moscow today. As you probably know, Monsieur Kharkov, we have many Russian visitors this time of year.” He tapped a few more keys. “But there is one other option.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a Swiss International Air Lines flight departing in an hour for Geneva. Assuming it arrives on time, Madame Kharkov can then catch the two P.M. Swissair flight from Geneva to Moscow. It’s scheduled to arrive at Sheremetyevo at eight o’clock this evening.”

  Ivan looked at Elena. “It’s a very long travel day. Why don’t you wait until I get the paperwork straightened out?”

  “I’ve already told my mother I was coming tonight. I don’t want to disappoint her, darling. You heard her voice.”

  Ivan looked at the clerk. “I need three first-class seats: one for my wife and two for her bodyguards.”

  A few more taps at the keyboard. Another slow shake of the head.

  “There’s only one first-class seat available on each flight and nothing in economy. But I can assure you Madame Kharkov will be perfectly safe. If you would prefer, I can arrange a VIP escort with airport security.”

  “Which terminal does Swissair depart from?”

  “Terminal One.” The clerk picked up the telephone. “I’ll let them know you’re on the way.”

  The young man behind the counter did not work for Riviera Flight Services but was in fact a junior case officer employed by the French internal security service. As for the telephone call he placed after Ivan and Elena’s departure, it was not to the offices of Swissair but to his superior, who was sitting in the back of an ersatz service van just outside. Upon receiving the call, the officer in the van alerted regional headquarters in Nice, which, in turn, flashed word to the operations room in London. The news arrived on Gabriel’s PDA while he was pretending to look at Rolex watches in an airport duty-free shop. He left the shop empty-handed and wandered slowly toward his gate.

  Elena tried to leave him at the curb, but Ivan, in a sudden rush of gallantry, would hear none of it. He stood with her on the endless line at the ticket counter and argued with the poor agent over the details of her itinerary. He bought a small gift for her mother, and made Elena swear to call him the minute she landed in Moscow. And finally, as Elena was preparing to pass through security, he apologized once again for the damage he had done to their marriage. She kissed him one final time and, upon reaching the other side, turned to wave good-bye. Ivan was already walking away, bodyguards at his side, telephone pressed to his ear.

  For the next half hour, she reveled in the mundane. She located her gate. She drank a café crème at a crowded bar. She bought a stack of newspapers and magazines. But mainly she just walked. For the first time in many years, Elena was alone. Not truly alone, she thought, for surely someone was watching her, but free of the cloying presence of Ivan’s bodyguards, at least for a few hours. Soon she would be free of them forever. She just had to run one small errand in Moscow first. She couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it. She had to go to Russia to set herself free. She did this not only for herself, she thought, but for her country. She was Russia’s conscience. Russia’s savior.

  Nervous about missing her flight, she presented herself at the gate ten minutes earlier than necessary and waited patiently for the command to board. Her seatmate was a sunburned Swiss gnome, who passed the short flight frowning at numbers. Lunch was a wilted sandwich and a bottle of warm mineral water; Elena ate everything on her tray and thanked the bewildered air hostess profusely for her kind service.

  It was nearly 1:30 by the time the plane touched down in Geneva. Stepping from the Jetway, she heard an announcement saying that Swissair Flight 1338 to Moscow was in final boarding. She arrived at her next gate with five minutes to spare and accepted a glass of champagne from the chief bursar as she settled into her first-class seat. This time her seatmate was a man in his mid-fifties with thick gray hair and the tinted eyeglasses of someone who suffered from light sensitivity. He was writing in a leather portfolio as she sat down and seemed to take no notice of her. As t
he plane was climbing rapidly over the Alps, he tore a single sheet of paper from the portfolio and placed it on her lap. It was a tiny pen-and-ink copy of Two Children on a Beach by Mary Cassatt. Elena turned and looked at him in disbelief.

  “Good afternoon, Elena,” said Gabriel. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  54

  MOSCOW

  Arkady Medvedev’s was a uniquely Russian story. A former breaker of dissident heads from the Fifth Main Directorate of the KGB, he had been going to seed in the shattered remnants of his former service when, in 1994, he received a telephone call from an old underling named Ivan Kharkov. Ivan had a proposition: he wanted Medvedev to construct and oversee a private security service to protect his family and his burgeoning global financial empire. Medvedev accepted the offer without bothering to ask the salary. He knew enough about business in the newly capitalistic Russia to realize that a salary—at least the one listed on an employment contract—didn’t much matter.

  For fifteen years, Arkady Medvedev had served Ivan well, and Ivan had been more than generous in return. Arkady Medvedev’s base earnings now stood at more than one million dollars a year, not bad for a former secret policeman who hadn’t had two rubles to rub together after the fall of communism. But the money was only part of his compensation package. There was a generous expense account and clothing allowance. There was a Bentley automobile, apartments in London, the South of France, and the exclusive Sparrow Hills of Moscow. And then there were the women—women like Oxana, a twenty-three-year-old beauty from the provinces whom Medvedev had plucked from a sushi bar two weeks earlier. She had been living at his apartment ever since, in varying states of undress.

  If there was one drawback to working for Ivan, it was his knack for telephoning at the absolutely worst moments. True to form, the call came just as Medvedev and Oxana were about to jointly scale a summit of pleasure. Medvedev reached for the phone, bathed in sweat, and brought the receiver reluctantly to his ear. The conversation that followed, though brief, thoroughly spoiled the mood. When the call was over, Oxana resumed where she had left off, but for Medvedev it was no good. She finally collapsed forward onto his chest and sunk her teeth into his ear in frustration.

  “You’re tired of me already?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So what’s the problem, Arkady?”

  The problem, he thought, was Elena Kharkov. She was arriving in Moscow that evening for an emergency visit. Ivan was suspicious about her motives. Ivan wanted her under full-time watch. Ivan wanted no more stunts like the one in Saint-Tropez. And neither did Arkady Medvedev. He looked at Oxana and told her to get dressed. Five minutes later, as she was slipping out of his apartment, he snatched up the phone again and started moving his teams into place.

  Elena ordered white wine; Gabriel, black coffee. They both decided to try the ravioli with wild mushroom reduction. Elena took a single bite and nibbled on her bread instead.

  “You don’t like the food?” Gabriel asked.

  “It’s not very good.”

  “It’s actually much better than the usual fare. When was the last time you flew commercial?”

  “It’s been a while.” She gazed out the window. “I suppose I’m a little like Russia itself. I went from having almost nothing to having almost everything. We Russians lurch from one extreme to the other. We never seem to get it just right.”

  She turned and looked at him.

  “May I speak honestly without hurting your feelings?”

  “If you must.”

  “You look quite ridiculous in that disguise. I like you much better with your short hair. And those glasses . . .” She shook her head. “They’re atrocious. You shouldn’t wear tinted lenses. They hide the color of your eyes.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the point, Elena.”

  She brushed a strand of hair from her face and asked where she was to be hidden after the defection. Her tone was casual, as though she were making polite conversation with a complete stranger. Gabriel answered in the same manner.

  “On Sunday night, instead of boarding your flight back to Geneva and Nice, you’re going to board a plane to Tel Aviv. Your stay in Israel will be brief, a day or two at most.”

  “And then?”

  “The Americans have assumed responsibility for your resettlement. It’s a bigger country with far more places to hide than Israel. The man who is in charge of the case is a friend of mine. I’d trust him with my life, Elena, and I know he’ll take very good care of you and the children. But I’m afraid it won’t be anything like the lifestyle to which you’ve become accustomed.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “You might think that now, but it’s going to be a rude awakening. You should anticipate that Ivan will file for divorce in a Russian court. Because you won’t be able to appear to contest the case, he’ll be able to divorce you in absentia and leave you and the children penniless.” He paused. “Unless we can lay our hands on a bit of his money in the next two days.”

  “I don’t want any of Ivan’s money. It’s blood money.”

  “Then do it for your children, Elena.”

  She looked at the sketch he had given her—the two children on a beach. “I have access to joint accounts in London and Moscow,” she said softly. “But if I make any large withdrawals, Ivan will know about it.”

  “He didn’t salt away any funds in Switzerland for a rainy day?”

  “There’s a safe-deposit box in Zurich where he usually keeps a couple of million in cash. You would have to empty it out for me before Ivan has a chance to put a freeze on it.”

  “Do you know the number and password?”

  She nodded her head.

  “Give them to me, Elena—for the children.”

  She recited them slowly, then looked at him curiously.

  “Don’t you want to write them down?”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “You have a spy’s memory, just like Ivan.”

  She picked at her food without appetite.

  “I must say, your performance today was quite extraordinary. You should have seen Ivan’s face when he was informed his plane couldn’t take off.” She looked at him. “I assume you have the next act well choreographed, too?”

  “We do, but all the choreography in the world isn’t worth a damn if the performer can’t pull it off.” A pause. “Last chance to bow out, Elena. And no hard feelings if you do.”

  “I’m going to finish what I started,” she said. “For Aleksandr Lubin. For Boris Ostrovsky. And for Olga.”

  Gabriel signaled the flight attendant and asked her to remove their food. Then he placed his briefcase on the tray table and opened the combination locks. He removed four items: a small plastic spray bottle, a device that looked like an ordinary MP3 player, a second rectangular device with a short USB connector cord, and a boarding pass for El Al Flight 1612, departing Moscow for Tel Aviv at 6:15 P.M. on Sunday.

  “As you can probably tell by now, Elena, timing is everything. We’ve put together a schedule for your final hours in Moscow and it is important you adhere to it rigorously. Pay close attention to everything I tell you. We have a lot of ground to cover and very little time.”

  The flight touched down at Sheremetyevo punctually at 8:05 P.M. Elena left the plane first and walked a few paces ahead through the terminal, with her handbag over her left shoulder and her overnight bag rolling along the cracked floor at her side. Arriving at passport control, Gabriel joined a line for unwanted foreigners, and by the time he was finally admitted into the country Elena was gone. Outside the terminal, he joined another endless line, this one for a taxi. He eventually climbed into the back of a rattling Lada, driven by a juvenile in mirrored sunglasses. Uzi Navot climbed into the car behind him.