The Silent Man

“I thought you might want to see Moscow, Mr. Wells,” Rosette said. “Besides, I had shopping to do.” He laughed a little French laugh, humph-humph.

So the joke’s on me, Wells didn’t say. “Call me John.”

“Fine. Call me Nicholas. St. Nicholas.”

“Nicholas, then. Let me ask you. If you didn’t know who I was, how long would you need to figure me out?”

“Pretty soon, maybe. The hair, the tan, not bad, and it looks like you gained a few kilos, too, but it only goes so far. What’s your comic book?”

“Comic book?”

“What we French call the cover story.”

Wells explained.

“And you want to meet Ivan Markov. You know this isn’t a good idea. Did Shafer tell you about me?”

“No.”

“I’m a DGSE man”—Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure, the French intelligence service—“for a long time. Too long.”

“Here?”

“Here, there, everywhere. Now here again. Long enough to see the Russians go from strong to weak and back to strong. I liked them better when they were weak. All this”—Rosette looked around the mall—“brings out the worst in them. A suffering Russian is noble. A rich Russian is a pig. A pig with a Rolex who can’t even tell time.”

“If you say so.”

“Any other questions?”

“How do you know Ellis? If you care to tell.”

They’d looped around the mall and were back at the Coffee Bean. Rosette led them to a corner and sat.

“Many years ago Ellis did me a favor,” he said, quietly. The tables around them were empty, but even if they’d been full no one but Wells could have heard. “In the Congo. Though at the time it was called Zaire.”

“Shafer served in Africa?” Wells couldn’t picture Shafer anywhere but the Washington suburbs.

“He told me that one day I would repay him. I thought he was wrong. Now you come here, with your beard and your ridiculous cover. A Lebanese freedom fighter. Truly a comic book. And Shafer says it’s time for his favor. Why Markov? You think he did this attack on you and your girlfriend?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“Talk? Is that all?”

Wells shrugged.

“You’re right. I don’t want to know.” Rosette stood. “I’ll set it up. Be sure to get out fast after your talk. These men here, they aren’t nice.”

“I’m used to that.”

“Congratulations.”

“You don’t like me much, Nicholas.”

“You’re complicating my life.”

“Then why help me?”

“Not everyone in Moscow favors Markov. Some people won’t mind if your conversation with him gets heated.”

“So you’re using me.”

Rosette sat back down and leaned into Wells and pursed his thick lips. Wells immediately regretted his words.

“I’m using you?” Though Rosette’s voice stayed quiet, his fury was unmistakable. “You ask for my help and I give it to you and then you pretend I’ve wronged you. Only an American could be so stupid. You’re all the same with your false naivete.”

Rosette exhaled heavily. Wells smelled the alcohol on his breath, heavy red wine under the coffee.

“Markov has enemies, but he has friends, too. Otherwise he wouldn’t have lasted. If it comes out that I helped you, when it comes out, I’ll be stuck in some foolish Russian squabbles that are best avoided. Not how I meant to end my career.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I haven’t finished yet, Mr. Wells. John. I’m sure you’re very good at what you do. Dressing like an Arab and playing bang-bang. Americans always want to come in with their guns and fix the world and leave. But this game you’ve stuck yourself in, it’s much trickier. It doesn’t end when you say. It goes on and on, and when you’ve forgotten you ever played at all, it comes back to destroy you.”

I’ve done all right so far, Wells thought. And so has the United States. And last I checked, France had a second-rate economy and a third-rate army and got attention mainly for the sex lives of its president. But he kept his mouth shut. He’d said too much already.

Rosette stood for a second time. “Your boss, Ellis,” he said. “He saved me from Mobutu. Maybe you’ve heard of Mobutu? Maybe you skimmed a history book? Maybe you saw a documentary on him on CNN? Between the commercials?”

“You sure can lay it on thick.”

“Mobutu Sese Soko. I made a mistake with a girlfriend of his. He had so many. It was hard to keep track. And even after his men arrested me, I didn’t take it seriously. I thought being white would be my protection. But in those days Mobutu thought he was God. Maybe in Zaire he was God. You understand? He spoke and the rivers filled with blood. That sounds like God to me. Even being white was no guarantee. But that little Shafer saved me. To this day, I don’t know how. And I promised him I would repay him if I could. And now he asks me for this favor for you. And because Markov has enemies as well as friends, it’s possible. So I’ll vouch for you. But if Markov sees through this comic book of yours and puts a bullet in you, a whole magazine, I won’t shed any tears for you. I’ll pour a glass of burgundy and tell Shafer we’re even. Understand?”

“Clear as crystal,” Wells said.

Despite the lecture, Rosette kept his word. The following morning he e-mailed Wells to meet him at 1:30 p.m. at the ice rink at the Hermitage Gardens on Karetny Ryad Street, a mile north of the Kremlin. Wells gave himself plenty of time for countersurveillance, three subway lines, two cabs, and a long walk. He was certain he hadn’t been traced. As certain as he could be, anyway, considering he was in the home city of what was probably the best intelligence service in the world.

The Hermitage Gardens rink was easy enough to find, filled with kids and teenagers who skated endless loops to the cheery lyrics of Rihanna and the Spice Girls. Again, Rosette was a few minutes late. A countersurveillance technique, or just rudeness? Wells wasn’t sure.

“We skating?” he said when the Frenchman finally arrived.

“Alas, no.” Today Rosette was dressed down, a heavy wool coat and a thick fur hat. Now he did look Russian, at least to Wells.

They found a cab and rode in the heavy traffic for half an hour before pulling off the third ring road near a huge stadium. They made a left and a right and stopped outside a subway entrance.

They stepped out and Rosette guided Wells toward the entrance to a huge flea market. All around them women carried plastic bags filled with junk. Their faces were heavy, their skin gray under cheap fur hats, their steps exhausted. The booths of the flea market were endless, but the products weren’t. Every shopkeeper had the same dull gray pots and pans of paper-thin steel, the same dull sneakers, their color fading even before they took a single step, the same dull jeans, dyed a heavy overripe blue. Lenin’s tomb belonged here, not opposite the GUM.

“Don’t let the Ritz-Carlton and the GUM and the Bentley dealership across from the Ministry of Defense fool you,” Rosette said. “This is how most of them live. Especially outside Moscow. A million of them steal all the oil money. A few million more get rich servicing the thieves. Everyone else drinks and waits to die.”

“Sounds like fun,” Wells said.

“Not so different than America.”

“You ever been to America?”

“All right,” Rosette said. “We’ll save that for another time. Tonight you meet Roman Yansky. You know