Moscow Rules

the myth of Soviet greatness. His reward was to be buried here, among true Russian genius.”

She crouched next to the grave and brushed pine needles from the plaque.

“You have his name,” Gabriel said. “You’re not married?”

She shook her head and placed the flowers gently on the grave. “I’m afraid I’ve yet to find a countryman suitable for marriage and procreation. If they have any money, the first thing they do is buy themselves a mistress. Go into any trendy sushi restaurant in Moscow and you’ll see the pretty young girls lined up at the bar, waiting for a man to sweep them off their feet. But not just any man. They want a New Russian man. A man with money and connections. A man who winters in Zermatt and Courchevel and summers in the South of France. A man who will give them jewelry and foreign cars. I prefer to spend my summers at my grandfather’s dacha. I grow radishes and carrots there. I still believe in my country. I don’t need to vacation in the exclusive playgrounds of Western Europe to be a contented, self-fulfilled New Russian woman.”

She had been speaking to the grave. Now she turned her head and looked over her shoulder at Gabriel.

“You must think I’m terribly foolish.”

“Why foolish?”

“Because I pretend to be a journalist in a country where there is no longer true journalism. Because I want democracy in a country that has never known it-and, in all likelihood, never will.”

She stood upright and brushed the dust from her palms. “To understand Russia today, you must understand the trauma of the nineties. Everything we had, everything we had been told, was swept away. We went from superpower to basket case overnight. Our people lost their life’s savings, not just once but over and over again. Russians are a paternalistic people. They believe in the Orthodox Church, the State, the Tsar. They associate democracy with chaos. Our president and the siloviki understand this. They use words like ‘managed democracy’ and ‘State capitalism,’ but they’re just euphemisms for something more sinister: fascism. We have lurched from the ideology of Lenin to the ideology of Mussolini in a decade. We should not be surprised by this. Look around you, Mr. Golani. The history of Russia is nothing but a series of convulsions. We cannot live as normal people. We never will.”

She looked past him, into a darkened corner of the cemetery. “They’re watching us very closely. Hold my arm, please, Mr. Golani. It is better if the FSB believes you are attracted to me.”

He did as she asked. “Perhaps fascism is too strong a word,” he said.

“What term would you apply to our system?”

“A corporate state,” Gabriel replied without conviction.

“I’m afraid that is a euphemism worthy of the Kremlin. Yes, our people are now free to make and spend money, but the State still picks the winners and the losers. Our leaders speak of regaining lost empires. They use our oil and gas to bully and intimidate our neighbors. They have all but eliminated the opposition and an independent press, and those who dare to protest are beaten openly in the streets. Our children are being coerced into joining Party youth organizations. They are taught that America and the Jews want to control the world-that America and the Jews want to steal Russia ’s wealth and resources. I don’t know about you, Mr. Golani, but I get nervous when young minds are trained to hate. The inevitable comparisons to another time and place are uncomfortable, to say the least.”

She stopped beneath a towering spruce tree and turned to face him.

“You are an Ashkenazi Jew?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Your family came from Russia originally?”

“ Germany,” he said. “My grandparents were from Berlin.”

“Did they survive the war?”

He shook his head and, once again, told her the truth. “They were murdered at Auschwitz. My mother was young enough to work and she managed to survive. She died several years ago.”

“I wonder what your mother would have said about a leader who fills young minds with paranoid fantasies about others plotting to steal what is rightly theirs. Would she have called it the ideology of a corporate state or would she have used a more sinister term?”

“Point taken, Miss Sukhova.”

“Forgive my tone, Mr. Golani. I am an old-fashioned Russian woman who likes to grow radishes and carrots in the garden of her grandfather’s broken-down dacha. I believe in my Russia, and I want no more acts of evil committed in my name. Neither did Boris Ostrovsky. That is why he wanted to talk to you. And that is why he was murdered. ”

“Why did he go to Rome, Olga? What did he want to tell me?”

She reached up and touched his cheek with her fingertip. “Perhaps you should kiss me now, Mr. Golani. It is better if the FSB is under the impression we intend to become lovers.”

15 MOSCOW

They drove to the Old Arbat in her car, an ancient pea soup green Lada with a dangling front bumper. She knew a place where they could talk: a Georgian restaurant with stone grottoes and faux streams and waiters in native dress. It was loud, she assured him. Bedlam. “The owner looks a little too much like Stalin for some people. ” She pointed out the window at another one of the Seven Sisters. “The Ukraina Hotel.”

“World’s biggest?”

“We cannot live as normal people.”

She left the car in a flagrantly illegal space near Arbat Square and they walked to the restaurant through the fading late-afternoon light. She had been right about the owner-he looked like a wax figure of Stalin come to life- and about the noise as well. Gabriel had to lean across the table a few degrees to hear her speak. She was talking about an anonymous tip the Gazeta had received before the New Year. A tip from a source whose name she could never divulge…

“This source told us that an arms dealer with close ties to the Kremlin and our president was about to conclude a major deal that would put some very dangerous weapons into the hands of some very dangerous people.”

“What kind of people?”

“The kind you have been fighting your entire life, Mr. Golani. The kind who have vowed to destroy your country and the West. The kind who fly airplanes into buildings and set off bombs in crowded markets.”

“Al-Qaeda?”

“Or one of its affiliates.”

“What type of weapons?”

“We don’t know.”

“Are they conventional?”

“We don’t know.”

“Chemical or biological?”

“We don’t know.”

“But you can’t rule it out?”

“We can’t rule anything out, Mr. Golani. For all we know, the weapons could be radiological or even nuclear.” She was silent for a moment, then managed a cautious smile, as if embarrassed by an awkward pause in the conversation. “Perhaps it would be better if I simply told you what I do know.”

She was now gazing at him intently. Gabriel heard a commotion to his left and glanced over his shoulder. Stalin was seating a group of people at the neighboring table: two aging mobsters and their high-priced professional dates. Olga took note of them as well and continued speaking.

“The source who provided us with the initial tip about the sale is impeccable and assured us that the information was accurate. But we couldn’t print a story based on a single source. You see, unlike many of our competitors, the Gazeta has a reputation for thoroughness and accuracy. We’ve been