Moscow Rules

17 MOSCOW

The first officers to arrive were members of a Moscow City Militia public security unit, the proletariat of the city’s vast police and intelligence apparatus. The ranking officer was a stubblechinned sergeant who spoke only Russian. He took a brief statement from Olga, whom he appeared to know by reputation, then turned his attention to the dead gunmen. “Chechen gangsters,” he declared with disgust. He gathered a few more facts, including the name and nationality of Miss Sukhova’s foreign friend, and radioed the information to headquarters. At the end of the call, he ordered his colleagues not to disturb the scene and confiscated Gabriel’s diplomatic passport, hardly an encouraging sign.

The next officers to appear were members of the GUOP, the special unit that handles cases related to organized crime and contract killings, one of Moscow ’s most lucrative industries. The team leader wore blue jeans, a black leather jacket, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses backward on his shaved head. He called himself Markov. No rank. No first name. Just Markov. Gabriel instantly recognized the type. Markov was the sort who walked the delicate line between criminal and cop. He could have gone either way, and, at various times during his career, he probably had.

He examined the corpses and agreed with the sergeant’s findings that they were probably Chechen contract killers. But unlike the younger man, he spoke a bit of English. His first questions were directed not at the famous reporter from the Gazeta but at Gabriel. He seemed most interested in hearing how a middle-aged Israeli diplomat from the Ministry of Culture had managed to disarm a professional assassin, shoot him twice in the head, and then kill his partner. Listening to Gabriel’s account, his expression was one of open skepticism. He scrutinized Gabriel’s passport carefully, then slipped it into his coat pocket and said they would have to continue this conversation at headquarters.

“I must protest,” Gabriel said.

“I understand,” said Markov sadly.

For reasons never made clear, Gabriel was handcuffed and taken by unmarked car to a busy Militia headquarters. There, he was led into the central processing area and placed on a wooden bench, next to a weathered man in his sixties who had been roughed up and robbed by street toughs. An hour passed; Gabriel finally walked over to the duty officer and asked for permission to phone his embassy. The duty officer translated Gabriel’s request to his colleagues, who immediately erupted into uproarious laughter. “They want money,” the elderly man said when Gabriel returned to the bench. “You cannot leave until you pay them what they want.” Gabriel managed a brief smile. If only it were that simple.

Shortly after 1 A.M., Markov reappeared. He ordered Gabriel to stand, removed the handcuffs, and led him into an interrogation room. Gabriel’s possessions-his billfold, diplomatic passport, wristwatch, and mobile-were laid out neatly on a table. Markov picked up the phone and made a show of calling up the directory of recent calls.

“You dialed your embassy before the first Militia officers arrived.”

“That’s correct.”

“What did you say to them?”

“That I had been attacked and that the police were going to be involved.”

“You didn’t mention this when I questioned you at the apartment house.”

“It’s standard procedure to contact the embassy immediately in a situation like this.”

“Are you often in situations like this?”

Gabriel ignored the question. “I am a diplomat of the State of Israel, entitled to every and all diplomatic protection and immunity. I assume an officer of your rank and position would realize that my first responsibility is to contact my embassy and report what has transpired.”

“Did you report that you killed two men?”

“No.”

“Did this detail slip your mind? Or did you neglect to tell them this for other reasons?”

“We are instructed to keep telephone communications brief in all situations. I’m sure you understand.”

“Who’s we, Mr. Golani?”

“The ministry.”

“I see.”

Gabriel thought he could see a trace of a smile.

“I want to see a representative of my embassy immediately.”

“Unfortunately, due to the special circumstances of your case, we’re going to have to detain you a little longer.”

Gabriel focused on a single word: detain.

“What special circumstances?”

Markov led Gabriel silently out of the room. This time, he was locked in a fetid holding cell with a pair of bloodied drunks and three anorexic prostitutes, one of whom immediately propositioned him. Gabriel found a relatively clean spot along one wall and lowered himself cautiously to the concrete floor. “You have to pay them,” the prostitute explained. “Consider yourself lucky. I have to give them something else.”

Several hours crawled past with no more contact from Markov- precisely how many Gabriel did not know, because he had no watch and there was no clock visible from the holding cell. The drunks passed the time debating Pushkin; the three prostitutes slept against the opposite wall, one leaning against the next, like dress-up dolls on a little girl’s shelf. Gabriel sat with his arms wrapped around his shins and his forehead to his knees. He shut out the sounds around him-the slamming of doors, the shouting of orders, the cries of a man being beaten- and kept his thoughts focused only on Olga Sukhova. Was she somewhere in this building with him, he wondered, or had she been taken elsewhere due to the “special circumstances” of her case? Was she even alive or had she suffered the same fate as her colleagues Aleksandr Lubin and Boris Ostrovsky? As for the name Olga had spoken to him in the stairwell of the House of Dogs, he pushed it to a far corner of his memory and concealed it beneath a layer of gesso and base paint.

“It was Elena… Elena was the one who told me about the sale.”

Elena who? Gabriel thought now. Elena where? Elena nobody…

Finally, one sound managed to penetrate his defenses: the sound of Markov’s approaching footsteps. The grim expression on his face suggested an ominous turn in events.

“Responsibility for your case has been transferred to another department. ”

“Which department is that?”

“Get on your feet, then face the wall and place your hands behind your back.”

“You’re not going to shoot me here in front of all these witnesses, are you, Markov?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Gabriel did as instructed. A pair of uniformed officers entered the cell, reattached the handcuffs, and led him outside to a waiting car. It sped through a maze of side streets before finally turning onto a broad, empty prospekt. Gabriel’s destination now lay directly ahead, a floodlit fortress of yellow stone looming atop the low hill. Elena who? he thought. Elena where? Elena nobody…

18 FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW

The iron gates of Lubyanka swung slowly open to receive him. In the center of a large interior courtyard, four bored-looking officers stood silently in the darkness. They extracted Gabriel from the backseat with a swiftness that spoke of much experience in such matters and propelled him across the cobblestones into the building. The stairwell was conveniently located a few steps from the entrance foyer. On the precipice of the first step, Gabriel was given a firm shove between the shoulder blades. He tumbled helplessly downward, somersaulting once, and came to rest on the next landing. A knifelike jab to the kidney blinded him with pain that ran the length of his body. A well-aimed kick to the abdomen left him unable to speak or breathe.