Moscow Rules

They propped him upright again and flung him like war dead down the next flight. This time, the fall itself inflicted damage sufficient enough so that they did not have to further exert themselves with needless kicks or punches. After placing him on his feet again, they dragged him into a dark corridor. To Gabriel, it seemed to stretch an eternity. To the gulags of Siberia, he thought. To the killing fields outside Moscow where Stalin sentenced his victims to “seven grams of lead,” his favorite punishment for disloyalty, real or imagined.

He had expected a period of isolation in a cell where Lubyanka’s blood-soaked history could chip away at his resistance. Instead, he was taken directly to an interrogation room and forced into a chair before a rectangular table of pale wood. Seated on the other side was a man in a gray suit with a pallor to match. He wore a neat little goatee and round, wire-framed spectacles. Whether or not he was trying to look like Lenin, the resemblance was unmistakable. He was several years younger than Gabriel-mid-forties, perhaps-and recently divorced, judging by the indentation on the ring finger of his right hand. Educated. Intelligent. A worthy opponent. A lawyer in another life, though it was unclear whether he was a defense attorney or prosecutor. A man of words rather than violence. Gabriel considered himself lucky. Given his location, and the available options, he could have done far worse.

“Are you injured?” the man asked in English, as though he did not care much about the answer.

“I am a diplomat of the State of Israel.”

“So I’m told. You might find this difficult to believe, but I am here to help you. You may call me Sergei. It is a pseudonym, of course. Just like the pseudonym that appears in your passport.”

“You have no legal right to hold me.”

“I’m afraid I do. You killed two citizens of Russia this evening.”

“Because they tried to kill me. I demand to speak to a representative of my embassy.”

“In due time, Mr.-” He made a vast show of consulting Gabriel’s passport. “Ah, here it is. Mr. Golani.” He tossed the passport onto the table. “Come now, Mr. Golani, we are both professionals. Surely we can handle this rather embarrassing situation in a professional manner.”

“I’ve given a complete statement to the Militia.”

“I’m afraid your statement raises many more questions than it answers.”

“What else do you need to know?”

He produced a thick file; then, from the file, a photograph. It showed Gabriel, five days earlier, walking through the terminal of Pulkovo 2 Airport in St. Petersburg.

“What I need to know, Mr. Golani, is exactly what you are doing in Russia. And don’t try to mislead me. If you do, I will become very angry. And that is the last thing you want.”

They went through it once; then they went through it again. The sudden illness of the deputy minister. Natan Golani’s hasty recruitment as a stand-in. The meetings and the speeches. The receptions and the dinners. Each contact, formal or casual, was duly noted, including the woman who had tried to seduce him during the final gala at the Mariinsky Theatre. Despite the fact the room was surely fitted with a recording system, the interrogator documented each answer in a small notebook. Gabriel couldn’t help but admire his technique. Had their roles been reversed, he would have done precisely the same thing.

“You were originally scheduled to return to Tel Aviv the morning after the UNESCO conference concluded.”

“That’s correct.”

“But you abruptly decided to extend your stay in Russia and travel to Moscow instead.” He lay a small hand atop the file, as if to remind Gabriel of its presence. “Why did you do this, Mr. Golani?”

“Our ambassador here is an old friend. He suggested I come to Moscow for a day or two.”

“For what purpose?”

“To see him, of course-and to see Moscow.”

“What did he say to you exactly, your friend the ambassador?”

“He said I had to see Moscow to believe it. He said it was filled with billionaires, dirty bankers, and Russian gangsters. He said it was a boomtown. He said something about a sea of oil, caviar, and vodka.”

“Did he mention a dinner party?” He tapped the file with the tip of his index finger. “The dinner party that took place at the Israeli Embassy last evening?”

“I believe he did.”

“Think carefully, Mr. Golani.”

“I’m sure he mentioned it.”

“What did he say about it-exactly, Mr. Golani?”

“He said there would be some people from the opposition there.”

“Is that how he described the invited guests? As members of the opposition?”

“Actually, I think he referred to them as ‘brave souls’ who’ve had the chutzpah to challenge the regime.”

“And why did your ambassador feel it was necessary to throw such a party? Was it his intention to meddle in the internal affairs of the Russian Federation?”

“I can assure you no meddling took place. It was just dinner and pleasant conversation.”

“Who was in attendance?”

“Why don’t you ask the agents who were watching the embassy that night? They photographed everyone who entered the compound, including me. Look in your file. I’m sure it’s there.”

The interrogator smiled. “Who was in attendance, Mr. Golani?”

Gabriel listed the names to the best of his recollection. The last name he recited was Olga Sukhova.

“Was that the first time you and Miss Sukhova had met?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her by reputation?”

“No, I’d never heard her name.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“You seem to have hit it off quite well.”

“We were seated next to each other at dinner. We had a pleasant conversation.”

“Did you discuss the recent murders of her colleagues?”

“The topic might have come up. I can’t remember.”

“What do you remember, Mr. Golani?”

“We talked about Palestine and the Middle East. We talked about the war in Iraq. We talked about Russia.”

“What about Russia?”

“Politics, of course-the coming election.”

“What did Miss Sukhova say about the election?”

“She said Russian politics are nothing more than professional wrestling. She said the winners and losers are chosen in advance. That the campaign itself is much sound and fury, signifying nothing. She said the president and the Russian Unity Party will win in a landslide and claim another sweeping mandate. The only question is, how many votes will they feel compelled to steal in order to achieve their goals.”

“The Russian Federation is a democracy. Miss Sukhova’s political commentary, while entertaining and provocative, is slanderous and completely false.”

The interrogator turned to a fresh page of his notebook.

“Did you and Miss Sukhova spend any time alone at the party?”

“Olga said she needed a cigarette. She invited me to join her.”

“There were no cigarettes among your possessions tonight.”

“That’s hardly surprising, given the fact that I don’t smoke.”

“But you joined her in any case?”

“Yes.”

“Because you wanted to have a word alone with her in a place where no one could overhear?”

“Because I was attracted to her-and, yes, because I wanted to have a word alone with her in a place no one else could hear.”

“Where did you go?”

“The terrace.”