Moscow Rules

“What about Old George?”

“Perhaps we should give him the afternoon off, sir.”

“Perhaps we should.”

34 HAVERMORE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE

The limousines passed the concealed checkpoint on the Station Road at 3:45: two custom Mercedes-Benz S65s with blacked-out windows, riding low and heavy with bulletproof glass and armor. They flashed down the terraced High Street of Chipping Camden, past the quaint shops and the old limestone St. James’ Church, and roared out of town again on Dyers Lane. One shopkeeper timed the run at sixteen seconds, shortest visit to Chipping Camden in recorded history.

At the once-grand estate known as Havermore, there was no visible evidence to suggest that anyone was aware of the cars’ rapid approach. Mrs. Devlin was in the kitchen, where, in contravention of Sir John’s direct orders, she was putting the final touches on a tray of fresh scones, strawberry jam, and Cotswold clotted cream. Sir John was unaware of her rebellion, for he was sequestered in the library, pondering serious and weighty matters. As for the attractive young woman known to them as Sarah Crawford, she was coming up the footpath from the East Meadow wearing a pair of green Wellington boots, with Punch and Judy watching her back like tiny tan bodyguards.

Only in the hayloft of the tumbledown barn were there hints that something truly out of the ordinary was about to take place. Four men were there, seated before a bank of video and audio monitors. Two of the men were young, scruffy technicians. The third was a tall figure of authority who looked as though he had stepped out of a magazine advertisement. The fourth had short dark hair with ash-colored temples. His eyes were fixed on a video image of the young woman, who was in the process of removing her Wellingtons in the mudroom and changing into a pair of sensible black flats. She entered the kitchen and playfully dipped a finger into Mrs. Devlin’s fresh cream, then passed through a pair of double doors and made her way into the entrance hall. There, standing before a long mirror, she smoothed the front of her white blouse and pale yellow pedal pushers and adjusted the sweater knotted with feigned casualness round her shoulders. She wore only a hint of blush on her alabaster cheeks and cat-eyed spectacles instead of contact lenses. Your beauty must pose no challenge to Elena’s, the man with ash-colored temples had told her. Elena’s not used to finishing second at anything.

At precisely 4:04, the pair of armored Mercedes limousines turned through the gates of Havermore and started up the long drive. The men in the hayloft saw them first, followed by Sir John, whose library window gave him a superb outpost from which to monitor their approach. Sarah, from her position in the entrance hall, could not see the cars but heard them a few seconds later as they came prowling into the gravel forecourt. Two powerful engines went silent; several doors opened and six young bodyguards with faces of chiseled marble emerged. The men in the hayloft knew their names. Three were Oleg, Yuri, and Gennady: Elena Kharkov’s permanent detail. The other three were Vadim, Vasily, and Viktor: “the three V’s,'” as they were known to Kharkov watchers the world over. Their presence at Havermore was curious, since they served almost exclusively as Ivan’s praetorian guard.

Having established a loose perimeter around the lead Mercedes, two of the guards opened the rear doors. Elena Kharkov emerged from the driver’s side, a radiant flash of lustrous dark hair and green silk. From the passenger side came a sturdy figure, well dressed, with hair the color of steel. For a few seconds, the men in the hayloft mistook him for a seventh security man. Then, as he turned his face toward the cameras, they realized he was no bodyguard. He was the man who was supposed to be on a conference call with Zurich. The man who was not supposed to be here.

The men in the hayloft attempted to warn Sarah-they had hidden a tiny audio speaker in the entrance hall for just such a contingency- but she had already opened Havermore’s impressive door and was stepping into the forecourt. Punch and Judy scampered past her ankles and shot across the gravel like a pair of honey-colored torpedoes. By some natural instinct, they advanced directly toward the most authoritative-looking member of the entourage. The three V’s formed a wall in front of their target: Ivan Kharkov.

He was standing calmly behind them, an expression of mild bemusement on the heavy features of his face. Sarah used a moment of mock anger at the dogs to help conceal the shock of seeing the monster face to face for the first time. She seized the dogs by the collars and gave them each a firm shove on the hindquarters toward the house. By the time she turned around again, a small crack opened between Vadim and Viktor. She extended her hand through it toward Ivan and managed a smile. “I’m afraid herding instincts take over when they see a large group of people,” she heard herself say. “I’m Sarah Crawford.”

Ivan’s right hand rose from the seam of his trousers. It looked, thought Sarah, like a manicured mallet. It gave her hand a testing squeeze and quickly released it.

“You’re an American,” he pointed out.

And you forgot to tell me your name, she thought.

“Actually, I’m only half American.”

“Which half?”

“The self-centered half, according to my uncle. This is his home. I’m just visiting.”

“From America?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live in America?”

“ Washington, D.C. And you?”

“I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world, Miss Crawford. ”

A citizen of the world, perhaps, but exposure to the West had yet to buff away the last traces of KGB English. It was surprisingly fluent but still flecked with the intonation of a Radio Moscow propagandist. He was proud of his English, thought Sarah, just like he was proud of his armored limousines, his bodyguards, his handmade suit, his three-thousand-dollar necktie, and the rich aftershave that hung round him like a vaporous cloud. No amount of Western clothing and cologne could conceal his Russianness, though. It was etched in the sturdy forehead, the almond-shaped eyes, and the angular cheekbones. Nor could it hide the fact that he was a KGB hood who had stumbled into a mountain of money.

Almost as an afterthought, he lifted his left hand and, with his eyes still fixed on Sarah, said, “My wife.” She was standing several feet away, surrounded by her own palace guard. She was taller than Ivan by an inch or two and held herself with the erect carriage of a dancer. Her skin was pale, her eyes liquid green, her hair black. She wore it long and allowed it to fall loosely about her shoulders. As for the prospect of Sarah’s beauty posing a challenge to Elena’s, there was little chance of that, for at forty-six years, seven months and nineteen days, she was still a strikingly attractive woman. She took a step forward and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sarah. I’m Elena Kharkov. ” Her accent, unlike Ivan’s, was authentic and rich, and completely beguiling. “I believe Alistair told you I would be coming alone. My husband decided to join me at the last minute.”

A husband who still has no name, Sarah thought.

“Actually, Alistair told me a woman would be coming alone. He didn’t give me a name. He was very discreet, Mrs. Kharkov.”

“And we trust that you will be discreet as well,” Ivan said. “It is important for people such as ourselves to conduct our acquisitions and business transactions with a certain amount of privacy.”

“You may rest assured my uncle feels precisely the same way, Mr. Kharkov.”

As if on cue, Boothby emerged, with Punch and Judy now swirling noisily at his feet. “Did my ears deceive me,” he trumpeted, “or is it true that the great Ivan Kharkov has come to Havermore? That dolt from Christie’s told me to expect a VIP, but no one of your stature.” He took Ivan’s hand in his own and pumped it vigorously. “It is indeed an honor to have you here, Mr. Kharkov. I do admire your accomplishments. I knew you were a man of many interests, but I never knew art was one of them.”

Ivan’s stony face broke briefly into something approaching a genuine smile. Ivan, they knew, was vulnerable to flattery, from pretty young girls, and even from tattered English landed gentry.

“Actually, my wife is the expert when it comes to art,” he said. “I just felt like getting out of London for a few