Moscow Rules

instead. And if Elena chose to do a bit of late-afternoon shopping on the rue Gambetta, Sarah and her lover could be found strolling past the storefronts of the rue Georges Clemenceau or having a quiet drink in one of the bars on the Place Carnot. And at night, when Elena and Ivan dined at Villa Romana or one of the other Russian haunts, Sarah and her lover would dine quietly at the Mess-in close proximity to their room, lest the urge to ravage each other grow too strong to resist.

It proceeded in this seemingly directionless fashion until the early afternoon of the fourth day, when Elena decided the time had finally come to have lunch at Grand Joseph, her favorite restaurant in Saint-Tropez. She reserved early-a requirement in August, even for the wife of an oligarch-and although she did not know it, her call was intercepted by an NSA spy satellite floating high overhead. Due to a minor traffic accident on the D61, she and the children arrived at the restaurant seventeen minutes late, accompanied, as usual, by a team of four bodyguards. Jean-Luc, the maitre d’, greeted Elena effusively with kisses on both cheeks before conveying the party to their tables along the creamy white banquette. Elena took a seat with her back turned discreetly to the room, while her bodyguards settled at each end of the table. They took only scant notice of the postcard that arrived with her bottle of rose, though it sent a jolt of fear the length of Elena’s body. She concealed it with a look of mild displeasure, then picked up the card and read the handwritten note scribbled on the back:

Elena,

I hope you’re enjoying the Cassatt. May we join you?

Sarah

37 SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

Wineglass in hand, Mikhail at her side, Sarah gazed calmly across the crowded dining room toward Elena’s long back. The postcard was still in Elena’s grasp. She was gazing down at it with an air of mild curiosity, as was Oleg, her chief bodyguard. She laid the postcard on the tablecloth and turned slowly around to survey the room. Twice, her gaze passed over Sarah with no visible sign of recognition. Elena Kharkov was a child of Leningrad, Sarah thought. A child of the Party. She knew how to scan a room for watchers before making a meeting. She knew how to play the game by the Moscow Rules.

On its third sweep over the room, her gaze finally settled on Sarah’s face. She lifted the postcard dramatically and opened her mouth wide in a show of surprise. The smile was forced and illuminated with artificial light, but her bodyguards could not see it. Then, before they could react, she was suddenly on her feet and flowing across the dining room, her hips swiveling as she maneuvered between the tightly packed tables, her white skirt swirling around her suntanned thighs. Sarah stood to greet her; Elena kissed her formally on each cheek and pressed her mouth to Sarah’s ear. The right ear, Sarah noted. The one her bodyguardscouldn’t see. “I can’t believe it’s really you! What a wonderful surprise!” Then, in a quiet voice that caused a cavernous ache in Sarah’s abdomen: “You’ll be careful, won’t you? My husband is a very dangerous man.”

Elena released her tense grip on Sarah and looked at Mikhail, who had risen to his feet and was standing silently at his chair. She appraised him carefully, as though he were a painting propped on a viewing easel, then extended a bejeweled hand while Sarah saw to the introduction.

“This is my very good friend, Michael Danilov. Michael and I work in the same office in Washington. If any of our colleagues found out we were here together, there would be a terrible scandal.”

“So we share another secret? Just like the hiding place for the key to the nursery?” She was still clinging to Mikhail’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Michael.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Kharkov. I’ve been an admirer of your husband’s success for some time. When Sarah told me that she’d met you, I was extremely envious.”

Hearing Mikhail’s accent, Elena’s face took on an expression of surprise. It was contrived, Sarah thought, just as her smile had been a moment earlier. “You’re a Russian,” she said, not as a question but as a statement of fact.

“Actually, I’m an American citizen now, but, yes, I was born in Moscow. My family moved to the States not long after the fall of communism. ”

“How fascinating.” Elena looked at Sarah. “You never told me you had a Russian boyfriend.”

“It’s not exactly the sort of personal information one reveals during a business transaction. Besides, Michael is my secret Russian boyfriend. Michael doesn’t really exist.”

“I love conspiracies,” Elena said. “Please, you must join me for lunch.”

“Are you sure it’s not an imposition?”

“Are you sure you want to have lunch with my children?”

“We would love to have lunch with your children.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Elena summoned Jean-Luc with an imperious wave of her hand and, in French, asked him to add another table to the banquette so her friends could join her. There followed much frowning and pouting of lips, then a lengthy explanation of how the tables were too closely aligned already for him to possibly add another. The only solution, he ventured cautiously, was for Mrs. Kharkov’s two friends to trade places with two of Mrs. Kharkov’s entourage. This time it was Oleg, the chief of her detail, who was summoned. Like Jean-Luc before him, he offered resistance. It was overcome by a few tense words that, had they not been spoken in colloquial Russian, would have scandalized the entire room.

The exchange of places was swiftly carried out. Two of the bodyguards were soon sulking at the far end of the table, one with a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Sarah tried not to think about whom he was calling. Instead, she kept her gaze focused on the children. They were miniature versions of their parents: Nikolai, fair and compact; Anna, lanky and dark. “You should see photographs of Ivan and me when we were their age,” Elena said, as if reading Sarah’s thoughts. “It’s even more shocking.”

“It’s as if you produced exact duplicates.”

“We did, right down to the shape of their toes.”

“And their dispositions?”

“Anna is much more independent than I was as a child. I was always clinging to my mother’s apron. Anna lives in her own world. My Anna likes time to herself.”

“And Nikolai?”

Elena was silent for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer the question with evasion or honesty. She chose the latter. “My precious Nikolai is much sweeter than his father. Ivan accuses me of babying him too much. Ivan’s father was distant and authoritarian, and I’m afraid Ivan is as well. Russian men don’t always make the best fathers. Unfortunately, it is a cultural trait they pass on to their sons.” She looked at Mikhail and, in Russian, asked: “Wouldn’t you agree, Michael?”

“My father was a mathematician,” he replied, also in Russian. “His head was too filled with numbers to think much about his son. But he was gentle as a lamb, and he never touched alcohol.”

“Then you should consider yourself extremely lucky. A weakness for alcohol is another trait our men tend to pass on to their sons.” She raised her wineglass and spoke in English again. “Although I must confess I have a certain weakness for cold rose on a warm summer day, especially the rose that comes from the vineyards around Saint-Tropez. ”

“A weakness I share myself,” Sarah said, raising her glass.

“Are you staying here in Saint-Tropez?”

“Just outside,” said Sarah. “At the Chateau de la Messardiere.”

“I hear it’s very popular with Russians.”

“Let’s just say that no one expressed any surprise at my accent there,” Mikhail replied.

“I hope our countrymen are behaving themselves.”

“For the most part. But I’m afraid there was one minor incident at the pool involving a middle-aged Moscow businessman and his extremely young girlfriend.”

“What sort of incident?”

Mikhail made a show of thought. “I suppose uncontrolled lust would be the best way to describe it in polite company.”