Moscow Rules

“They called them needles. In Russian, the word needle is igla. I believe the Western designation for this weapon system is SA-18. It’s a shoulder-launch antiaircraft weapon. Though I’m not an expert in matters such as these, it is my understanding that the SA-18 is highly accurate and extremely effective.”

“It’s one of the most dangerous antiaircraft weapons in the world. But are you sure, Elena? Are you sure they used the word igla?”

“Absolutely. I’m also certain that my husband didn’t care whether hundreds, or perhaps even thousands, of innocent people might die because of these weapons. He was only concerned that he get his cut of the action. What was I supposed to do with knowledge such as this? How could I sit silently and do nothing?”

“So what did you do?”

“What could I do? Could I go to the police? We Russians don’t go to the police. We Russians avoid the police. Go to the FSB? My husband is the FSB. His network operates under the protection and the blessing of the FSB. If I had gone to the FSB, Ivan would have heard about it five minutes later. And my children would have grown up without a mother.”

Her words hung there for a moment, an unnecessary reminder of the consequences of the game they were playing.

“Since it was impossible for me to go to the Russian authorities, I had to find some other way of telling the world what my husband was planning to do. I needed someone I could trust. Someone who could expose his secrets without revealing the fact that I was the source of the information. I knew such a person; I’d studied languages with her at Leningrad State. After the fall of communism, she’d become a famous reporter in Moscow. I believe you’re familiar with her work.”

Though Gabriel had pledged fidelity to Elena, he had been less than forthright about one aspect of the debriefing: he was not the only one listening. Thanks to a pair of small, concealed microphones and a secure satellite link, their conversation was being beamed live to four points around the globe: King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv, the headquarters of both MI5 and MI6 in London, and the CIA’s Global Ops Center in Langley, Virginia. Adrian Carter was in his usual seat, the one reserved for the director of the national clandestine service. Known for his tranquil, detached demeanor in times of crisis, Carter appeared somewhat bored by the transmission, as though he were listening to a dull program on the radio. That changed, however, when Elena uttered the word igla. As a Russian speaker, Carter did not need to wait for Elena’s translation to understand the significance of the word. Nor did he bother to listen to the rest of her explanation before picking up the extension of a hotline that rang only on the desk of the director. “The arrows of Allah are real,” Carter said. “Someone needs to tell the White House. Now.”

45 THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE

They adjourned to the terrace. It was small, cluttered with potted herbs and flowers, and shaded by a pair of umbrella pine. An ancient olive grove spilled into a small gorge, and on the opposite hillside stood two tiny villas that looked as though they had been rendered by the hand of Cezanne. Somewhere in the distance, a child was crying hysterically for its mother. Elena did her best to ignore it while she told Gabriel the rest of the story. Her quiet lunch with Olga Sukhova. The nightmare of Aleksandr Lubin’s murder in Courchevel. The near breakdown she had suffered after Boris Ostrovsky’s death in St. Peter’s Basilica.

“I shut myself off from the outside world. I stopped watching television. I stopped reading the newspaper. I was afraid-afraid that I would learn an airplane had been shot down, or another journalist had been murdered because of me. Eventually, as time went by, I was able to convince myself it had never actually happened. There were no missiles, I told myself. There was no delegation of warlords who had come to my home to buy weapons from my husband. There was no secret plan to divert a portion of the consignment to the terrorists of al-Qaeda. In fact, there were no terrorists at all. It had all been a bad dream. A misunderstanding of some sort. A hoax. Then I got a telephone call from my friend Alistair Leach about a painting by Mary Cassatt. And here I am.”

On the other side of the ravine, the child was still wailing. “Won’t someone help that poor thing?” She looked at Gabriel. “Do you have children, Mr. Allon?”

He hesitated, then answered truthfully. “I had a son,” he said quietly. “A terrorist put a bomb in my car. He was angry at me because I killed his brother. It exploded while my wife and son were inside.”

“And your wife?”

“She survived.” He gazed silently across the gorge for a moment. “It might have been better if she hadn’t. It took me a few seconds to get her out of the car. She was burned very badly in the fire.”

“My God, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t-”

“It’s all right, Elena. It was a long time ago.”

“Did it happen in Israel?”

“No, not in Israel. It was in Vienna. Not far from the cathedral.”

On the other side of the ravine, the child fell silent. Gabriel seemed not to notice, for all his considerable concentration was now focused on the task of opening a bottle of rose. He filled a single glass and handed it to Elena.

“Drink some. It’s important you have wine on your breath when you go home. Ivan will expect that.”

She raised the glass to her lips and watched the pine trees moving in the faint breeze.

“How did this happen? How did we end up together in this place, you and I?”

“You were brought here by a telephone you shouldn’t have answered. I was brought here by Boris Ostrovsky. I was the reason he went to Rome. He was trying to tell me about Ivan. He died in my arms before he could deliver his message. That’s why I had to go to Moscow to meet with Olga.”

“Were you with her when the assassins tried to kill her?”

He nodded his head.

“How were you able to escape that stairwell without being killed?”

“Perhaps another time, Elena. Drink some of your wine. You need to be a bit tipsy when you go home.”

She obeyed, then asked, “So, in the words of Lenin, glorious agent of the Revolution and father of the Soviet Union, what is to be done? What are we going to do about the missiles my husband has placed in the hands of murderers?”

“You’ve given us a tremendous amount of information. If we’re lucky-very lucky-we might be able to find them before the terrorists are able to carry out an attack. It will be difficult, but we’ll try.”

“Try? What do you mean? You have to stop them.”

“It’s not that easy, Elena. There’s so much we don’t know. Which country in Africa was your husband dealing with? Have the missiles been shipped? Have they already reached the hands of the terrorists? Is it already too late?”

His questions had been rhetorical but Elena reacted as though they had been directed toward her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel like such a fool.”

“Whatever for?”

“I thought that by simply telling you about the deal, you would have enough information to find the weapons before they could be used. But what have I accomplished? Two people are dead. My friend is a prisoner in her Moscow apartment. And my husband’s missiles are still out there somewhere.”

“I didn’t say it was impossible, Elena. Only that it was going to be difficult.”

“What else do you need?”

“A paper trail would help.”

“What does that mean?”

“End-user certificates. Invoices. Shipping records. Transit documents. Banking records. Wire transfers. Anything we can lay our hands on to track the sale or the flow of the merchandise.”

She was silent for a moment. Her voice, when finally she spoke, was barely audible over the sound of the wind moving in the treetops.