Moscow Rules

By nightfall, all eyes were on Moscow, where the Kremlin had maintained a Soviet-like silence as the story unfolded. Shortly after 11 P.M., a spokesman for the Russian president finally issued a terse statement categorically denying any link between the terrorist plot and legitimate arms sales by Russia to its clients in the Middle East. If the missiles had indeed come from a Russian source, said the spokesman, then it was almost certainly a criminal act-one that would be investigated to the fullest extent possible by Russian authorities. Within a few hours, however, the veracity of the Russian statement was called into question by a dramatic newspaper report in London. It was written by someone the men of the Kremlin knew well: Olga Sukhova, the former editor in chief of Moskovsky Gazeta.

It was among the most intriguing aspects of the entire affair. Kept under virtual house arrest in her Moscow apartment for much of the summer, Olga Sukhova had managed to slip out of Russia undetected, purportedly with the help of an FSB colonel named Grigori Bulganov. After crossing the Ukrainian border by car, the two were spirited to a safe house in England, where they had worked closely with U.S. and British intelligence officers involved in the search for the SA-18 missiles. In exchange for her cooperation, Olga had been granted “a period of exclusivity” regarding certain details of the affair-details she published, in spectacular fashion, in London ’s Telegraph newspaper.

According to her front-page story, the missiles seized by European and American officials had originally been sold to the Democratic Republic of East Africa by Russian businessman and arms trafficker Ivan Kharkov. Kharkov had reportedly concluded the sale with the full knowledge that the weapons were to be transferred to an al-Qaeda affiliate in the Horn of Africa. The article also implicated Kharkov and his now-deceased chief of security, Arkady Medvedev, in the murders of Gazeta journalists Aleksandr Lubin and Boris Ostrovsky.

For the next several days, Olga Sukhova was a fixture on European and American television. So, too, was the man credited with facilitating her escape: Colonel Grigori Bulganov of the FSB. He told tales of rampant corruption inside his old service and warned that the new masters of the Kremlin were nothing but KGB thugs who planned to confront the West at every turn.

By the end of the week, he and Olga Sukhova had both signed lucrative book deals. As for the man at the center of the storm, he was nowhere to be found. Ivan Borisovich Kharkov, real estate developer, venture capitalist, and international arms trafficker, had apparently vanished into thin air.

His assets were quickly seized; his bank accounts quickly frozen. For a time, his grand palaces were surrounded day and night by reporters and cameramen. Finally, when it became clear Ivan was never coming back, the reporters moved on in search of other prey.

The list of countries where Ivan was suddenly wanted for arrest or questioning was long and somewhat ludicrous. There was irony in the situation, of course; even the most jaundiced observer had to admit it. For years, Ivan had callously fueled the deadly civil wars and conflicts of the Third World with little or no interference from the West. But only when he crossed some moral line-when he dared to sell his wares directly to the forces of global Islamic extremism-did the governments of the civilized world sit up and take notice. Even if al-Qaeda had managed to carry out its attack as planned, said one respected commentator, the death toll would have been but a tiny fraction of those killed by Ivan’s guns and bullets in Africa alone.

It was assumed by all that he had taken refuge somewhere inside Russia. How he had managed to get there from France, where he was last seen, was a matter of considerable contention. French aviation officials acknowledged that Ivan’s private jet had departed Cote d’Azur International Airport on the morning of August twenty-sixth, though they refused repeated requests to release a flight plan or complete manifest.The press demanded to know whether French authorities had been aware of Ivan’s activities at the time of the flight. If so, they asked, why had he and his party been allowed to depart?

Confronted with a gathering media storm, French authorities were finally forced to admit that they were indeed aware of Ivan’s involvement in the missile sale at the time of the flight in question, but “certain operational exigencies” required that Ivan be allowed to leave French soil. Those operational exigencies notwithstanding, French prosecutors now wanted Ivan back, as did their counterparts in Britain, where he faced a slew of criminal charges ranging from money laundering to involvement in a plot to commit an act of mass murder. A Kremlin spokesman dismissed the charges as “Western lies and propaganda” and pointed out that it was not possible under Russian law to extradite Mr. Kharkov to face criminal charges. The spokesman went on to say that Russian authorities were completely unaware of Mr. Kharkov’s whereabouts and had no record he was even in the country.

Forty-eight hours later, when a photograph surfaced of Ivan attending a Kremlin reception for the newly reelected Russian president, the Kremlin could not be troubled for a comment. In the West, much was made of the fact that Ivan had attended the reception with a stunning young supermodel named Yekatarina Mazurov rather than his elegant wife. A week later, he filed for divorce in a Russian court, accusing Elena Kharkov of sins ranging from infidelity to child abuse. Elena was not there to contest the charges. Elena, it seemed, had disappeared from the face of the earth.

None of which seemed to concern the staff of the Villa dei Fiori in Umbria, for they had more pressing matters with which to contend. There were crops to bring in and fences that needed mending. There was a horse with an injured leg and a leak in the roof that needed fixing before the heavy rains of winter. And there was a melancholy man with a patch over one eye who feared he would never be able to work again. He could do nothing now but wait. And toss his tennis ball against the Etruscan walls of the garden. And walk the dusty gravel road with the hounds at his heels.

72 VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA

Ari Shamron telephoned a week later to invite himself to lunch. He arrived in a single embassy car, with Gilah at his side. The afternoon was windy and raw, so they ate indoors in the formal dining room with an olive-wood fire blazing in the open hearth. Shamron referred to himself as Herr Heller, one of his many work names, and spoke only German in front of Anna and Margherita. When lunch was over, Chiara and Gilah helped with the dishes. Gabriel and Shamron pulled on coats and walked along the gravel road between the umbrella pines. Shamron waited until they were a hundred yards from the villa before lighting his first Turkish cigarette. “Don’t tell Gilah,” he said. “She’s bothering me to quit again.”

“She’s not as naive as you think. She knows you smoke behind her back.”

“She doesn’t mind as long as I make at least some effort to conceal it from her.”

“You should listen to her for once. Those things are going to kill you.”

“I’m as old as these hills, my son. Let me enjoy myself while I’m still here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Gilah was coming with you?”

“I suppose it slipped my mind. I’m not used to traveling with my wife. We’re going to Vienna to listen to music next. Then we’re going to London to see a play.”

Shamron made it sound as if he had been sentenced to a month in solitary, with punishment rations.

“This is what people do when they retire, Ari. They travel. They relax.”

“I’m not retired. God, I hate that word. Next, you’ll accuse me of being deceased.”

“Try to enjoy yourself, Ari-if not for your sake, then for Gilah’s. She deserves a nice holiday in Europe. We all love you dearly, but you haven’t exactly been the perfect husband and father.”

“And for my sins, I am to be punished with a week of Mozart and Pinter.”

They walked in silence, Gabriel with his gaze downward, Shamron trailing smoke like a steam engine.

“I hear we’re sending a doctor up here tomorrow to remove your bandages.”

“Is that why you came? To see the great unveiling?”

“Gilah and I thought you would like to have some family around. Were we wrong to come?”

“Of course not, Ari. I just might not be very good company. That gorilla managed to fracture my orbit and cause significant damage to my retina. Even under the best of circumstances, I’m going to have blurred vision for a while.”