Moscow Rules
Daniel Silva
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PART ONE - THE SUMMONS
1 - COURCHEVEL, FRANCE
2 - UMBRIA, ITALY
3 - ASSISI, ITALY
4 - ASSISI, ITALY
5 - LLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
6 - ROME
7 - ROME
8 - VATICAN CITY
9 - VATICAN CITY
10 - BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL
11 - JERUSALEM
12 - ST. PETERSBURG
13 - MOSCOW
14 - NOVODEVICHY CEMETERY
15 - MOSCOW
16 - MOSCOW
17 - MOSCOW
18 - FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW
19 - FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW
PART TWO - THE RECRUITMENT
20 - BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL
21 - JERUSALEM
22 - JERUSALEM
23 - GEORGETOWN
24 - GEORGETOWN
25 - DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETOWN
26 - DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETON
27 - LONDON
28 - LONDON
29 - ST. JAME’S, LONDON
30 - CHELSEA, LONDON
31 - GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND
32 - GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND
33 - THAMES HOUSE, LONDON
34 - HAVERMORE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE
35 - LONDON
36 - SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
37 - SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
38 - SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
39 - GASSIN, FRANCE
40 - SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
41 - SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
42 - SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
43 - THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE
44 - THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE
45 - THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE
46 - THE MASSIF DES MAURES, FRANCE
47 - SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE
PART THREE - THE DEFECTION
48 - PARIS
49 - PARIS
50 - MOSCOW
51 - GENEVA
52 - VILLA SOLEIL, FRANCE
53 - NICE, FRANCE
54 - MOSCOW
55 - MOSCOW
56 - SAINT-TROPEZ, MOSCOW
57 - MOSCOW
58 - MOSCOW
59 - GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
60 - MOSCOW
61 - SHEREMET YEVO 2 AIRPORT, MOSCOW
62 - MOSCOW
63 - LUBYANKA SQUARE, MOSCOW
64 - KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
65 - KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
66 - KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
67 - KALUZHSKAYA O BLAST, RUSSIA
68 - MOSCOW
69 - BOLOTNAYA SQUARE, MOSCOW
70 - MOSCOW
PART FOUR - THE HARVEST
71 - VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
72 - VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
73 - VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA
About the Author
Acknowledgements
ALSO BY DANIEL SILVA
The Secret Servant
The Messenger
Prince of Fire
A Death in Vienna
The Confessor
The English Assassin
The Kill Artist
The Marching Season
The Mark of the Assassin
The Unlikely Spy
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Copyright © 2008 by Daniel Silva
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Silva, Daniel, date.
Moscow rules / Daniel Silva.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-436-23366-8
1. Allon, Gabriel (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Terrorism—Prevention—Fiction. 3. Intelligence
officers—Fiction. 4. Moscow (Russia)—Fiction. 5. Military weapons—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.I5443M
813’.6—dc22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Jeff Zucker, Ron Meyer, Linda Rappaport, and Michael Gendler,
for their friendship, wisdom, and guidance.
And as always, for my wife, Jamie,
and my children, Lily and Nicholas.
Don’t look back. You are never completely alone.
THE MOSCOW RULES
PART ONE
THE SUMMONS
1
COURCHEVEL, FRANCE
The invasion began, as it always did, in the last days of December. They came by armored caravan up the winding road from the floor of the Rhône Valley or descended onto the treacherous mountaintop airstrip by helicopter and private plane. Billionaires and bankers, oil tycoons and metal magnates, supermodels and spoiled children: the moneyed elite of a Russia resurgent. They streamed into the suites of the Cheval Blanc and the Byblos and commandeered the big private chalets along the rue de Bellecôte. They booked Les Caves nightclub for private all-night parties and looted the glittering shops of the Croissette. They snatched up all the best ski instructors and emptied the wineshops of their best champagne and cognac. By the morning of the twenty-eighth there was not a hair appointment to be had anywhere in town, and Le Chalet de Pierres, the famous slope-side restaurant renowned for its fire-roasted beef, had stopped taking reservations for dinner until mid-January. By New Year’s Eve, the conquest was complete. Courchevel, the exclusive ski resort high in the French Alps, was once more a village under Russian occupation.
Only the Hôtel Grand Courchevel managed to survive the onslaught from the East. Hardly surprising, devotees might have said, for, at the Grand, Russians, like those with children, were quietly encouraged to find accommodations elsewhere. Her rooms were thirty in number, modest in size, and discreet in appointment. One did not co
me to the Grand for gold fixtures and suites the size of football pitches. One came for a taste of Europe as it once was. One came to linger over a Campari in the lounge bar or to dawdle over coffee and Le Monde in the breakfast room. Gentlemen wore jackets to dinner and waited until after breakfast before changing into their ski attire. Conversation was conducted in a confessional murmur and with excessive courtesy. The Internet had not yet arrived at the Grand and the phones were moody. Her guests did not seem to mind; they were as genteel as the Grand herself and trended toward late middle age. A wit from one of the flashier hotels in the Jardin Alpin once described the Grand’s clientele as “the elderly and their parents.”
The lobby was small, tidy, and heated by a well-tended wood fire. To the right, near the entrance of the dining room, was Reception, a cramped alcove with brass hooks for the room keys and pigeonholes for mail and messages. Adjacent to Reception, near the Grand’s single wheezing lift, stood the concierge desk. Early in the afternoon of the second of January, it was occupied by Philippe, a neatly built former French paratrooper who wore the crossed golden keys of the International Concierge Institute on his spotless lapel and dreamed of leaving the hotel business behind for good and settling permanently on his family’s truffle farm in Périgord. His thoughtful dark gaze was lowered toward a list of pending arrivals and departures. It contained a single entry: Lubin, Alex. Arriving by car from Geneva. Booked into Room 237. Ski rental required.
Philippe cast his seasoned concierge’s eye over the name. He had a flair for names. One had to in this line of work. Alex . . . short for Alexander, he reckoned. Or was it Aleksandr? Or Aleksei? He looked up and cleared his throat discreetly. An impeccably groomed head poked from Reception. It belonged to Ricardo, the afternoon manager.
“I think we have a problem,” Philippe said calmly.
Ricardo frowned. He was a Spaniard from the Basque region. He didn’t like problems.
“What is it?”
Philippe held up the arrivals sheet. “Lubin, Alex.”
Ricardo tapped a few keys on his computer with a manicured forefinger.
“Twelve nights? Ski rental required? Who took this reservation?”
“I believe it was Nadine.”
Nadine was the new girl. She worked the graveyard shift. And for the crime of granting a room to someone called Alex Lubin without first consulting Ricardo, she would do so for all eternity.
“You think he’s Russian?” Ricardo asked.
“Guilty as charged.”
Ricardo accepted the verdict without appeal. Though senior in rank, he was twenty years Philippe’s junior and had come to rely heavily upon the older man’s experience and judgment.
“Perhaps we can dump him on our competitors.”
“Not possible. There isn’t a room to be had between here and Albertville. ”
“Then I suppose we’re stuck with him—unless, of course, he can be convinced to leave on his own.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Plan B, of course.”
“It’s rather extreme, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but it’s the only way.”
The former paratrooper accepted his orders with a crisp nod and began planning the operation. It commenced at 4:12 P.M., when a dark gray Mercedes sedan with Geneva registration pulled up at the front steps and sounded its horn. Philippe remained at his pulpit for a full two minutes before donning his greatcoat at considerable leisure and heading slowly outside. By now the unwanted Monsieur Alex Lubin— twelve nights, ski rental required—had left his car and was standing angrily next to the open trunk. He had a face full of sharp angles and pale blond hair arranged carefully over a broad pate. His narrow eyes were cast downward into the trunk, toward a pair of large nylon suitcases. The concierge frowned at the bags as if he had never seen such objects before, then greeted the guest with a glacial warmth.
“May I help you, Monsieur?”
The question had been posed in English. The response came in the same language, with a distinct Slavic accent.
“I’m checking into the hotel.”
“Really? I wasn’t told about any pending arrivals this afternoon. I’m sure it was just a slipup. Why don’t you have a word with my colleague at Reception? I’m confident he’ll be able to rectify the situation.”
Lubin murmured something under his breath and tramped up the steep steps. Philippe took hold of the first bag and nearly ruptured a disk trying to hoist it out. He’s a Russian anvil salesman and he’s brought along a case filled with samples. By the time he had managed to heave the bags into the lobby, Lubin was slowly reciting his confirmation number to a perplexed-looking Ricardo, who, try as he might, had been unable to locate the reservation in question. The problem was finally resolved— “A small mistake by one of our staff, Monsieur Lubin. I’ll be certain to have a word with her”—only to be followed by another. Due to an oversight by the housekeeping staff, the room was not yet ready. “It will just be a few moments,” Ricardo said in his most silken voice. “My colleague will place your bags in the storage room. Allow me to show you to our lounge bar. There will be no charge for your drinks, of course.” There would be a charge—a rather bloated one, in fact—but Ricardo planned to spring that little surprise when Monsieur Lubin’s defenses were at their weakest.
Sadly, Ricardo’s optimism that the delay would be brief turned out to be misplaced. Indeed, ninety additional minutes would elapse before Lubin was shown, sans baggage, to his room. In accordance with Plan B, there was no bathrobe for trips to the wellness center, no vodka in the minibar, and no remote for the television. The bedside alarm clock had been set for 4:15 A.M. The heater was roaring. Philippe covertly removed the last bar of soap from the bathroom, then, after being offered no gratuity, slipped out the door, with a promise that the bags would be delivered in short order. Ricardo was waiting for him as he came off the lift.
“How many vodkas did he drink in the bar?”
“Seven,” said Ricardo.
The concierge put his teeth together and hissed contemptuously. Only a Russian could drink seven vodkas in an hour and a half and still remain on his feet.
“What do you think?” asked Ricardo. “Mobster, spy, or hit man?”
It didn’t matter, thought Philippe gloomily. The walls of the Grand had been breached by a Russian. Resistance was now the order of the day. They retreated to their respective outposts, Ricardo to the grotto of Reception, Philippe to his pulpit near the lift. Ten minutes later came the first call from Room 237. Ricardo endured a Stalinesque tirade before murmuring a few soothing words and hanging up the phone. He looked at Philippe and smiled.
“Monsieur Lubin was wondering when his bags might arrive.”
“I’ll see to it right away,” said Philippe, smothering a yawn.
“He was also wondering whether something could be done about the heat in his room. He says it’s too warm, and the thermostat doesn’t seem to work.”
Philippe picked up his telephone and dialed Maintenance.
“Turn the heat up in Room 237,” he said. “Monsieur Lubin is cold.”
Had they witnessed the first few moments of Lubin’s stay, they would have felt certain in their belief that a miscreant was in their midst. How else to explain that he removed all the drawers from the chest and the bedside tables and unscrewed all the bulbs from the lamps and the light fixtures? Or that he stripped bare the deluxe queen-size bed and pried the lid from the two-line message-center telephone? Or that he poured a complimentary bottle of mineral water into the toilet and hurled a pair of chocolates by Touvier of Geneva into the snow-filled street? Or that, having completed his rampage, he then returned the room to the near-pristine state in which he had found it?
It was because of his profession that he took these rather drastic measures, but his profession was not one of those suggested by Ricardo the receptionist. Aleksandr Viktorovich Lubin was neither a mobster nor a spy, nor a hit man, only a practitioner of the most dangerous
trade one could choose in the brave New Russia: the trade of journalism. And not just any type of journalism: independent journalism. His magazine, Moskovsky Gazeta, was one of the country’s last investigative weeklies and had been a persistent stone in the shoe of the Kremlin. Its reporters and photographers were watched and harassed constantly, not only by the secret police but by the private security services of the powerful oligarchs they attempted to cover. Courchevel was now crawling with such men. Men who thought nothing of sprinkling transmitters and poisons around hotel rooms. Men who operated by the creed of Stalin: Death solves all problems. No man, no problem.
Confident the room had not been tampered with, Lubin again dialed the concierge to check on his bags and was informed they would arrive “imminently.” Then, after throwing open the balcony doors to the cold evening air, he settled himself at the writing desk and removed a file folder from his dog-eared leather briefcase. It had been given to him the previous evening by Boris Ostrovsky, the Gazeta’s editor in chief. Their meeting had taken place not in the Gazeta’s offices, which were assumed to be thoroughly bugged, but on a bench in the Arbatskaya Metro station.
