Gabriel Allon: Prince of Fire, the Messenger, the Secret Servant

  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 naïve 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.”

  “And the worst?”

  “Significant loss of vision in one eye. Not exactly a helpful condition for someone who makes his living restoring paintings.”

  “You make your living defending the State of Israel.” Greeted by Gabriel’s silence, Shamron looked up at the treetops moving in the wind. “What’s wrong, Gabriel? No speech about how you’re planning to leave the Office for good this time? No lecture about how you’ve given enough to your country and your people already?”

  “I’ll always be here for you, Ari—as long as I can see, of course.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I’m going to remain a guest of Count Gasparri until I wear out my welcome. And, if my vision permits, I’m going to quietly restore a few paintings for the Vatican Museums. You may recall I was working on one when you asked me to run that little errand in Rome. Unfortunately, I had to let someone else finish it for me.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not terribly sympathetic. You saved thousands of lives with that little errand. That’s more important than restoring a painting.”

  They came to the fork in the track. Shamron looked up at the large, wood-carved crucifix and shook his head slowly. “Did I mention that Gilah and I had dinner at the Vatican last night with Monsignor Donati and His Holiness?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “His Holiness was quite pleased that the Church was able to play a small role in Ivan’s demise. He’s quite anxious it remain a secret, though. He doesn’t want any more dead bodies in his Basilica.”

  “You can see his point,” said Gabriel.

  “Absolutely,” Shamron agreed.

  It was one of the many aspects of the affair that remained secret— the fact that Ivan’s children, after leaving Saint-Tropez, had been taken to an isolated priory high in the Maritime Alps. They had remained there for nearly a week—under Church protection and with the full knowledge and approval of the Supreme Pontiff—before boarding a CIA Gulfstream jet and flying clandestinely to the United States.

  “Where are they?” Gabriel asked.

  “Elena and the children?” Shamron dropped his cigarette and crushed it out. “I have no idea. And, quite frankly, I don’t want to know. She’s Adrian’s problem now. Ivan has started more than divorce proceedings. He’s created a special unit within his personal security service with one job: finding Elena and the children. He wants his children back. He wants Elena dead.”

  “What about Olga and Grigori?”

  “Your friend Graham Seymour is hearing rumors of Russian assassins heading for British shores. Olga is locked away in a safe house outside London, surrounded by armed guards. Grigori is another story. He’s told Graham he can look after himself.”

  “Did Graham agree to this?”

  “Not entirely. He’s got Grigori under full-time watch.”

  “Watchers? Watchers can’t protect anyone from a Russian assassin. Grigori should be surrounded by men with guns.”

  “So should you.” Shamron didn’t bother trying to conceal his irritation. “If it were up to me, you’d be locked away someplace in Israel where Ivan would never think to look for you.”

  “And you wonder why I’d rather be here.”

  “Just don’t think about setting foot outside this estate. Not until Ivan’s had a chance to cool down.”

  “Ivan doesn’t strike me as the sort to forget a grudge.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Perhaps we should just kill him now and get it over with.”

  Shamron looked at the bandage on Gabriel’s eye. “Ivan can wait, my son. You have more important things to worry about.”

  They had arrived at the stables. In an adjacent pen, a pair of pigs were rolling about in the mud. Shamron looked at the animals and winced in disgust.

  “First a crucifix. Now pigs. What’s next?”

  “We have our own chapel.”

  Shamron ignited another cigarette. “I’m getting tired,” he said. “Let’s head back.”

  They turned around and started toward the villa. Shamron produced an envelope from the breast pocket of his leather bomber jacket and handed it to Gabriel.

  “It’s a letter from Elena,” Shamron said. “Adrian Carter had it couriered to Tel Aviv.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “Of course.”

  Gabriel removed the letter and read it for himself.

  “Are you up to it?” Shamron asked.

  “I
’ll know after the great unveiling.”

  “Maybe Gilah and I should stay here for a few days, just in case things don’t go well.”

  “What about Mozart and Pinter?”

  “I’d rather be here”—he looked around theatrically—“with the pigs and the crucifixes.”

  “Then we’d love to have you.”

  “Do the staff really have no idea who you are?”

  “They think I’m an eccentric restorer who suffers from melancholia and mood swings.”

  Shamron placed his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “It sounds to me as if they know you quite well.”

  73

  VILLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA

  The doctor came the following morning. Israeli by way of Queens, he wore a rabbinical beard and had the small soft hands of a baby. He removed the dressing from Gabriel’s eye, frowned heavily, and began snipping away the sutures.

  “Let me know if anything I do hurts.”

  “Trust me, you’ll be the first to know.”

  He shone a light directly into Gabriel’s eye and frowned some more.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Like you’re burning a hole in my cornea.”

  The doctor switched off the light.

  “How does it feel now?”

  “Like it’s covered in cotton wool and Vaseline.”

  “Can you see?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  He covered Gabriel’s good eye. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Come on. How many?”

  “Four, I think, but I can’t be sure.”

  The doctor uncovered the good eye. He was holding up two fingers. He put some drops in the damaged eye that burned like battery acid and covered it with a black patch.

  “I look like an idiot.”

  “Not for long. Your retina looks remarkably good for what you’ve been through. You’re a very lucky man. Wear the patch on and off for a few days until your eye regains some of its strength. An hour on, an hour off. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Avoid bright lights. And don’t do anything that might give you unnecessary eyestrain.”

  “How about painting?”

  “Don’t even think about it. Not for at least three days.”

  The doctor put his light and suture cutters back in his bag and pulled the zipper closed. Gabriel thanked him for coming all the way from Tel Aviv for a five-minute job. “Just don’t tell anyone you were here,” he added. “If you do, that angry-looking little man over there will kill you with his bare hands.”

  The doctor looked at Shamron, who had managed to watch the entire proceeding without offering a single piece of advice.

  “Is it true what they say about him? Was he really the one who kidnapped Eichmann?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “Is it all right if I shake his hand? I want to touch the hands that grabbed hold of that monster.”

  "It’s fine,” said Gabriel. “But be careful. He bites.”

  He didn’t want to wear the patch, but even he had to admit he looked better with it on than off. The tissue around the eye was still distorted with swelling and the new scar was raw and hideous. “You’ll look like yourself eventually,” Chiara assured him. “But it’s going to take a while. You older men don’t heal as fast.”

  The doctor’s optimism about the pace of his recovery turned out to be accurate. By the next morning, Gabriel’s vision had improved dramatically, and by the morning after it seemed almost normal. He felt ready to begin work on Elena’s request but confined his efforts to only one small task: the fabrication of a stretcher, 38 ¾ inches by 29 ¼ inches. When the stretcher was finished, he pulled a linen canvas over it and covered the canvas with a layer of ground. Then he placed the canvas on his easel and waited for it to dry.

  He slept poorly that night and woke at four. He tried to fall asleep again, but it was no use, so he slipped out of bed and headed downstairs. He had always worked well in the early morning, and, despite his weakened eye, that morning was no exception. He applied the first layers of base paint, and by midday two small children were clearly visible on the canvas.

  He took a break for lunch, then spent a second session before the canvas that lasted until dinner. He painted from memory, without even a photograph for reference, and with a swiftness and confidence he would not have thought possible a week earlier. Sometimes, when the house was quiet, he could almost feel her at his shoulder, whispering instructions into his ear. Watch your brushwork on the hands, she reminded him. Not too impasto on the hands. And sometimes, when his vision began to blur, he would see Elena chained to a chair in her husband’s warehouse of death, a gun pressed to the side of her head. You’d better pull the trigger, Arkady, because Ivan is never getting those children.

  Chiara and the household staff knew better than to watch him while he worked, but Shamron and Gilah were unaware of his rules and were therefore never far from his back. Gilah’s visits were brief in duration, but Shamron, with nothing else to occupy his time, became a permanent fixture in Gabriel’s studio. He had always been mystified by Gabriel’s ability to paint—to Shamron, it was but a parlor trick or an illusion of some sort—and he was content now to sit silently at Gabriel’s side as he worked, even if it meant forgoing his cigarettes.

  “I should have left you at Bezalel in ’seventy-two,” he said late one night. “I should have found someone else to execute those Black September murderers. You would have been one of the greatest artists of your generation, instead of—”

  “Instead of what?”

  “Instead of an eccentric old restorer with melancholia and mood swings who lives in a villa in the middle of Umbria surrounded by pigs and crucifixes.”

  “I’m happy, Ari. I have Chiara.”

  “Keep her close, Gabriel. Remember, Ivan likes to break pretty things.”

  Gabriel laid down his brush, then stepped back and examined the painting for a long time, hand pressed to his chin, head tilted to one side. Chiara, who was watching from the top of the stairs, said, “Is it finished, Signore Vianelli?”

  Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Yes,” he said finally. “I think it is finished.”

  “What are you going to do about the signature?” Shamron asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “May I give you a small piece of artistic advice?”

  “If you must.”

  “Sign it with the name your mother gave you.”

  He dipped the brush in black paint and signed the name Gabriel Allon in the bottom left corner.

  “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  “I’m sure she will. Is it finished now?”

  “Not quite,” Gabriel said. “I have to bake it for thirty minutes.”

  "I should have left you at Bezalel,” Shamron said. “You could have been great. ”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Moscow Rules is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Two Children on a Beach by Mary Cassatt does not exist and therefore could not have been forged. If it did, it would bear a striking resemblance to a picture called Children Playing on the Beach, which hangs in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. Visitors to the French ski resort of Courchevel will search in vain for the Hôtel Grand, for it, too, is an invention. Riviera Flight Services is fictitious, and I have tinkered with airline schedules to make them fit my story. The Novodevichy Cemetery is faithfully rendered, as is the House on the Embankment, though it is a slightly less sinister place now than I have made it out to be. The FSB is in fact the internal security service of the Russian Federation, and its multitude of sins have been widely reported. Deepest apologies to the director of the Impressionist and Modern Art de
partment at Christie’s auction house in London. I am quite certain he is nothing like Alistair Leach. To the best of my knowledge, there is no CIA safe house on N Street in Georgetown.

  Moskovsky Gazeta does not exist, though, sadly, the threat to Russian journalists is all too real. According to the Committee to Protect Journalists, forty-seven reporters, editors, cameramen, and photographers have been killed in Russia since 1992, making it the third-deadliest country in the world in which to practice the craft of journalism, after Iraq and Algeria. Fourteen of those deaths occurred during the rule of Russian president Vladimir Putin, who undertook a systematic crack-down on press freedom and political dissent after coming to power in 1999. Virtually all the murders were contract killings, and few have been solved or prosecuted.

  The most famous Russian reporter murdered during the rule of Vladimir Putin was Anna Politkovskaya, who was gunned down in the elevator of her Moscow apartment house in October 2006. A vocal critic of the regime, Politkovskaya was about to publish a searing exposé detailing allegations of torture and kidnapping by the Russian military and security forces in Chechnya. Putin dismissed Anna Politkovskaya as a person of “marginal significance” and did not bother to attend her funeral. No one connected to the Kremlin did.

  Six months after Politkovskaya’s murder, Ivan Safronov, a highly respected military affairs writer for the Kommersant newspaper, was found dead in the courtyard of his Moscow apartment building. Russian police claimed he committed suicide by jumping from a fifth-floor window, even though he resided on the third floor. While conducting research in Moscow, I learned Safronov had telephoned his wife on the way home to say he was stopping to buy some oranges, hardly the act of a suicidal man. The oranges were later found scattered in the stairwell between the fourth and fifth floors, along with Safronov’s cap. According to witnesses, Safronov was alive for several minutes after the fall and even attempted to stand. He would not survive the uncaring ineptitude of Moscow’s ambulance service, which took thirty minutes to dispatch help. The “attendants” assumed Safronov had fallen from an open window in a drunken stupor. An autopsy found no trace of alcohol or drugs in his system.