Moscow Rules by Daniel Silva

political opposition dating back to the
    days of the tsars. As the waiters cleared the dessert plates, Olga gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’m
    afraid I feel a cigarette coming on,” she said. “Would you care to join me?”
    They rose from the table together under the crestfallen gaze of the filmmaker and stepped onto the
    ambassador’s small terrace. It was empty and in semidarkness; in the distance loomed one of the “the
    Seven Sisters,” the monstrous Stalinist towers that still dominated the Moscow skyline. “ Europe ’s tallest
    apartment building,” she said without enthusiasm. “Everything in Russia has to be the biggest, the tallest,
    the fastest, or the most valuable. We cannot live as normal people.” Her lighter flared. “Is this your first
    time in Russia, Mr. Golani?”
    “Yes,” he answered truthfully.
    “And what brings you to our country?”
    You , he answered truthfully again, but only to himself. Aloud, he said that he had been drafted on
    short notice to attend the UNESCO conference in St. Petersburg. And for the next several minutes he
    spoke glowingly of his achievements, until he could see that she was bored. He glanced over his shoulder,
    into the ambassador’s dining room, and saw no movement to indicate that their moment of privacy was
    about to be interrupted anytime soon.
    “We have a common acquaintance,” he said. “Actually, we had a common acquaintance. I’m afraid
    he’s no longer alive.”
    She lifted the cigarette to her lips and held it there as though it were a shield protecting her from
    harm. “And who might that be?” she asked in her schoolgirl English.
    “Boris Ostrovsky,” Gabriel said calmly.
    Her gaze was blank. The ember of her cigarette was trembling slightly in the half-light. “And how
    were you acquainted with Boris Ostrovsky?” she asked guardedly.
    “I was in St. Peter’s Basilica when he was murdered.”
    He gazed directly into the iconic face, assessing whether the fear he saw there was authentic or a
    forgery. Deciding it was indeed genuine, he pressed on.
    “I was the reason he came to Rome in the first place. I held him while he died.”
    She folded her arms defensively. “I’m sorry, Mr. Golani, but you are making me extremely
    uncomfortable.”
    “Boris wanted to tell me something, Miss Sukhova. He was killed before he could do that. I need to
    know what it was. And I think you may know the answer.”
    “I’m afraid you were misled. No one on the staff knew what Boris was doing in Rome.”
    “We know he had information, Miss Sukhova. Information that was too dangerous to publish here.
    Information about a threat of some sort. A threat to the West and Israel.”
    She glanced through the open doorway into the dining room. “I suppose this evening was all staged
    for my benefit. You wanted to meet me somewhere you thought the FSB wouldn’t be listening and so you
    threw a party on my behalf and lured me here with promises of an exclusive story.” She placed her hand
    suggestively on his forearm and leaned close. Her voice, when she spoke again, was little more than a
    whisper. “You should know that the FSB is always listening, Mr. Golani. In fact, two of the guests your
    embassy invited here tonight are on the FSB payroll.”
    She released his arm and moved away. Then her face brightened suddenly, like a lost child
    glimpsing her mother. Gabriel turned and saw the filmmaker advancing toward them, with two other
    guests in his wake. Cigarettes were ignited, drinks were fetched, and within a few moments they were all
    four conversing in rapid Russian as though Mr. Golani was not there. Gabriel was convinced he had
    overplayed his hand and that Olga was now forever lost to him, but as he turned to leave he felt her hand
    once more upon his arm.
    “The answer is yes,” she said.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “You asked whether I would be willing to give you a tour of Moscow tomorrow. And the answer is
    yes. Where are you