staying?”
“At the Savoy.”
“It’s the most thoroughly bugged hotel in Moscow.” She smiled. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
14 NOVODEVICHY CEMETERY
She wanted to take him to a cemetery. To understand Russia today, she said, you must first know her
past. And to know her past, you had to walk among her bones.
She telephoned the Savoy the first time at ten and suggested they meet at noon. A short time later she
called again to say that, due to an unforeseen complication at the office, she would not be able to meet him
until three. Gabriel, playing the role of Natan Golani, spent much of the day touring the Kremlin and the
Tretyakov Gallery. Then, at 2:45, he stepped onto the escalator of the Lubyanka Metro station and rode it
down into the warm Moscow earth. A train waited in the murky light of the platform; he stepped on board
as the doors rattled closed and took hold of the overhead handrail as the carriage lurched forward. His
FSB minder had managed to secure the only empty seat. He was fiddling with his iPod, symbol of the
New Russian man, while an old babushka in a black headscarf looked on in bewilderment.
They rode six stops to Sportivnaya. The watcher emerged into the hazy sunlight first and went to the
left. Gabriel turned to the right and entered a chaotic outdoor market of wobbly kiosks and trestle tables
piled high with cheap goods from the former republics of central Asia. At the opposite end of the market a
band of Unity Party Youth was chanting slogans and handing out election leaflets. One of them, a not-so-
youthful man in his early thirties, was trailing a few steps behind Gabriel as he arrived at the entrance of
the Novodevichy Cemetery.
On the other side of the gate stood a small redbrick flower shop. Olga Sukhova was waiting outside
the doorway, a bouquet of carnations in her arms. “Your timing is impeccable, Mr. Golani.” She kissed
Gabriel formally on both cheeks and smiled warmly. “Come with me. I think you’re going to find this
fascinating.”
She led him up a shaded footpath lined with tall elm and spruce. The graves were on either side:
small plots surrounded by iron fences; tall sculpted monuments; redbrick niche walls covered in pale
moss. The atmosphere was parklike and tranquil, a reprieve from the chaos of the city. For a moment,
Gabriel was almost able to forget they were being followed.
“The cemetery used to be inside the Novodevichy Convent, but at the turn of the last century the
Church decided that there were too many burials taking place inside the monastery’s walls so they created
this place.” She spoke to him in English, at tour guide level, loudly enough so that those around them
could hear. “It’s the closest thing we have to a national cemetery-other than the Kremlin wall, of course.
Playwrights and poets, monsters and murderers: they all lie together here in Novodevichy. One can only
imagine what they talk about at night when the gates are closed and the visitors all leave.” She stopped
before a tall gray monument with a pile of wilted red roses at its base. "Do you like Chekhov, Mr.
Golani?”
"Who doesn’t?”
“He was one of the first to be buried here.” She took him by the elbow. “Come, I’ll show you some
more.”
They drifted slowly together along a footpath strewn with fallen leaves. On a parallel pathway, the
watcher who had been handing out leaflets in the market was now feigning excessive interest in the grave
of a renowned Russian mathematician. A few feet away stood a woman with a beige anorak tied around
her waist. In her right hand was a digital camera, pointed directly at Gabriel and Olga.
“You were followed here.” She gave him a sideways glance. “But, then, I suppose you already know
that, don’t you, Mr. Golani? Or should I call you Mr. Allon?”
“My name is Natan Golani. I work for the Israeli Ministry of Culture.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Golani.”
She managed a smile. She was
“At the Savoy.”
“It’s the most thoroughly bugged hotel in Moscow.” She smiled. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
14 NOVODEVICHY CEMETERY
She wanted to take him to a cemetery. To understand Russia today, she said, you must first know her
past. And to know her past, you had to walk among her bones.
She telephoned the Savoy the first time at ten and suggested they meet at noon. A short time later she
called again to say that, due to an unforeseen complication at the office, she would not be able to meet him
until three. Gabriel, playing the role of Natan Golani, spent much of the day touring the Kremlin and the
Tretyakov Gallery. Then, at 2:45, he stepped onto the escalator of the Lubyanka Metro station and rode it
down into the warm Moscow earth. A train waited in the murky light of the platform; he stepped on board
as the doors rattled closed and took hold of the overhead handrail as the carriage lurched forward. His
FSB minder had managed to secure the only empty seat. He was fiddling with his iPod, symbol of the
New Russian man, while an old babushka in a black headscarf looked on in bewilderment.
They rode six stops to Sportivnaya. The watcher emerged into the hazy sunlight first and went to the
left. Gabriel turned to the right and entered a chaotic outdoor market of wobbly kiosks and trestle tables
piled high with cheap goods from the former republics of central Asia. At the opposite end of the market a
band of Unity Party Youth was chanting slogans and handing out election leaflets. One of them, a not-so-
youthful man in his early thirties, was trailing a few steps behind Gabriel as he arrived at the entrance of
the Novodevichy Cemetery.
On the other side of the gate stood a small redbrick flower shop. Olga Sukhova was waiting outside
the doorway, a bouquet of carnations in her arms. “Your timing is impeccable, Mr. Golani.” She kissed
Gabriel formally on both cheeks and smiled warmly. “Come with me. I think you’re going to find this
fascinating.”
She led him up a shaded footpath lined with tall elm and spruce. The graves were on either side:
small plots surrounded by iron fences; tall sculpted monuments; redbrick niche walls covered in pale
moss. The atmosphere was parklike and tranquil, a reprieve from the chaos of the city. For a moment,
Gabriel was almost able to forget they were being followed.
“The cemetery used to be inside the Novodevichy Convent, but at the turn of the last century the
Church decided that there were too many burials taking place inside the monastery’s walls so they created
this place.” She spoke to him in English, at tour guide level, loudly enough so that those around them
could hear. “It’s the closest thing we have to a national cemetery-other than the Kremlin wall, of course.
Playwrights and poets, monsters and murderers: they all lie together here in Novodevichy. One can only
imagine what they talk about at night when the gates are closed and the visitors all leave.” She stopped
before a tall gray monument with a pile of wilted red roses at its base. "Do you like Chekhov, Mr.
Golani?”
"Who doesn’t?”
“He was one of the first to be buried here.” She took him by the elbow. “Come, I’ll show you some
more.”
They drifted slowly together along a footpath strewn with fallen leaves. On a parallel pathway, the
watcher who had been handing out leaflets in the market was now feigning excessive interest in the grave
of a renowned Russian mathematician. A few feet away stood a woman with a beige anorak tied around
her waist. In her right hand was a digital camera, pointed directly at Gabriel and Olga.
“You were followed here.” She gave him a sideways glance. “But, then, I suppose you already know
that, don’t you, Mr. Golani? Or should I call you Mr. Allon?”
“My name is Natan Golani. I work for the Israeli Ministry of Culture.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Golani.”
She managed a smile. She was
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