Moscow Rules by Daniel Silva Read Free Book Online

later, the phone was answered by a man speaking English with a pronounced Russian accent. When Gabriel asked to speak to someone named “Mr. Donaldson, ” the Russian-speaking man said there was no one there by that name and immediately hung up.
     
     
    Gabriel left the connection open for a few seconds and listened for the sound of a transmitter on the line. Hearing nothing suspicious, he hung up and walked to the Galleria Borghese. He spent an hour looking at paintings and checking his tail for signs of surveillance. Then, at 11:45, he climbed aboard the Piaggio motorbike again and set off toward a quiet square at the edge of the old ghetto. The filetti and Frascati were waiting when he arrived. And so was Eli Lavon.
     
     
    I thought you were supposed to be on your honeymoon.”
     
     
    "Shamron had other ideas.”
     
     
    "You need to learn how to set boundaries.”
     
     
    "I could build a Separation Fence and it still wouldn’t stop him.”
     
     
    Eli Lavon smiled and pushed a few strands of wispy hair from his forehead. Despite the warmth of the Roman afternoon, he was wearing a cardigan sweater beneath his crumpled tweed jacket and an ascot at his throat. Even Gabriel, who had known Lavon for more than thirty years, sometimes found it difficult to believe that the brilliant, bookish little archaeologist was actually the finest street surveillance artist the Office had ever produced. His ties to the Office, like Gabriel’s, were tenuous at best. He still lectured at the Academy—indeed, no Office recruit ever made it into the field without first spending a few days at Lavon’s legendary feet—but these days his primary work address was Jerusalem’s Hebrew University, where he taught biblical archaeology and regularly took part in digs around the country.
     
     
    Their close bond had been formed many years earlier during OperationWrath of God, the secret Israeli intelligence operation to hunt down and kill the perpetrators of the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre. In the Hebrew-based lexicon of the team, Gabriel was known as an aleph . Armed with a .22 caliber Beretta pistol, he had personally assassinated six of the Black September terrorists responsible for Munich, including a man named Wadal Abdel Zwaiter, whom he had killed in the foyer of an apartment building a few miles from where they were seated now. Lavon was an ayin —a tracker and surveillance specialist. They had spent three years stalking their prey across Western Europe, killing both at night and in broad daylight, living in fear that, at any moment, they would be arrested by European police and charged as murderers. When they finally returned home, Gabriel’s temples were the color of ash and his face was that of a man twenty years his senior. Lavon, who had been exposed to the terrorists for long periods of time with no backup, suffered from innumerable stress disorders, including a notoriously fickle stomach. Gabriel winced inwardly as Lavon took a very large bite of the fish. He knew the little watcher would pay for it later.
     
     
    “Uzi tells me you’re working in the Judean Desert. I hope it wasn’t something too important.”
     
     
    “Only one of the most significant archaeological expeditions in Israel in the last twenty years. We’ve gone back into the Cave of Letters. But instead of being there with my colleagues, sifting through the relics of our ancient past, I’m in Rome with you.” Lavon’s brown eyes flickered around the piazza. “But, then, we have a bit of history here ourselves, don’t we, Gabriel? In a way, this is where it began for the two of us.”
     
     
    “It began in Munich , Eli, not Rome.”
     
     
    “I can still smell that damn fig wine he was carrying when you shot him. Do you remember the wine, Gabriel?”
     
     
    “I remember, Eli.”
     
     
    “Even now, the smell of figs turns my stomach.” Lavon took a bite of the fish. “We’re not going to kill anyone today, are we,