Moscow Rules by Daniel Silva Read Free Book Online Page B

footsore and weary by the time he finally labored up the front steps of the Pantheon. Gabriel was standing at the tomb of Raphael. He watched Ostrovsky stroll once around the interior of the rotunda, then stepped outside onto the portico, where Lavon was leaning against a column.
     
     
    “What do you think?”
     
     
    “I think we’d better get him into a chair at Tre Scalini before he passes out.”
     
     
    “Is there anyone following him?”
     
     
    Lavon shook his head. “Clean as a whistle.”
     
     
    Just then Ostrovsky emerged from the rotunda and headed down the steps toward the Piazza Navona. Lavon gave him a generous head start before setting out after him. Gabriel climbed aboard the Piaggio and headed to the Vatican.
     
     
    It had been a Roman racetrack once. Indeed, the baroque structures along its elliptical perimeter were built upon the ruins of ancient grandstands. There were no more chariot races and sporting contests in the Piazza Navona, only a never-ending carnival-like atmosphere that made it one of the most popular and crowded squares in all of Rome. For his observation post, Eli Lavon had chosen the Fontana de Moro, where he was pretending to watch a cellist performing Bach’s Suite No. 1 in G Major. In reality, his gaze was focused on Boris Ostrovsky, who was settling into a table, fifty yards away, at Tre Scalini. The Russian ordered only a small bottle of mineral water, which the white-jacketed waiter took an eternity to deliver. Lavon took one final look around the square, then walked over and sat down in the empty seat.
     
     
    “You really should order something more than water, Boris. It’s bad manners.”
     
     
    Lavon had spoken in rapid Russian. Ostrovsky responded in the same language.
     
     
    “I’m a Russian journalist. I don’t take beverages in public unless they come with a cap on them.”
     
     
    He regarded Lavon and frowned, as though he had decided the small man in the crumpled tweed jacket could not possibly be the legendary Israeli agent whom he had read about in the newspapers.
     
     
    “Who are you?”
     
     
    “None of your business.”
     
     
    Another frown. “I did everything I was told to do. Now, where is he?”
     
     
    “Who?”
     
     
    “The man I want to speak with. The man called Allon.”
     
     
    “What makes you think we would ever let you anywhere near him? No one summons Gabriel Allon. It’s always the other way around.”
     
     
    A waiter sauntered over to the table; Lavon, in respectable Italian, ordered two coffees and a plate of tartufo . Then he looked again at Ostrovsky. The Russian was perspiring freely now and glancing nervously around the piazza. The front of his shirt was damp and beneath each arm was a dark blossom of sweat.
     
     
    “Something bothering you, Boris?”
     
     
    “Something is always bothering me. It’s how I stay alive.”
     
     
    “Who are you afraid of?”
     
     
    “The siloviki ,” he said.
     
     
    “The siloviki ? I’m afraid my Russian isn’t that good, Boris.”
     
     
    “Your Russian is very good, my friend, and I’m a bit surprised you haven’t heard the word before. It’s how we refer to the former KGB men who are now running my country. They do not take kindly to dissent, and that’s putting it mildly. If you cross them, they will kill you. They kill in Moscow. They kill in London. And they wouldn’t hesitate to kill here”—Ostrovsky looked around the lively piazza—“in the historic center of Rome.”
     
     
    “Relax, Boris. You’re clean. No one followed you here.”
     
     
    “How do you know?”
     
     
    “We’re good at what we do.”
     
     
    “They’re better, my friend. They’ve had a lot of practice. They’ve been at it since the Revolution.”
     
     
    “All the more reason why you’re not going anywhere near the man you wish to speak to. Give me the message, Boris, and I’ll give it to Allon. It’s much safer that way for everyone. It’s the way