Moscow Rules

A copyist of lesser gifts might have produced two or three drafts of the painting before attempting the final version, but Gabriel felt no need to practice, nor was he possessed with an abundance of time. He placed the easels side by side, with Cassatt’s original on the left, and immediately prepared his first palette. He worked slowly for the first few days, but as he grew more accustomed to Cassatt’s style, he was able to apply the paint to the canvas with increasing confidence and swiftness. Sometimes he had the sensation she was standing at his shoulder, carefully guiding his hand. Usually, she appeared to him alone, in a floor-length dress and ladylike bo

Though the painting consumed most of Gabriel’s attention, Ivan and Elena Kharkov were never far from his thoughts. NSA redoubled its efforts to intercept all of Ivan’s electronic communications, and Adrian Carter arranged for a man from London Station to make regular trips to Havermore to share the take. As a child of the KGB, Ivan had always been careful on the telephone and remained so now. He spent those days largely sequestered in his walled mansion in Zhukovka, the restricted secret city of the oligarchs west of Moscow. Only once did he venture outside the country: a day trip to Paris to spend a few hours with Yekatarina, his supermodel mistress. He phoned Elena three times from Yekatarina’s bed to say that his business meetings were going splendidly. One of the calls came while she was dining with two companions at the exclusive Café Pushkin, and the moment was captured by an Office watcher with a miniature camera. Gabriel couldn’t help but be struck by the melancholy expression on her face, especially when compared to the outward gaiety of her two companions. He tacked the picture to the wall of his makeshift studio and called it Three Ladies in a Moscow Café.

One salient operational fact eluded Gabriel: the precise date Ivan and Elena were pla

That evening, Gabriel ate di

“Would you like to tell me why you’re forging a Cassatt?” asked Sarah Bancroft.

“The owner won’t sell me the original.”

“What happens when it’s finished?”

“You’re going to sell it to Elena Kharkov.”

“Ask a silly question.” She leaned forward and scrutinized the canvas. “Watch your brushwork on the hands, Gabriel. It’s a bit too impasto.”

“My brushwork, as usual, is flawless.”

“How foolish of me to suggest otherwise.” She smothered an elaborate yawn. “I’m ru

“You can sleep here tonight, but tomorrow, you’re moving up to the main house. Uncle John is expecting you.”

“What’s he like?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“If you need any more advice, don’t hesitate to wake me.”

“I think I can manage on my own.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure.”

Sarah kissed his cheek and slipped silently through the doorway. Gabriel pressed the PLAY button on a small portable stereo and stood motionless while the first notes of La Bohème filled the room. Then he tapped his brush against the palette and painted alone until midnight.

Sir John Boothby was introduced to his American niece, an attractive young woman now using the name Sarah Crawford, over breakfast the following morning. Gabriel swiftly sketched the missing chapters of their long and cordial relationship. Though Sarah’s mother, now deceased, had been foolish enough to marry a Wall Street banker, she had made certain her daughter maintained strong co

With Sarah’s arrival, the pace of the preparations increased dramatically. M amp;M Audio and Video rolled into Havermore, disguised as local electricians, and installed cameras and microphones around the house and the grounds. They also created a makeshift command post in the hayloft of the barn, where the feeds could be monitored and recorded. Sarah spent her mornings “reacquainting” herself with a home she knew well and cherished deeply. She spent many pleasant hours with her uncle, familiarizing herself with the vast old manor house, and led herself on long walks around the estate with Punch and Judy, Boothby’s poorly behaved Pembroke Welsh corgis, trotting at her heels. Old George Merrywood invariably stopped her for a chat. His local Gloucestershire accent was so broad that even Sarah, who had spent much time in England, could barely understand a word he said. Mrs. Devlin pronounced her “simply the most delightful American I’ve ever met.” She knew nothing of Sarah’s alleged blood relationship to her employer-indeed, she had been told by Sir John that Sarah was the daughter of an American friend and had recently gone through a nasty divorce. Poor lamb, thought Mrs. Devlin one afternoon as she watched Sarah emerge from the dappled light of the North Wood with the dogs at her heels. What idiot would ever let a girl like that slip through his fingers?

In the evenings, Sarah would wander out to the gamekeeper’s cottage to discuss the real purpose of her stay at Havermore, which was the recruitment of Elena Kharkov. Gabriel would lecture her while he stood before his easel. At first, he spoke about the craft in general terms, but as the date of Elena’s arrival drew nearer, his briefings took on a decidedly more pointed tone. “Remember, Sarah, two people are already dead because of her. You can’t push too hard. You can’t force the issue. Just open the door and let her walk through it. If she does, get as much information as you can about Ivan’s deal and try to arrange a second meeting. Whatever you do, don’t let the first encounter last longer than ten minutes. You can be sure the bodyguards will be watching the clock. And they report everything to Ivan.”