Free Moscow Rules by Daniel Silva Page B

slowly. “And unfortunately, given the track record of the Kremlin, it’s only
    one of many unsettling possibilities. The entire region is bristling with rumors of some kind of new deal
    some where. We’ve been hammering away at the issue for months. So far, we’ve been unable to come up
    with anything we can take to the prime minister. I’m afraid he’s beginning to get annoyed.”
    “It’s part of his job description.”
    “And mine.” Shamron smiled humorlessly. “All of this goes to explain why we were so interested in
    having you meet with Boris Ostrovsky in the first place. And why we would now like you to travel to
    Russia to find out what he intended to say to you.”
    “ Me? I’ve never set foot in Russia. I don’t know the terrain. I don’t even speak the language.”
    “You have something more important than local knowledge and language.”
    “What’s that?”
    “A name and a face that the extremely nervous staff of Moscovsky Gazeta will recognize.”
    “Chances are, the Russian security services will recognize it, too.”
    “We have a plan for that,” Shamron said.
    The Old Man smiled. He had a plan for everything.
    11 JERUSALEM
    There were security agents at either end of Narkiss Street, a quiet, leafy lane in the heart of
    Jerusalem, and another standing watch outside the entrance of the dowdy little limestone apartment house
    at Number 16. Gabriel, as he crossed the tiny foyer with Shamron at his heels, didn’t bother checking the
    postbox. He never received mail, and the name on the box was false. As far as the bureaucracy of the
    State of Israel was concerned, Gabriel Allon did not exist. He was no one, he lived nowhere. He was the
    eternal wandering Jew.
    Uzi Navot was seated on the living-room couch in Gabriel’s apartment, with his feet propped on the
    coffee table and an Israeli diplomatic passport wedged between the first two fingers of his right hand. He
    adopted an expression of bored indifference as he handed it over for inspection. Gabriel opened the cover
    and looked at the photograph. It showed a silver-haired man with a neat gray beard and round eyeglasses.
    The silver hair was the handiwork of a stylist who worked for Identity. The gray beard, unfortunately,
    was his own.
    “Who’s Natan Golani?”
    “A midlevel functionary in the Ministry of Culture. He specializes in building artistic bridges
    between Israel and the rest of the world: peace through art, dance, music, and other pointless endeavors.
    I’m told Natan is rather handy with a paintbrush himself.”
    “Has he ever been to Russia?”
    “No, but he’s about to.” Navot removed his feet from the coffee table and sat up. “Six days from
    now, the deputy minister is scheduled to travel from Jerusalem to Russia for an official visit. We’ve
    prevailed upon him to become ill at the last moment.”
    “And Natan Golani will go in his place?”
    “Provided the Russians agree to grant him a visa. The ministry anticipates no problems on that
    front.”
    “What’s the purpose of his trip?”
    Navot reached into his stainless steel attaché case and removed a glossy magazine-sized brochure.
    He held it aloft for Gabriel to see the cover, then dropped it on the coffee table. Gabriel’s eyes focused
    on a single word: UNESCO.
    “Perhaps it escaped your notice, but the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural
    Organization, better known as UNESCO, has declared this ‘the decade for the promotion of a culture of
    peace and nonviolence for the children of the world.’ ”
    “You’re right, Uzi. Somehow I missed that.”
    “In furtherance of that noble goal, it holds a conference each year to assess progress and discuss new
    initiatives. This year’s conference will be held at the Marble Palace in St. Petersburg.”
    “How many days of this nonsense do I have to sit through?”
    “Three,” said Navot. “Your speech is scheduled for day two of the conference. Your remarks will
    focus on a