Moscow Rules (Gabriel Allon Series #8)

Moscow Rules (Gabriel Allon Series #8)

by Daniel Silva

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The death of a journalist leads Israeli spy Gabriel Allon to Russia, where he finds that, in terms of spycraft, even he has something to learn in this #1 New York Times bestseller.

Moscow is no longer the gray, grim city of Soviet times. Now it is awash with oil wealth and choked with bulletproof Bentleys. But in the new Russia, power once again resides behind the walls of the Kremlin. Critics of the ruling class are ruthlessly silenced. And a new generation of Stalinists plots to reclaim an empire—and challenge the United States.

One of those men is Ivan Kharkov, ex-KGB, who built a financial empire on the rubble of the Soviet Union. Part of his profit comes from arms dealing. And he is about to deliver Russia’s most sophisticated weapons to the United States’ most dangerous enemy, unless Israeli foreign intelligence agent Gabriel Allon can stop him. Slipping across borders from Vatican City to St. Petersburg, Jerusalem to Washington, DC, Allon is playing for time—and playing by Moscow rules.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781440633577
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date: 07/22/2008
Series: Gabriel Allon Series , #8
Sold by: Penguin Group
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 528
Sales rank: 2,854
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

Daniel Silva is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Unlikely Spy, The Mark of the Assassin, The Marching Season, and the Gabriel Allon series, including The Kill Artist, The English Assassin, The Confessor, A Death in Vienna, Prince of Fire, The Messenger, The Secret Servant, Moscow Rules, The Defector, The Rembrandt Affair, Portrait of a Spy, The Fallen Angel, The English Girl, The Heist, The English Spy, The Black Widow, and House of Spies. His books are published in more than thirty countries and are bestsellers around the world.

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Read an Excerpt



The invasion began, as it always did, in the last days of December. They came by armored caravan up the winding road from the floor of the Rhône Valley or descended onto the treacherous mountaintop airstrip by helicopter and private plane. Billionaires and bankers, oil tycoons and metal magnates, supermodels and spoiled children: the moneyed elite of a Russia resurgent. They streamed into the suites of the Cheval Blanc and the Byblos and commandeered the big private chalets along the rue de Bellecôte. They booked Les Caves nightclub for private all-night parties and looted the glittering shops of the Croissette. They snatched up all the best ski instructors and emptied the wineshops of their best champagne and cognac. By the morning of the twenty-eighth there was not a hair appointment to be had anywhere in town, and Le Chalet de Pierres, the famous slope-side restaurant renowned for its fire-roasted beef, had stopped taking reservations for dinner until mid-January. By New Year’s Eve, the conquest was complete. Courchevel, the exclusive ski resort high in the French Alps, was once more a village under Russian occupation.

Only the Hôtel Grand Courchevel managed to survive the onslaught from the East. Hardly surprising, devotees might have said, for, at the Grand, Russians, like those with children, were quietly encouraged to find accommodations elsewhere. Her rooms were thirty in number, modest in size, and discreet in appointment. One did not come to the Grand for gold fixtures and suites the size of football pitches. One came for a taste of Europe as it once was. One came to linger over a Campari in the lounge bar or to dawdle over coffee and Le Monde in the breakfast room. Gentlemen wore jackets to dinner and waited until after breakfast before changing into their ski attire. Conversation was conducted in a confessional murmur and with excessive courtesy. The Internet had not yet arrived at the Grand and the phones were moody. Her guests did not seem to mind; they were as genteel as the Grand herself and trended toward late middle age. A wit from one of the flashier hotels in the Jardin Alpin once described the Grand’s clientele as “the elderly and their parents.”

The lobby was small, tidy, and heated by a well-tended wood fire. To the right, near the entrance of the dining room, was Reception, a cramped alcove with brass hooks for the room keys and pigeonholes for mail and messages. Adjacent to Reception, near the Grand’s single wheezing lift, stood the concierge desk. Early in the afternoon of the second of January, it was occupied by Philippe, a neatly built former French paratrooper who wore the crossed golden keys of the International

Concierge Institute on his spotless lapel and dreamed of leaving the hotel business behind for good and settling permanently on his family’s truffle farm in Périgord. His thoughtful dark gaze was lowered toward a list of pending arrivals and departures. It contained a single entry: Lubin, Alex. Arriving by car from Geneva. Booked into Room 237. Ski rental required.

Philippe cast his seasoned concierge’s eye over the name. He had a flair for names. One had to in this line of work. Alex … short for Alexander, he reckoned. Or was it Aleksandr? Or Aleksei? He looked up and cleared his throat discreetly. An impeccably groomed head poked from Reception. It belonged to Ricardo, the afternoon manager.

“I think we have a problem,” Philippe said calmly.

Ricardo frowned. He was a Spaniard from the Basque region. He didn’t like problems.

“What is it?”

Philippe held up the arrivals sheet. “Lubin, Alex.”

Ricardo tapped a few keys on his computer with a manicured forefinger.

“Twelve nights? Ski rental required? Who took this reservation?”

“I believe it was Nadine.”

Nadine was the new girl. She worked the graveyard shift. And for the crime of granting a room to someone called Alex Lubin without first consulting Ricardo, she would do so for all eternity.

“You think he’s Russian?” Ricardo asked.

“Guilty as charged.”

Ricardo accepted the verdict without appeal. Though senior in rank, he was twenty years Philippe’s junior and had come to rely heavily upon the older man’s experience and judgment.

“Perhaps we can dump him on our competitors.”

“Not possible. There isn’t a room to be had between here and Albertville.”

“Then I suppose we’re stuck with him—unless, of course, he can be convinced to leave on his own.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Plan B, of course.”

“It’s rather extreme, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but it’s the only way.”

The former paratrooper accepted his orders with a crisp nod and began planning the operation. It commenced at 4:12 p.m., when a dark gray Mercedes sedan with Geneva registration pulled up at the front steps and sounded its horn. Philippe remained at his pulpit for a full two minutes before donning his greatcoat at considerable leisure and heading slowly outside. By now the unwanted Monsieur Alex Lubin—twelve nights, ski rental required—had left his car and was standing angrily next to the open trunk. He had a face full of sharp angles and pale blond hair arranged carefully over a broad pate. His narrow eyes were cast downward into the trunk, toward a pair of large nylon suitcases. The concierge frowned at the bags as if he had never seen such objects before, then greeted the guest with a glacial warmth.

“May I help you, Monsieur?”

The question had been posed in English. The response came in the same language, with a distinct Slavic accent.

“I’m checking into the hotel.”

“Really? I wasn’t told about any pending arrivals this afternoon. I’m sure it was just a slipup. Why don’t you have a word with my colleague at Reception? I’m confident he’ll be able to rectify the situation.”

Lubin murmured something under his breath and tramped up the steep steps. Philippe took hold of the first bag and nearly ruptured a disk trying to hoist it out. He’s a Russian anvil salesman and he’s brought along a case filled with samples. By the time he had managed to heave the bags into the lobby, Lubin was slowly reciting his confirmation number to a perplexed-looking Ricardo, who, try as he might, had been unable to locate the reservation in question. The problem was finally resolved—“A small mistake by one of our staff, Monsieur Lubin. I’ll be certain to have a word with her”—only to be followed by another. Due to an oversight by the housekeeping staff, the room was not yet ready. “It will just be a few moments,” Ricardo said in his most silken voice. “My colleague will place your bags in the storage room. Allow me to show you to our lounge bar. There will be no charge for your drinks, of course.” There would be a charge—a rather bloated one, in fact—but Ricardo planned to spring that little surprise when Monsieur Lubin’s defenses were at their weakest.

Sadly, Ricardo’s optimism that the delay would be brief turned out to be misplaced. Indeed, ninety additional minutes would elapse before Lubin was shown, sans baggage, to his room. In accordance with Plan B, there was no bathrobe for trips to the wellness center, no vodka in the minibar, and no remote for the television. The bedside alarm clock had been set for 4:15 a.m. The heater was roaring. Philippe covertly removed the last bar of soap from the bathroom, then, after being offered no gratuity, slipped out the door, with a promise that the bags would be delivered in short order. Ricardo was waiting for him as he came off the lift.

“How many vodkas did he drink in the bar?”

“Seven,” said Ricardo.

The concierge put his teeth together and hissed contemptuously.

Only a Russian could drink seven vodkas in an hour and a half and still remain on his feet.

“What do you think?” asked Ricardo. “Mobster, spy, or hit man?”

It didn’t matter, thought Philippe gloomily. The walls of the Grand had been breached by a Russian. Resistance was now the order of the day. They retreated to their respective outposts, Ricardo to the grotto of Reception, Philippe to his pulpit near the lift. Ten minutes later came the first call from Room 237. Ricardo endured a Stalinesque tirade before murmuring a few soothing words and hanging up the phone. He looked at Philippe and smiled.

“Monsieur Lubin was wondering when his bags might arrive.”

“I’ll see to it right away,” said Philippe, smothering a yawn.

“He was also wondering whether something could be done about the heat in his room. He says it’s too warm, and the thermostat doesn’t seem to work.”

Philippe picked up his telephone and dialed Maintenance.

“Turn the heat up in Room 237,” he said. “Monsieur Lubin is cold.”

Had they witnessed the first few moments of Lubin’s stay, they would have felt certain in their belief that a miscreant was in their midst. How else to explain that he removed all the drawers from the chest and the bedside tables and unscrewed all the bulbs from the lamps and the light fixtures? Or that he stripped bare the deluxe queensize bed and pried the lid from the two-line message-center telephone? Or that he poured a complimentary bottle of mineral water into the toilet and hurled a pair of chocolates by Touvier of Geneva into the snow-filled street? Or that, having completed his rampage, he then returned the room to the near-pristine state in which he had found it?

It was because of his profession that he took these rather drastic measures, but his profession was not one of those suggested by Ricardo the receptionist. Aleksandr Viktorovich Lubin was neither a mobster nor a spy, nor a hit man, only a practitioner of the most dangerous trade one could choose in the brave New Russia: the trade of journalism. And not just any type of journalism: independent journalism. His magazine, Moskovsky Gazeta, was one of the country’s last investigative weeklies and had been a persistent stone in the shoe of the Kremlin. Its reporters and photographers were watched and harassed constantly, not only by the secret police but by the private security services of the powerful oligarchs they attempted to cover. Courchevel was now crawling with such men. Men who thought nothing of sprinkling transmitters and poisons around hotel rooms. Men who operated by the creed of Stalin: Death solves all problems. No man, no problem.

Confident the room had not been tampered with, Lubin again dialed the concierge to check on his bags and was informed they would arrive “imminently.” Then, after throwing open the balcony doors to the cold evening air, he settled himself at the writing desk and removed a file folder from his dog-eared leather briefcase. It had been given to him the previous evening by Boris Ostrovsky, the Gazeta’s editor in chief. Their meeting had taken place not in the Gazeta’s offices, which were assumed to be thoroughly bugged, but on a bench in the Arbatskaya Metro station.

I’m only going to give you part of the picture, Ostrovsky had said, handing Lubin the documents with practiced indifference. It’s for your own protection. Do you understand, Aleksandr? Lubin had understood perfectly. Ostrovsky was handing him an assignment that could get him killed.

He opened the file now and examined the photograph that lay atop the dossier. It showed a well-dressed man with cropped dark hair and a prizefighter’s rugged face standing at the side of the Russian president at a Kremlin reception. Attached to the photo was a thumbnail biography—wholly unnecessary, because Aleksandr Lubin, like every other journalist in Moscow, could recite the particulars of Ivan Borisovich Kharkov’s remarkable career from memory. Son of a senior KGB officer … graduate of the prestigious Moscow State University … boy wonder of the KGB’s Fifth Main Directorate … As the empire was crumbling, Kharkov had left the KGB and earned a fortune in banking during the anarchic early years of Russian capitalism. He had invested wisely in energy, raw materials, and real estate, and by the dawn of the millennium had joined Moscow’s growing cadre of newly minted multimillionaires. Among his many holdings was a shipping and air freight company with tentacles stretching across the Middle East, Africa, and Asia. The true size of his financial empire was impossible for an outsider to estimate. A relative newcomer to capitalism, Ivan Kharkov had mastered the art of the front company and the corporate shell.

Lubin flipped to the next page of the dossier, a glossy magazine-quality photograph of “Château Kharkov,” Ivan’s winter palace on the rue de Nogentil in Courchevel.

He spends the winter holiday there along with every other rich and famous Russian, Ostrovsky had said. Watch your step around the house. Ivan’s goons are all former Spetsnaz and OMON. Do you hear what I’m saying to you, Aleksandr? I don’t want you to end up like Irina Chernova.

Irina Chernova was the famous journalist from the Gazeta’s main rival who had exposed one of Kharkov’s shadier investments. Two nights after the article appeared, she had been shot to death by a pair of hired assassins in the elevator of her Moscow apartment building. Ostrovsky, for reasons known only to him, had included a photograph of her bullet-riddled body in the dossier. Now, as then, Lubin turned it over quickly.

Ivan usually operates behind tightly closed doors. Courchevel is one of the few places where he actually moves around in public. We want you to follow him, Aleksandr. We want to know who he’s meeting with. Who he’s skiing with. Who he’s taking to lunch. Get pictures when you can, but never approach him. And don’t tell anyone in town where you work. Ivan’s security boys can smell a reporter a mile away.

Ostrovsky had then handed Lubin an envelope containing airline tickets, a rental car reservation, and hotel accommodations. Check in with the office every couple of days, Ostrovsky had said. And try to have some fun, Aleksandr. Your colleagues are all very jealous. You get to go to Courchevel and party with the rich and famous while we freeze to death in Moscow.

On that note, Ostrovsky had risen to his feet and walked to the edge of the platform. Lubin had slipped the dossier into his briefcase and immediately broken into a drenching sweat. He was sweating again now. The damn heat! The furnace was still blazing away. He was starting to reach for the telephone to lodge another complaint when finally he heard the knock. He covered the length of the short entrance hall in two resentful strides and flung open the door without bothering to ask who was on the other side. A mistake, he thought immediately, for standing in the semidarkness of the corridor was a man of medium height, dressed in a dark ski jacket, a woolen cap, and mirrored goggles.

Lubin was wondering why anyone would wear goggles inside a hotel at night when the first blow came, a vicious sideways chop that seemed to crush his windpipe. The second strike, a well-aimed kick to the groin, caused his body to bend in half at the waist. He was able to emit no protest as the man slipped into the room and closed the door soundlessly behind him. Nor was he able to resist when the man forced him onto the bed and sat astride his hips. The knife that emerged from the inside of the ski jacket was the type wielded by elite soldiers. It entered Lubin’s abdomen just below the ribs and plunged upward toward his heart. As his chest cavity filled with blood, Lubin was forced to suffer the additional indignity of watching his own death reflected in the mirrored lenses of his killer’s goggles. The assassin released his grip on the knife and, with the weapon still lodged in Lubin’s chest, rose from the bed and calmly collected the dossier. Aleksandr Lubin felt his heart beat a final time as his killer slipped silently from the room. The heat, he was thinking. The damn heat . . .

It was shortly after seven when Philippe finally collected Monsieur Lubin’s bags from storage and loaded them onto the lift. Arriving at Room 237, he found the do not disturb sign hanging from the latch. In accordance with the conventions of Plan B, he gave the door three thunderous knocks. Receiving no reply, he drew his passkey from his pocket and entered, just far enough to see two size-twelve Russian loafers hanging a few inches off the end the bed. He left the bags in the entrance hall and returned to the lobby, where he delivered a report of his findings to Ricardo.

“Passed out drunk.”

The Spaniard glanced at his watch. “It’s early, even for a Russian. What now?”

“We’ll let him sleep it off. In the morning, when he’s good and hungover, we’ll initiate Phase Two.”

The Spaniard smiled. No guest had ever survived Phase Two. Phase Two was always fatal.

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Moscow Rules 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 198 reviews.
harstan More than 1 year ago
Art restorer Alessio Vianelli also known in some secretive circles as Israeli master-spy Gabriel Allon is on his honeymoon with his second wife Chiara in Umbria when his friend and undercover associate Uzi Navot meets with him at an Assisi, Italy restaurant. Uzi, a senior official for the Israel secret intelligence service, informs Gabriel that Russian arms dealer Ivan Kharkov is selling weapons to al-Qaeda. The assumption is obvious that a planned major terrorist attack is forthcoming, but none of the western espionage agents knows which cell or where. Gabriel insists on investigating. ---- The tip came from inside Moscow as Ivan¿s wife Elena warned the west. Gabriel believes she is the only avenue to who specifically her spouse is selling the weapons to she must be recruited in order for her to obtain Kharkov's ledger sheet. Unknown to Gabriel and his associates is that the former Russian Colonel and his associates have grandiose schemes to return Russia to its Soviet Empire glory days and thanks to western, Chinese, and Indian thirst for oil, money is no longer an obstacle. ---- The Allon counterespionage series is one of the best spy thriller sagas on the market today however his latest escapades in Moscow is fast-paced, but lacks the moral underpinnings that make the enemy seem human. Perhaps it is because MOSCOW RULES follows the fantastic THE SECRET SERVANT, which placed the spy thriller quality bar at stratospheric levels especially with the extraordinary explanation on how a person metamorphosis into a terrorist. In spite a shaky ending, Daniel Silva¿s tale showcases a different no longer bleak Moscow in which oil money and America¿s economic woes has made many think they can revisit and win the Cold War especially influential ruthless former military colonels. ---- Harriet Klausner
Guest More than 1 year ago
Silva has written another great spy thriller, demonstrating that today's dangerous world provides plenty of fiction fodder for those that like their chills served up in large doses.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Silva's Gabriel Allon books are must reads for fans of good spy novels. This is the strongest yet, but I highly recommend the previous books in the series, all of which are good. I'm just sad that I will now have to wait for a year for Silva to write another one, as I knocked this one off in a day.
Jetskigal More than 1 year ago
This is the third novel featuring Gabriel Allon that I've read. I found the first in Heathrow during a long wait the day after that crazy doctor failed in his bombing attempt with his SUV full of explosives there in London. Maybe because of the situation, I fell immediately in love with Gabriel Allon and his cause. Silva's research is fantastic. I loved reading the explanation and thanks at the end of Moscow Rules. He puts so much work into his novels. It really pays off, and the intelligent reader of fiction will certainly appreciate his efforts. Though Allon is the consummate spy, he doesn't speak Russian nor know a very lot about the history and people other than the interactions between the Russian government and his own. He knows about the Russian arms dealers, but his lack of Russian language really works to give him a more human feel. Of course, so does the ending, but I wouldn't dream of spoiling it for the next reader! Moscow Rules, and others in the series, are intense. I like to make sure I have ample time to process the twists and turns of the story line, so I read them on a weekend without my six year old, when flying, or whenever I know I can have some time for thought to process the story. Moscow Rules was especially intriguing because of the Russian culture and history in the story.
Breezy000 More than 1 year ago
I picked this book up randomly one day and boy am I glad I did. I couldn't put it down. This series has the most amazing, creative, unique characters and story line that I have found outside classic mystery series like Sherlock Holmes. Thank you Daniel Silva for writing this and the many adventures so far for Gabriel, you have truly entertained and educated me!
AJ5 More than 1 year ago
i love the way the author describes the characters in detail which really makes a big difference to the execution of the whole story. the detailing is a treat to the readers' visual senses and makes you feel as if the story is being enacted in front of you. an edge of the seat novel which swings you to different levels of emotions. the storytelling is fantastic making the reader wanting to be there to kill the bad guys.. i loved the book and will definitely read more books by the author..
BillA More than 1 year ago
I've read several of Daniel Silva's books. All are very good, and so is this one. It is a fine, fast-paced thriller. He's one of the best of this genre, in my view. Read it; you'll like it.
BookNutDJ More than 1 year ago
Daniel Silva does another great job of combining a good modern day story with bits of humor. Many times in books that make up a series you tire of the characters. With Gabriel Allon and the lot this is not the case. I read all kinds of Spy novels by different authors and Daniel Silva has become my favorite.
RebelReader More than 1 year ago
Gabriel Allon is what one would call the master of instant justice. Sometimes you wish the characters were true. The plot is developed at such a pace that you have a difficult time putting the book down. Good guys win! How different is that from reality?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Loved reading this book,every page great.
MCHR More than 1 year ago
Better read A Death in Viena before you read this one to follow the story. Love his books! Hope he comes up with a lot more....
prussblue10 More than 1 year ago
Exciting and intelligently written work that includes a realistic world view of how things were and still are. Not for liberals with rose colored glasses. I have also pre-ordered the remaining title and fear that I will have to wait until 2016 for the next title.
JCD2 More than 1 year ago
Another exciting novel from the spy-master, Daniel Silva.  Moscow Rules has our hero Gabriel Allon back in action.  This time he's in Moscow where he's brutalized and told not to come back. But Moscow is where he must return to stop one of the most powerful arms dealers in the world from delivering the deadly weapons to al-Qaeda.  The twists and turns in this non-stop action thriller were exhausting, but I hope to recover in time to read Silva's next novel.
Man_Of_La_Book_Dot_Com More than 1 year ago
Moscow Rules by Daniel Silva is the eighth in the Gabriel Allon series. Even though there are numer­ous ref­er­ences to the pre­vi­ous books, I thought this novel was still a good read and could be read independently. Gabriel Allon and his new wife, Chiara, are on their hon­ey­moon in Umbria, Italy. But Gabriel never stops work­ing and is restor­ing a paint­ing for the Vat­i­can. A Russ­ian news­pa­per reporter con­tacts the Israeli embassy in Rome request­ing a meet­ing with Allon who reluc­tantly agrees. The meet­ing never hap­pens and Allon is thrown into the world of Russ­ian busi­ness­man, Euro­pean pol­i­tics, arms deal­ers and the mix of old ene­mies with new money. Moscow Rules by Daniel Silva is another solid, well-written and depend­able adven­ture in the Gabriel Allon chronicles. After read­ing the 8th book in the series it is obvi­ous that Silva has cre­ated a char­ac­ter that is strong, sub­tle and con­flicted with an inter­est­ing back­ground story and engag­ing future. At this point in his life, Allon and the read­ers aren’t really sure what he is. Allon is too old to be the James Bond style agent, too young to retire, too cyn­i­cal to take a desk job but he is a patriot in every bone in his body and is still able to contribute. Silva real­ize that he can’t keep his spy young for­ever and basi­cally ruined his spy­ing career in sev­eral books prior by hav­ing his face splashed across news­pa­pers and Euro­pean agen­cies not allow­ing him entry into their coun­try. This time the ene­mies are Russ­ian oli­garchs and heavy handed pol­i­tics which seem to be a wel­comed depar­ture, yet still in the espi­onage genre. At first I wasn’t sure if I wanted to read Moscow Rules but I’m glad I did. Silva man­aged to find another adven­ture to our aging spy which is not laugh­able and keeps up with cur­rent events. The author does an excel­lent job explain­ing the cur­rent (or cur­rent when it was writ­ten) con­flicts in the for­mer USSR, as well as keep­ing up with his abil­ity to write peo­ple and char­ac­ters which keep the story mov­ing and are inter­est­ing to follow. The end­ing of the story did get tied up but the emo­tional aspects seemed to be tied up in a rushed way, a page or two more wouldn’t have hurt. Oth­er­wise I felt the book was nicely paced, a quick read and another excel­lent addi­tion to the excit­ing thrillers of the Allon repertoire.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
There isn't a book in the Gabriel Allon Series by Daniel Silva that has not been great. It's the kind of book that once started one cannot put down.
Celebri_la_vita More than 1 year ago
I do most of my reading during the summer months when my schedule is less busy. Summer 2011: I discovered Daniel Silva and the Gabriel Allon series. I read all 11 books in a very short period of time. They are interesting and never a dull moment!
Anonymous 7 months ago
Exciting! A must read.
readafew on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Moscow Rules is the 8th book in the Gabriel Allon series. Gabriel and Chiara are on their honeymoon in Umbria Italy, Gabriel is restoring a painting for the Vatican. A Russian newspaper reporter contacts the Israeli embassy in Rome requesting a meeting with Gabriel in person. He has some very important information regarding the sale of weapons to some enemies. Gabriel reluctantly agrees to the meeting. The meeting never happens, the reported is silenced in the halls of St. Peters Basilica. Gabriel's guilt over the death and curiosity over the mystery drive him to dig deeper.I enjoyed listening to this book, Ivan Kharkov is a great villain. Powerful and unscrupulous, all he cares about is money and that those close to him are loyal. His one soft spot is for his children and one wonders about that. Good book fast paced and no real plot holes. Just as good as the other Allon books I've read and a great thriller.
lanes_3 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A spy novel that follows the Israeli Gabriel Allon. I believe Allon is character series for Silva. This is a good, fast-paced novel with some exciting passages. As far as I can tell, Allon is in his mid 50's but he seems to run around like someone at least 20 years younger. There are numerous mentions of past occurrences. It makes me want to find some of the stories of when he was younger.
Joycepa on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
8th in the Gabriel Allon series.Gabriel and Chiara are on their honeymoon in the Umbrian hills of Italy while Gabriel, under an assumed name, of course, restores a painting for the Vatican. However, any thought that Ari Shamron, the unofficial head of Israeli Intelligence, will allow Allon some peace is rudely shattered when Allon gets an assignment: meet with a Russian journalist now in Rome, find out what he wants--because the journalist will talk with no one but Allon about what he claims is a grave danger to Israel and the West.A simple mission--just an overnighter to Rome, hear out the journalist, then back to the Villa dei Fiori to finish out his honeymoon.Nothing in Allon¿s world, however, ever works out that simply, and before long, Allon is on a headlong quest that takes him to the Cote d¿Azur in France and then to Moscow.In my opinion, no one writing today matches never mind bests Silva in the international spy thriller genre. His books are always well-written, well-plotted and incredibly exciting. That¿s the case with Moscow Rules, which has a page-turner of a denouement that keeps you up at night until you¿ve finished.His recurring characters, such as Ari Shamron, Uzi Navot, Eli Lavon and, of course, Chiara, are solid, We meet again Adrian Carter of the CIA and Gergory Seymor of British Intelligence. His one-timers are good--believable-- even if some of them are somewhat one-dimensional. No matter--the action is what counts, and Silva is brilliant at it. Highly recommended.
TigsW on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I really disliked this book. Unlike most of Silva's books, it was poorly researched and the writing was well below his usual standard. This, and it's follow-on, Deception, were probably written as one longer book and then split into two for promotional purposes. The author's diatribe against Russia, and promotion of Israel was simplisitic and annoying. The storyline was predictable and trite. I had trouble finishing this book.
Djupstrom on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I have never read anything by Daniel Silva before. Moscow Rules was a good spy thriller, with evil bad guys, and damsels in distress. I would read another.
Clara53 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A very good book, enjoyed it. But being a Russian speaker, I noticed a lot of mistakes in Russian phrases - I really can't see why the author cannot engage an authentic Russian language expert, any Russian immigrant will do, to check his novel for such obvious mistakes.
MSWallack on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Although I thoroughly enjoyed Moscow Rules, it simply didn't grab me quite as much as some of the more recent Gabriel Allon books. Perhaps I didn't feel as if I learned enough about the characters (other than Allon and his crew) who were central to the story. Plus the "surprise" during the climax of the story was, if not totally predictable, not terribly surprising either. That said, Silva did a remarkable job of showing the detail that goes into planning complicated espionage operations and those parts of the book were thoroughly enjoyable.
skinglist on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Another fabulous one in the Gabriel Allon series. I wish I hadn't read the blurb on Silva's site for the new book, which game away some of this, but it wasn't a terrible spoiler. As always, I love Gabriel and Chiara, and of course Ari. I think it will be the latter's death, not Gabriel's who eventually ends this series because I don't think Gabriel will go on without Ari. I like the character development of the Cherkov family here, interesting to weave in Russian history as well.