“Signor Dottore, we are beginning our descent into Atatürk.”

JC pressed a button. “Great, Giovanni. Thanks.”

“Atatürk?” Raul recognized the place.

“Where’s that?”

The butler began packing up the table quickly. Security rules regulate takeoffs and landings. In no time he’d cleared everything off the cream-colored table.

“What’s Atatürk?” Elizabeth asked again, visibly worried.

“It’s an airport,” JC replied, tightening his seat belt. “Fasten your seat belts,” he advised, “and welcome to Istanbul,” he added with one of his rare smiles.

55

There is a barbershop in Ulitsa Maroseyka, near the Kitay-Gorod metro station, that dates from the beginning of the nineteenth century at a time when barbers performed other functions like pulling teeth and resolving family problems. In politics they organized strikes, demonstrations, political revolts, coups, among many other things. Hard as it is to believe, the simple barber, scissors and razor in hand, had more power than a president.

Ivanovsky, the owner of the establishment, who inherited it in the seventies in the middle of the Cold War from another Ivanovsky, his father, has not neglected technological innovation. He created a website on which clients could make their next appointment and choose the style of haircut, as well as the barber. In spite of the remodeling the Ivanovskys carried out, this latest descendant has never let the building lose its identity. So we can experience a museum-like enchantment inside the grand barbershop, composed of pieces ranging from the first chair used by the first Ivanovsky to unique instruments that have been used over time. Anyone can visit, even if not coming for a haircut. You can enter without disturbing the busy employees and demanding clientele since the antique objects are displayed in their own room.

Despite the tumultuous history of the city of Moscow, the Ivanovsky clan never had to worry about assaults, fires, settling bills, or anything of the kind. They’ve always known the right side to be on and enjoyed the benefits of their choice. The preference among the political class for barbers of the Ivanovsky family has provoked cries of amazement from the curious, especially among barbers. The barbershop’s location on Ulitsa Maroseyka, very near Red Square and the Kremlin, was also a factor in its popularity, since besides being near the center of politics, it was also near the most important tourist site in Russia, where thousands of people pass through every day.

“What are we doing here?” James Phelps asked Rafael for the hundredth time, tired, feeling dirty and out of place, like a refugee who’d left his home.

Rafael, Sarah, and Phelps were in Ulitsa Maroseyka, next to a souvenir shop in front of the Ivanovsky barbershop. Sarah no longer bothered to ask questions. This was Rafael’s way. There was nothing to do.

“I’m going to get a shave. You can stay here. You can go in the shop and buy a souvenir to take with you,” he said.

Without another word Rafael crossed the street and entered the barbershop. The chime of the bell could be heard announcing a customer.

Sarah and Phelps didn’t have time to react, and, in spite of Phelps taking a step in the direction of the barbershop, Sarah stopped him by grabbing his arm.

“Let him go. If he wanted to go alone it’s because that’s how it has to be,” she told him.

“It can’t be, Sarah.” There was irritation in his voice. “We can’t be left out of this. It affects us, too.”

“If you want to go, go. I’ll stay here.” She preferred not to know what he’d gone to do, even if it had something to do with her.

Feeling authorized, Phelps started toward the barbershop, leaving her alone. There are no longer gentlemen like in the old days, and even then it was necessary to be cautious of them.

It was surprising that no one had stopped them since they arrived, not only with Barnes hot on their trail but primarily because a Russian agent had died in her house. It was more than probable the Russian Secret Service was watching their movements, so why had no one appeared? She’d asked herself that question more times than Phelps had asked Rafael what they were doing in Moscow. It was three in the afternoon. They’d traveled all night with a refueling layover in Sofia, where Rafael had mysteriously disappeared for a half hour. They had resumed the flight as soon as he returned and landed at Domodedovo a little after midday. That was the story of her day that brought her to the door of the souvenir shop in front of the Ivanovsky barbershop. She just hoped Rafael wouldn’t be long.

Inside the shop we can see Phelps looking for Rafael, with no sign of him. The establishment is long and narrow with mirrors and barber chairs on the two sides. Most of them are occupied by the male customers the shop serves, not out of prejudice but rather preference. Phelps listened to the opening and shutting of scissors or clippers, according to the customer’s desire. He didn’t see Rafael anywhere.

“Would you like a haircut, sir?” an employee asked in Russian, his chair just now unoccupied.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Russian,” Phelps answered in English.

“No problem. We all speak English,” the Ivanovsky owner put in, a man the same age as Phelps, well preserved, scissors in hand, doing a straight cut in the chair in front. He might be the owner, but he worked just like everybody else.

“Ah, yes?” Phelps didn’t know what to say.

“Do you want a haircut?” the employee asked again, now in English.

“The truth is I’m looking for a friend who has come for one. A European, Italian to be more specific.”

“Most people here are Europeans,” Ivanovsky interjected again. Nothing went on in his shop without his noticing it. Eccentric, with a fine mustache and proud look, face full of talcum powder, rosy cheeks, he added, “Even most of the barbers are French, recruited from the best coiffeurs in Paris.”

“Good. I’ll come back when I need a haircut. I promise.” Phelps was evasive and insecure.

“Next time,” the employee agreed, tired of the conversation. An empty chair was no money coming in. Two seconds later the chair was occupied by a well-fed aristocrat in a black-and-white-striped suit, dark brown hair gathered into a ponytail the barber loosened, a goatee and Russian mustache.

“Take a look around, mister,” Ivanovsky invited Phelps.

“Thanks.”

The Englishman walked along the straight hallway looking at the mirrors on both sides. It’d be easier to recognize Rafael if he looked at them. They created a certain confusion in his mind from all the mirrors and people reflected in them into infinity. Considering them all, he saw that Rafael was not in any of the barber chairs or in the waiting room on the side.

At the back of the salon there were stairs leading to the basement and an old elevator with an open, wrought-iron door. He paused uncertainly for a few moments between the stairs and the elevator wondering whether to enter or walk down.

“You don’t see him?” Ivanovsky asked. He must have finished with another customer.

“No, strange as it seems,” Phelps replied with a timid smile.

“Maybe he’s gone down to the museum,” the Russian suggested.

“Do you think?” He felt a little fear.

“If you don’t see him in the salon and are certain he’s here…” the other explained, “that’s the only place he can be.” He took one of Phelps’s arms and pushed him gently into the elevator. “This way, it’s quicker.”

Before he could react, Phelps found himself inside the elevator cabin, and it took him some time to realize there was no control panel to operate. Ivanovsky closed the grate and looked at him from the other side, like a jailer.

“Be careful. There’s not much light down there.”