Moscow Rules

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