by Daniel Silva
“What happened to Mr. Crenshaw?” asked Gabriel. “Did he run off with another woman?”
“Deceased, I’m afraid.”
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
“Yes,” Olga agreed. “I settled here in Norwich a few months after the funeral. It isn’t Oxford, mind you, but East Anglia is one of the better plateglass universities. Ishiguro studied creative writing here.”
“The Remains of the Day is one of my favorite novels.”
“I’ve read it ten times at least. Poor Stevens. Such a tragic figure.”
Gabriel wondered whether Olga, perhaps unconsciously, was referring to herself. She had paid a terrible price for her journalistic opposition to the kleptomaniacal cabal of former KGB officers who had seized control of Russia. Like thousands of other dissidents before her, she had chosen exile. Hers was harsher than most. She had no lover because a lover could not be trusted. She had no children because children could be targeted by her enemies. She was alone in the world.
She eyed Gabriel over the rim of her mug. “I read about your recent promotion in the newspapers. You’ve become quite the celebrity.”
“Fame has its drawbacks.”
“Especially for a spy.” Her gaze shifted to Sarah. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Bancroft?”
Sarah smiled but said nothing.
“Are you still working for the CIA?” asked Olga. “Or have you found honest work?”
“I’m managing an art gallery in St. James’s.”
“I suppose that answers my question.” Olga turned to Gabriel. “And your wife? She’s well, I hope.”
“Never better.”
“Children?”
“Two.”
Her expression brightened. “How old?”
“They’ll soon be five.”
“Twins no less! How lucky you are, Gabriel Allon.”
“Luck had very little to do with it. Chiara and I would never have made it out of Russia alive were it not for Viktor.”
“And now Viktor is dead.” She lowered her voice. “Which is why you came to see me again after all these years.”
Gabriel made no reply.
“The Metropolitan Police have been rather circumspect about the details of Viktor’s murder.”
“With good reason.”
“Have they identified the toxin?”
“Novichok. It was concealed in a parcel of documents.”
“And who gave these documents to Viktor?”
“A reporter from the Gazeta.”
“Was it Nina, by any chance?”
“How did you know?”
Olga smiled sadly. “Perhaps we should start from the beginning, Mr. Golani.”
“Yes, Professor Crenshaw. Perhaps we should.”
9
Bishopsgate, Norwich
On April 25, 2005, Russia’s president declared the collapse of the Soviet Union to be “the greatest geopolitical catastrophe” of the twentieth century. Olga worked late into the evening on the Gazeta’s editorial response, which accurately predicted the onset of a new cold war and the end of Russian democracy. Afterward, she and a few colleagues gathered at Bar NKVD, a neighborhood watering hole located around the corner from the Gazeta’s offices in the Sokol district of Moscow. As was often the case, they were watched over by a pair of leather-jacketed thugs from the FSB, who made little effort to conceal their presence.
The mood that night was funereal. One of Olga’s colleagues, a man named Aleksandr Lubin, became roaring drunk and unwisely picked a fight with the FSB officers. He was saved from a beating only by the intervention of a young freelance journalist who occasionally frequented Bar NKVD. The Gazeta’s editor in chief was so impressed by her bravery he offered her a job as a staff reporter.
“Perhaps you remember him,” said Olga. “His name was Boris Ostrovsky.”
Like many Russian journalists, Ostrovsky’s career had ended violently. Injected with a Russian poison while crossing St. Peter’s Square, he had collapsed in the basilica a few minutes later, at the foot of the Monument to Pope Pius XII. Gabriel’s face was the last he ever saw.
“And you’re sure it was Aleksandr who picked the fight with the FSB officers and not the other way around?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because if I wanted to penetrate a meddlesome news organization, I might have done it exactly the same way.”
“Nina? An FSB officer?”
“Actually, the British are under the impression she works for the SVR. They think she’s back at Moscow Center waiting for the Tsar to hang a medal round her neck.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I’m more interested in your opinion.”
“Nina Antonova is no one’s spy. She’s an excellent reporter and a superb writer. I should know. Boris told me to take her under my wing.”
“She looked up to you?”
“She worshipped me.”
Olga reminded Gabriel that in the months following Boris Ostrovsky’s assassination, she had served as the Gazeta’s editor in chief, a title she relinquished after fleeing Russia and settling in Britain. The Kremlin engineered the sale of the Gazeta to an associate of the Russian president, and the once authoritative political weekly became a scandal sheet filled with stories about Russian pop stars, men from outer space, and werewolves inhabiting the forests outside Moscow. Nina was summarily fired by the new owner, along with several other members of the staff, but she returned to the Gazeta after it was acquired by Viktor Orlov. Her first story exposed a large construction project on the shore of the Black Sea, a billion-dollar presidential retreat financed with funds illegally diverted from Russia’s Federal Treasury.
“The minute that story appeared, Nina’s life was in danger. It was only a matter of time before the Tsar ordered the FSB to kill her.”
“Eighteen shots at close range outside the Ritz-Carlton on Tverskaya Street,” said Gabriel. “And yet she walked away without so much as a scratch.”
“You’re wondering whether the attack was staged?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“What about the three innocent bystanders who were killed?”
“Since when does Russian intelligence worry about innocent bystanders?” Receiving no answer, Gabriel asked, “Were you in contact with Nina after you came to Britain?”
“Yes.”
“And when she settled in Zurich?”
Olga nodded.
“Did you ever meet with her?”
“Only once. It was during Viktor’s seventieth birthday party at his estate in Somerset. All the beautiful people were there. Fifteen hundred of Viktor’s closest friends. I suspect half of them were Russian intelligence officers. It was a miracle he survived the night.”
“How often did you see him?”
“Not often. It was too dangerous. We communicated mainly by encrypted text messages and emails. Occasionally, we spoke on the telephone.”
“When was the last time?”
“I believe it was late April or perhaps early May. Viktor had come into possession of some interesting documents concerning a Swiss-based company known as Omega Holdings. Omega owns companies and other assets valued at several billion dollars, all carefully hidden beneath layer upon layer of shell corporations, many of them registered in countries such as Liechtenstein, Dubai, Panama, and the Cayman Islands. Viktor was convinced that Omega was being used by a prominent Russian for the purposes of laundering looted state assets and concealing them in the West.”
“And Viktor would know a thing or two about looting state assets.”
Olga gave a fleeting smile. “He was far from perfect, our Viktor. But he was committed to a free and democratic Russia, a decent Russia that was aligned with the West rather than at war with it.”
“Did he know the identity of the prominent Russian?”
“He said he didn’t.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Not quite.”
; “Who could it be?”
“I could recite the names of a hundred possible candidates off the top of my head. They would run the gamut from senior government officials to Kremlin-connected businessmen and mobsters.”
“Did Viktor tell you where he got the documents?”
“They were given to him by Nina.”
“Was he at all concerned about their authenticity?”
“If he was, he never raised it. Therefore, I assume he believed the documents to be genuine.”
“So why did Nina fly to London Wednesday night and give Viktor a package of documents contaminated with Novichok? And why was he foolish enough to open it?”
“Obviously, he trusted her. But I’m certain she had nothing to do with Viktor’s death. Nina is a pawn in a much larger game, which means her life is in danger.”
“All the more reason why we need to find her as quickly as possible.” Gabriel paused, then asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know where she is, would you, Olga?”
“No,” she answered. “But I know someone who might.”
“Who?”
“George-dot-Wickham at Outlook-dot-Com.”
She rose without another word and entered the cottage. When she returned, she was clutching a MacBook Pro, which she placed on the table before Gabriel. On the screen was a Gmail account for someone named Elizabeth Bennet.
“I learned to speak English by reading Jane Austen,” she explained. “Pride and Prejudice is my favorite novel.”
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know. Not GCHQ and certainly not the Spetssviaz.”
“What’s the alternative? Total digital isolation?”
“How many people have the address?”
“Seven or eight, including Nina. But yesterday afternoon I received an email from an Outlook address I didn’t recognize.” She pointed out the entry in the in-box. “The conniving George Wickham. A wastrel, a scoundrel, a compulsive gambler. Only a close friend would know to use his name.”
The email had arrived at 11:37 a.m. on Thursday, approximately twelve hours after Nina’s flight arrived in Amsterdam. Gabriel opened it and read the text. It was a single sentence, written in the stilted, dated tone of an early-nineteenth-century novel of manners.
I would be most grateful if you would advise your British friends that I had nothing at all to do with the unpleasantness last evening in Chelsea.
“Did you realize it was from Nina?”
“Not at first. But I was fairly certain the unpleasantness to which the author was referring was Viktor’s murder.”
“What did you do?”
“Check my out-box.”
Gabriel clicked sent. At 11:49 a.m. Olga had replied with a single sentence of her own.
Who is this?
The answer arrived two hours later.
S . . .
Gabriel clicked the reply icon and began to type.
Please tell me where you are. A friend of mine will help you.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s not exactly Austenian prose, but it will do.”
Gabriel fired the email into the ether and stared at the screen. The waiting, he thought. Always the waiting.
Olga fetched a bottle of wine from the fridge and switched on some music on the MacBook. The wine was a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand, crisp and delicious. The music was Rachmaninoff’s remarkable collection of preludes in all twenty-four major and minor keys. When lives were at stake, Olga declared, only a Russian soundtrack would do.
When an hour passed with no response, she grew anxious. To distract herself, she spoke of Russia, which only darkened her mood. The Russian president, she lamented, was now truly a tsar in everything but name. A recent sham referendum had given him the constitutional authority to remain in power until 2036. All peaceful means of dissent had been eliminated, and the Kremlin-authorized opposition parties were a farce.
“They are a Potemkin village to create the illusion of democracy. They are useful idiots.”
When another half hour had passed without a reply, Olga suggested they order something to eat. Gabriel rang an Indian takeaway on Wensum Street and twenty minutes later collected the food curbside. On the way back to Bishopsgate, he saw no sign of surveillance, British or Russian. Entering the garden, he found Olga seated before the open laptop, with Sarah peering over her shoulder.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Still in Amsterdam,” replied Olga. “She wants to know the identity of the friend who’d like to help her.”
“Does she know that I was the one who brought you out of Russia?”
Olga hesitated, then nodded.
“Go ahead.”
Olga typed the message and clicked send. Three minutes later the MacBook pinged with Nina’s reply. “She’ll meet you at the Van Gogh Museum tomorrow afternoon at two.”
“Perhaps she could be a bit more specific.”
Olga posed the question. The reply arrived at once. Gabriel smiled as he read it.
Sunflowers . . .
10
London City Airport–Amsterdam
“The adorable couple,” said Christopher Keller. “Imagine meeting the two of you here, of all places.”
He was rummaging through a cabinet in the forward galley of Gabriel’s Gulfstream G550, which was parked on the floodlit tarmac of London City Airport. Gabriel and Sarah had driven there directly from Norwich. The night manager at the FBO had neglected to mention that a business consultant who went by the name Peter Marlowe had already boarded the aircraft, doubtless because Mr. Marlowe had indicated he worked for the secretive firm based in the large office building at the foot of Vauxhall Bridge.
He opened another cabinet. “I remember when you had to rely on the kindness of strangers when you needed a private plane. Though one wonders how you possibly manage without cabin staff.”
“Looking for something?” asked Gabriel.
“A bit of whisky to take the edge off my day. It needn’t be anything premium, mind you. Monsieur Walker will do nicely. Black Label, if you have it.”
“I don’t. But there’s wine in the fridge.”
“French, I hope.”
“Israeli, actually.”
Christopher sighed. He was dressed for the office in a dark suit and tie. His Burberry overcoat lay on a seat in the passenger compartment, along with a smart-looking Prada overnight bag.
“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?” asked Gabriel.
“The Secret Intelligence Service and our brethren from across the river routinely monitor the status of private aircraft used by visiting foreign dignitaries and assorted international troublemakers. Therefore, we were understandably intrigued when your crew filed a flight plan and reserved a departure slot for ten thirty p.m.” Christopher opened the refrigerator and withdrew an open bottle of Israeli sauvignon blanc. “Why Amsterdam?”
“I’m fond of cities with canals.”
Christopher removed the cork and sniffed. “Try again.”
“I’m bringing Nina Antonova in from the cold.”
“And what exactly are you planning to do with her?”
“That depends entirely on what she has to say.”
“Graham would like to be present for her debriefing.”
“Would he?”
“He’d also like it to take place on British soil.”
“I was the one who found her.”
“With the help of an exiled Russian journalist residing in Britain under our protection. Not to mention my live-in partner and companion.” He poured a glass of the wine and handed it to Sarah. “And unless your fancy new aircraft is given clearance to take off, you’re not going anywhere.”
“I think I liked you better when you were a contract killer.”
“I’d be careful if I were you. I have a feeling you’re going to need someone like me before this is over.”
“I can look after myself.”
Christopher glanced around the in
terior of the luxuriously appointed cabin. “I’ll say.”
They spent the night in separate rooms in the De L’Europe Amsterdam and in the morning took coffee and pastries like three socially distant strangers downstairs on the terrace. Afterward, Christopher departed the hotel alone and walked to the Van Gogh Museum, home of the world’s largest collection of Vincent’s paintings and drawings.
Ordinarily, the museum could accommodate six thousand patrons daily, but coronavirus restrictions had reduced the number to just 750. Christopher purchased two tickets, slipped one into his pocket, and handed the other to the attendant at the door.
In the foyer a uniformed security guard directed him toward an airport-style magnetometer. Having left his weapon at the hotel, he passed through the contraption without objection. The modern glass lobby was eerily quiet. He drank a coffee at the espresso bar, then headed upstairs to an exhibition room devoted to Vincent’s work in the French town of Arles, where he lived from February 1888 to May 1889.
The room’s most popular attraction was the iconic Sunflowers, oil on canvas, 95 by 73 centimeters. The painting’s information placard made no mention of the fact that several years earlier it had been stolen by a pair of professional thieves in what Amsterdam’s police chief described as the finest example of a smash-and-grab heist he had ever seen. The thieves turned the painting over to an operative of Israeli intelligence, who produced a perfect copy in an apartment overlooking the Seine in Paris—a copy that Christopher, posing as an underworld figure named Reg Bartholomew, sold to a Syrian middleman for twenty-five million euros. The original was discovered in an Amsterdam hotel room four months after its disappearance. Curiously, it was in better condition than when it was pinched.