He studied the car out of the corner of his eye, noting its wide, reinforced pillars and the slight distortion of its thick windows. As he watched, the driver, wearing a wireless headpiece, emerged from behind the wheel, leaving the engine running, and went around to open the rear passenger door.
As soon as the door was open, a slim, tanned man emerged from the building, talking into a mobile phone. He was in his fifties, conservatively but expensively dressed, a Halliburton briefcase in his left hand. A second man in a charcoal suit followed one step behind.
Ilya watched as they crossed the sidewalk. He recognized the first man from photographs, but was more interested in the figure behind him. The second man was dark and muscular, with something of a wrestler’s stance and quickness. As he headed for the car, he swept his eyes up and down the street, his gaze lighting briefly on Ilya, then moving on to the rest of the square.
If anything was going to happen, it would happen now. Ilya watched, his gun at the ready, as the first man slid into the rear of the car, leaving the door open. Even as he pretended to read the text on the kiosk, he remained intensely aware of his surroundings, a sensation he remembered well from his old life, the level of intention and clarity required for prayer—
From somewhere to his left came a scream. The second man, who had lowered his head to enter the car, spun in the direction of the noise. Ilya glimpsed an earpiece in the man’s right ear as he turned toward the sound as well, and saw that the girls he had noted earlier were exchanging screeches of greeting with a third. His hand, which had tightened on the paper bag, relaxed.
Seeing that the shriek was a false alarm, the second man slid into the rear of the car. The driver closed the passenger’s door, then went back around and got behind the wheel. A second later, as they pulled away from the curb, Ilya watched as the car carrying James Morley, senior activist manager of the Cheshire Group, headed for the corner and disappeared.
As soon as the car was gone, Ilya turned and left the bicycle docking station, his pulse easing. He had spent much of the past few days in the reading room of the British Library, looking into Morley’s investments, and had been struck by what he had found. Studying the financial statements and magazine profiles, he had received an impression of an intelligent businessman, investor, and chess player, but one whose entire career was based on a fundamental misunderstanding.
According to published reports, Cheshire had over two billion dollars of capital under management, down from three billion before the downturn. Most of it, as far as Ilya could tell from public filings, was invested in Russia, India, and other emerging markets. Yet Russia was not simply another emerging economy making its way to a more stable form of capitalism. It was, in fact, something altogether different, a vast machine concerned only with maintaining its own power, and to treat it as anything else was to misread the situation entirely.
Of course, such a mistake was easy to understand. It was tempting to assume that Russia operated by the same principles as the rest of the world, and that one could deal with it as one would approach any other rational government. The real question was whether Morley, after finally glimpsing the country’s true nature, was now seeking a solution outside the rules.
As Ilya turned and headed across the square, he found himself thinking of his own ancestors. For a certain kind of Jew, the earthly regime was a reflection of the kingdom of heaven. Moses, they said, treated even Pharaoh with respect, and to rebel against the state was a crime deserving of death.
The result had been a widespread submission to a policy of spiritual strangulation. Russia rarely had any use for the Jews, but it had decided that it was more important to control and contain them than to assimilate them entirely. Faced with such official disregard, most had tried to survive on the state’s terms, including his own parents, who had made the long journey from Chita to Moscow without seeing that this merely drew them deeper into the game.
Hence the wisdom of those who had chosen instead to exile themselves in the Torah. There had never been very many, but they had been grudgingly tolerated by the state, which had failed to grasp their true significance. Once you allowed one group to set itself apart, others would inevitably follow. And the one thing that these first tentative movements had in common, for all their visible differences, was nothing more revolutionary than the study of Hebrew.
As Ilya walked along the square, which was empty aside from the teenage girls and a man taking pictures of the king’s statue, he found himself missing his books. In his rented room, he had kept the shelves bare, as if books themselves were a sign of weakness. Yet they had also been a source of strength for greater men, which was something he could never allow himself to forget.
Ilya hefted the bag in his hands, feeling the weight of the gun. He knew that tomorrow would be difficult, and that it would be easier to call the police. In the end, though, he also knew that one system could not be brought down by another. The broken vessels could only be restored by one man working in solitude. And it made no difference whether the man himself was shattered in the process.
Regardless of what happened tomorrow, he thought, tonight would be one of the last quiet moments he would ever have. Perhaps, then, it was best to spend it in a way that honored what he still saw as the fundamental realities.
As he headed across the square, caught up in these thoughts, he nearly bumped into the man who was taking pictures of the statue. Ilya stopped short, then continued on his way, apologizing. “Excuse me.”
The photographer stood aside, lowering his camera. “Not at all,” said Karvonen.
16
“I just don’t see how anyone so smart could get into that much debt,” Asthana said, glancing over the newspaper’s inside page. “It says she owed half a million pounds to a shady art fund, which stands to get the rights to all her work if she defaults. Now she’s picked up and left town. Not even her best friends know where she’s gone, unless she’s thrown herself off a bridge. Want to see?”
Asthana handed the paper to Wolfe, who skimmed it briefly before sliding it onto the already cluttered dashboard. Looking at the head shot of Renata Russell that illustrated the story, her first reaction was a very Mormon disapproval at the idea of so much debt, a reminder of how much her identity was still tied up with the Church, as perhaps it always would be.
They were parked on a side street in Golders Green, on a quiet corner that gave them a good view of the Steinberg Centre. Wolfe had been watching the front gate for a week and a half. Every day after work, she would duck out early and sit here for hours until the bookstore inside closed. In order to go through the main entrance, you had to sign in with a guard at the desk, and although she had considered involving the security team directly, she had finally decided against it.
At first, she hadn’t told anyone at the office, either, but when it became too hard to obtain an agency car, she had convinced Asthana to let her use the Peugeot instead. Now, as the light grew too faint to read small print, Asthana exchanged the newspaper for a bridal magazine as thick as a phone directory. “Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been doing this every day.”
Wolfe reached into the backseat for a cup of lime gelatin, which was her preferred sustenance on a stakeout, along with copious amounts of diet soda. “I don’t mind work like this, if it’s for a good reason. Of course, unlike a few officers I could mention, I don’t plan on making a career of it.”
Asthana turned down the corner of the current page, which displayed a dress by Dior. “Do I detect a dig at Powell?”
Wolfe peeled back the foil from the gelatin cup, then scooped up a green spoonful. “It isn’t a dig. It’s an observation. The more I get to know him, the more I think he’s exactly where he wants to be.” She popped the spoon into her mouth. “I’ve been watching Alan for years, and you know what I’ve decided? He’s afraid of answers. All he wants are questions. And if that’s al
l you need, then Russia is the country of your dreams. You never get to the bottom of it, no matter how much you try.”
“I know. The irregular verbs alone will kill you. And you don’t approve, I take it?”
Wolfe finished the gelatin cup. “I don’t want to find myself alone at forty because I spent my life chasing shadows. Which isn’t to say that I won’t end up alone anyway. But at least I’ll have had a career. Otherwise, I might as well have listened to my mother and had six babies in Provo.”
“I have some bad news for you. Sooner or later, we all become our parents.” Asthana closed the magazine. “Have you talked to her?”
Wolfe smiled tightly. “I’m screening her calls. Clearly I’m the daughter of the year.”
She tried to keep her tone offhand, but in fact, this was the longest she had ever gone without calling her mother. Wolfe knew that her silence was only making things worse, but even so, she wanted to put off this particular conversation for as long as possible, ideally forever.
Asthana glanced out the window. “Join the club. I don’t think my mother even knows what I do for a living, except—”
She broke off. Wolfe followed her eyes. Coming up the sidewalk, heading for the entrance to the Steinberg Centre, was a man in a long coat, a paper bag in one hand. It was Ilya Severin.
“Oh, shit.” Asthana’s bridal magazine fell to the floor. “What do we do now?”
Wolfe sat upright, staring, as Ilya went through the gate. Even now, she couldn’t believe that her hunch had paid off. A second later, he was gone, as if his appearance had been nothing but her imagination, and she finally found her voice. “Call Powell. Tell him we’ve found our man.”
Opening her door, she slid out. Asthana watched in disbelief. “What are you doing?”
“Checking out the situation,” Wolfe said, feeling as if she were observing her own actions from a distance. “Wait here.”
Wolfe closed the door. Her heart was still clocking away, so she had to remind herself to follow her own advice and take this one step at a time. Going to the curb, she waited for a car to pass, then crossed the street.
Just inside the entrance, a guard was seated behind the counter, images from security cameras displayed on a bank of monitors. Before he could say a word, Wolfe took out her warrant card and held it up, a finger on her lips. Then she pointed to the door that led into the Steinberg Centre itself. Behind his glasses, the guard’s eyes widened, but then he seemed to understand, and nodded.
Turning away, Wolfe went through the second door, which led to an enclosed courtyard. Up ahead was the bookstore, which she approached with caution. At the entrance, a bargain bin was piled high with moldering volumes. Beyond this, a window in the closed door looked into the store’s interior.
Wolfe peeked inside, seeing rows of shelves, tables heaped with leather-bound books, and racks crowded with menorahs and dreidels. A man was standing before one of the bookcases, studying the spines, his back turned to her. It was Ilya. She had crossed paths with him just twice before, and only once from up close, so it was strangely unsettling to see him like this.
It was hard to guess his age, but he seemed under forty. A dark suit and coat. His face was nondescript and lean, his figure gaunt, with a student’s slender fingers and wrists. From this angle, she could not see his eyes, but from their one previous encounter, she remembered them as the most striking thing about his appearance, penetrating and almost black.
A moment later, he began to turn aside from the shelf he was studying. Before he could turn all the way, Wolfe took a step back, bringing her out of sight of the door. She waited for another second to see whether he would emerge, then withdrew and went back to the security desk.
The guard was standing behind the counter, awaiting her return. “What’s going on?”
Wolfe indicated one of the monitors, on which Ilya was visible from above. “The man in the bookshop. You recognize him?”
The guard turned to study the screen. “Don’t think so. Not sure if he’s been around before. What’s he done, then?”
Wolfe ignored the question. “Is there another way out from the bookstore?”
The guard shook his head. “No, this is the only way in or out. If he wants to leave, he needs to get past me.”
“All right. Give me the number for your phone.” Wolfe waited as the guard wrote it down, then took the scrap of paper, saying, “I’m going to be watching from across the street. When he leaves, just let him go. Don’t let on that anything is out of the ordinary. Can you do that?”
“Yes, of course.” The guard seemed nervous. “Tell me, though, is he dangerous?”
“No,” Wolfe lied. Then she left the security counter and headed back to the street.
At the curb, she paused as another car passed, its headlights slicing through the night. As she went to where Asthana was parked, it occurred to her that she had forgotten to see what name Ilya had used to sign in.
In the car, Asthana had a phone to her ear. As Wolfe opened the door, Asthana said, “She’s back. I’m putting you on speakerphone.”
Asthana set the phone on the dashboard. A second later, Powell’s disembodied voice emerged. “What the hell is going on?”
Wolfe climbed inside and pulled the door shut. “It’s Ilya. He’s in the bookstore now. We’re keeping an eye on the only way out. I’ve told the guard to let him go if he tries to leave.”
Asthana opened her own door. “Look, I say we grab him. We can handle one man—”
Wolfe put a hand on her arm. “Wait. We don’t know if he’s armed or not. He’s carrying something in a bag. I couldn’t tell what it was.”
After a beat, Asthana shut her door, and Powell’s voice came over the phone again. “I agree. I’m not authorizing an arrest without backup. I can have an armed mobile team out there in ten minutes.”
“Hold on,” Wolfe said forcefully. “You’re missing the point. I don’t think we should grab him at all. If we take him now, we won’t know what he’s planning. It’s better to follow him and see where he goes—”
A flurry of heated debate ensued. Wolfe kept an eye on the gate across the street, afraid that Ilya would reappear at any moment. After a second, she managed to retain control of the conversation. “Listen to me. The two of us can follow him. Asthana, you can shadow him on foot, in case he gets on a train or bus. And I can track you both from the car.”
Even as she spoke, she saw a darkened figure emerge from the Steinberg Centre. A couple of books were tucked into the crook of his arm, and the bag was still in his other hand.
“Shit,” Wolfe said, swearing without realizing it. She turned back to the phone. “He’s leaving. If we’re going to do anything, we need to do it right now. Powell, you’re the lead officer. You make the call.”
Silence on the other end. Wolfe and Asthana watched as Ilya continued up the street. Every step, Wolfe knew, took him farther out of reach, and if they lost him now, they might never find him again.
At last, Powell spoke. “All right. Listen carefully. Here’s what we’re going to do—”
17
The following morning, at a few minutes before eleven, Ilya emerged from the train at Kensington. Above the outdoor platform, outlined against the sky, a barrel roof loomed in the distance. Ilya regarded it for a moment, then headed toward the exit, along with the remaining passengers. Over his shoulder was slung a bag containing one of his recently purchased books, although he did not expect to need it. Under his coat he carried the gun from Brodsky’s flat.
It was only a short walk to his destination. Crossing the street, Ilya continued along the sidewalk, moving parallel to the Grand Hall of the Olympia exhibition center. It was a soaring event space of red brick and stone dressings, the roof fashioned of iron and glass. On any other day, he might have paused to study it more closely, but at th
e moment, his attention was fixed on a second building up the road, which was where most of his fellow passengers were going.
At last, he arrived at the conference center, an Art Deco block of gray stone. Arrivals in ones and twos were already passing through the doors facing the sidewalk, but instead of heading inside at once, Ilya went to the other side of the street and entered the grocery store across the way.
Picking up a basket from the rack by the door, he pretended to shop, moving slowly down the nearest aisle. He took a box at random, then glanced through the window, which disclosed a view of the conference center. A flock of schoolchildren in polo shirts was being led inside by a teacher in a white blouse. Farther up the block stood a pair of traffic officers in peaked caps and fluorescent vests. Otherwise, there did not seem to be any police.
He watched and waited for another fifteen minutes, occasionally taking another item from the shelves and placing it in his basket. Then, just as he was beginning to fear that he had been mistaken about the timing, he saw a familiar town car pull up at the opposite curb.
A second later, the driver slid out and opened the rear door. James Morley emerged, carrying a silver briefcase and a rolled tournament program, followed by his bodyguard. The two men exchanged a few words with the driver, who nodded and got back behind the wheel. After a moment, the car pulled into the street, driving away as Morley and his bodyguard went into the building.
As soon as they were inside, Ilya left the grocery store, abandoning his basket on the floor of the nearest aisle. He quickly crossed the street, moving past the two traffic officers. As he joined the throng heading into the center, he did not see the white van parked around the corner.
Passing the security desk, where a single guard was seated, he followed the other attendees to the elevator bay, where he went up to the third floor. When the doors opened, he stepped out into the lobby, and found himself in the middle of the London Chess Classic.
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