The English Girl: A Novel

by Daniel Silva

  41

  MAYFAIR, LONDON

  The offices of Viktor Orlov Investments, LLC, occupied four floors of a luxury Mayfair office block, not far from the American Embassy. When Nicholas Avedon arrived there early the next morning, the entire senior staff of the firm was waiting in the main conference room to greet him. Orlov made a few brief remarks, followed by a round of hasty introductions, all of which were unnecessary because Mikhail had memorized the names and faces of Orlov’s team during his preparation at the safe house in Surrey.

  If they had expected him to ease into the job slowly, they were sadly mistaken. Because within an hour of settling into his new corner office overlooking Hanover Square, he had begun a top-to-bottom review of VOI’s lucrative investments in the energy field. Never mind that he had conducted the same review already within the walls of the safe house, or that his insightful findings had already been written for him by Victor Orlov. The review sent a signal to the rest of the staff that Nicholas Avedon was not a man to be taken lightly. He had been brought to VOI to do a job. And heaven help the fool who tried to stand in his way.

  His days quickly acquired a strict routine. He would arrive at his desk early, having read the morning business journals and checked the Asian markets, and then spend an hour or two with his spreadsheets and charts before joining the morning senior staff meeting, which was always held in Orlov’s spacious office. He tended to keep his own counsel during large gatherings, but when he did choose to speak, his remarks set new standards for brevity. Most days he lunched alone. Then he would labor at his desk until seven or eight, when he would return to the spacious flat Gabriel had rented for him in Maida Vale. Housekeeping had taken a smaller flat in the building across the street as well. Whenever Mikhail was at home, a member of the team watched over him. And when he was at work, a high-resolution video camera with a secure transmitter kept a vigil for them.

  As it turned out, Volgatek was watching him, too. Gabriel and the team knew this because Unit 1400 had finally managed to break into Volgatek’s computer network, and they were now reading the e-mail of top company executives almost in real time. The name Nicholas Avedon featured prominently in several—including one sent by Gennady Lazarev to Pavel Zhirov, Volgatek’s faceless security chief, requesting a background check. Nicholas Avedon was now a flashing light on Volgatek’s radar screen. It was time, said Gabriel, to make him burn a little brighter.

  The next morning, Nicholas Avedon presented the findings of his review to Viktor Orlov and the entire team at VOI. Orlov declared them brilliant, which was hardly a surprise, since he had conceived and written them himself. Over the next few days, he undertook a series of bold market moves, all of which had been long in the planning, that radically altered VOI’s position in the global energy sector. During a whirlwind round of print and broadcast interviews, Orlov called it “energy for the twenty-second century and beyond”—and whenever possible, he gave credit to the plan’s nominal architect: Nicholas Avedon. The moneymen from the City liked what they saw of Orlov’s young protégé. And so, it seemed, did KGB Oil & Gas.

  They had demonstrated competence on the part of Nicholas Avedon. Now it was time to reveal the level to which Viktor Orlov had grown dependent upon him. Stock analysts and middle managers, said Gabriel, were a dime a dozen. Gennady Lazarev would make a play for Nicholas Avedon for one reason and one reason only—in order to screw his former mentor and business partner.

  And so began what the team described as the Viktor and Nicholas Follies. For the next two weeks, they were inseparable. They lunched together, dined together, and wherever Viktor went in public, Nicholas was at his side. On several occasions he was seen leaving Orlov’s Cheyne Walk mansion late in the evening, and he spent a weekend relaxing at Orlov’s sprawling Berkshire estate, a perquisite bestowed upon no other employee of the firm. As their relationship grew closer, tensions began to rise inside VOI’s Mayfair headquarters. Orlov’s other division chiefs didn’t like the fact that Nicholas Avedon began sitting in on what were usually one-on-one meetings with the boss—or that Avedon was often seen whispering advice into Viktor’s cocked ear. A few of the other staff declared open war on him, but most trimmed their sails accordingly. Avedon was besieged with invitations for after-work drinks and working dinners. He turned them all down. Viktor, he said, required his full attention.

  Next they took the Follies on a tour of the Continent. There was the business forum in Paris, where they were dazzling. And the gathering of Swiss bankers in Geneva, where they couldn’t put a foot wrong. And the rather tense meeting in Madrid with the CEO of an Orlov-owned pipeline company, who was given six months to show a profit or he would find himself looking for another job, along with the rest of Spain.

  Finally, they flew to Budapest for a meeting of business and government leaders from the so-called emerging markets of Eastern Europe. Gazprom, the Russian gas giant, sent a representative to assure those present that they had nothing to fear from their overdependence on Russian energy, that the Kremlin would never dream of turning off the spigot as a means of imposing its will on the lost lands of its former empire. That evening, at a cocktail reception held on the banks of the Danube, the man from Gazprom introduced himself to Nicholas Avedon and found, much to his surprise, that he spoke fluent Russian. Clearly, the Gazprom executive was impressed by what he heard, because a few minutes after the encounter an e-mail arrived in Gennady Lazarev’s in-box. Gabriel and the team read it even before Lazarev managed to open it. It seemed that Nicholas Avedon was now in play. “Hire him,” said the man from Gazprom. “If you don’t, we will.”

  But how to bring the two sides together so that the relationship could be consummated? Never one to wait by the phone, Gabriel wanted to force the issue by placing Mikhail and Lazarev in close proximity, in a place where they might have a moment or two for a private chat. He saw his chance when Unit 1400 intercepted an e-mail that had been sent to Lazarev by his secretary. The topic was Lazarev’s itinerary for the upcoming Global Energy Forum, the biennial gathering of something called the International Association of Petroleum Producers. Reading it, Gabriel smiled. The Follies were going to Copenhagen. And the Office was going with them.

  42

  COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

  Five anxious days later, the lords of oil began flowing into Copenhagen from the four corners of the earth: Saudis and Emiratis, Azeris and Kazakhs, Brazilians and Venezuelans, Americans and Canadians. The global warming activists were predictably appalled by the gathering, with one group issuing the hysterical claim that the carbon emitted by the conference itself would eventually cause the oceans to swallow a village in Bangladesh. The delegates seemed not to notice. They arrived in Copenhagen aboard private jets and roared through its quaint streets in armored limousines powered by internal combustion engines. Perhaps one day the oil would run out and the planet would grow too hot to sustain human life. But for now at least, the extractors of fossil fuels still reigned supreme.

  The competition for resources in Copenhagen was intense. Dinner reservations were impossible to come by, and the Hotel d’Angleterre, a white luxury liner of a building overlooking the sprawling King’s New Square, was filled to capacity. Viktor Orlov and Mikhail arrived at its graceful entrance in a blinding snowstorm and were escorted by management to a pair of neighboring suites on an upper floor. Mikhail’s contained a platter of Danish treats and a bottle of Dom Pérignon, which was chilling in an ice bucket. The last time he had stayed in a hotel on Office business, he had used the complimentary champagne to inflict an injury on his knee for the sake of his cover. Surely, he thought, his cover for this operation demanded that he partake of a glass or two. As he was removing the cork he heard a discreet knock at the door—curious, because he had hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the latch before generously tipping the bellman. He opened the door slowly and peered over the security bar at the man of medium height and build standing in the corridor. He wore a mid-length woolen coat with a German-style coll
ar and a Tyrolean felt hat. His hair was lush and silver; his eyes brown and bespectacled. A soft-sided leather briefcase, scuffed and weathered, dangled from his right hand.

  “How can I help you?” asked Mikhail.

  “By opening the door,” replied Gabriel softly.

  Mikhail disengaged the security bar, stepped to one side so Gabriel could enter, and then closed the door again quickly. Turning, he saw Gabriel moving slowly about the hotel room with his BlackBerry extended in his right hand. After a moment he nodded at Mikhail to indicate that the room was free of listening devices. Mikhail walked over to the champagne bucket and poured himself a glass of the Dom Pérignon.

  “You?” he asked, waving the bottle in Gabriel’s direction.

  “It gives me a headache.”

  “Me, too.”

  Mikhail lowered his lanky frame onto the couch and propped his feet upon the coffee table, a busy executive weary from a long day of travel and meetings. Gabriel looked around at the lavishly appointed suite and shook his head.

  “I’m glad Viktor is footing the bill for this place,” he said. “Uzi’s already on my back over expenses.”

  “Tell Uzi that I need to be maintained in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”

  “It’s good to know all this success hasn’t gone to your head.”

  Mikhail drank some of the champagne but said nothing.

  “You need to shave.”

  “I shaved this morning,” Mikhail said, rubbing his chin.

  “Not there,” replied Gabriel.

  Mikhail ran a palm over his glistening pate. “You know,” he said, “I’m actually getting used to it. In fact, I’m thinking about adopting it as my look when this operation is over.”

  “You look like an alien, Mikhail.”

  “Better an alien than a character from The Sound of Music.” Mikhail snatched a small shrimp sandwich from the platter and devoured it whole.

  “Since when do you eat shellfish?”

  “Since I became an Englishman of Russian descent who works for an investment company owned by an oligarch named Viktor Orlov.”

  “With a bit of luck,” said Gabriel, “it’s only a stepping stone to bigger and better things.”

  “Inshallah,” said Mikhail, raising his champagne glass in a mock toast. “Have my future employers arrived yet?”

  Gabriel delved into his battered briefcase and withdrew a manila file folder. Inside were three freshly printed color photographs, which he arrayed on the coffee table before Mikhail in the order they had been snapped. They depicted three men descending the airstair of a small private jet and climbing into the back of a waiting limousine. They had been taken from a considerable distance, by a camera fitted with a long lens. Snowfall blurred the image.

  “Who got the pictures?” asked Mikhail.

  “Yossi.”

  “How did he get onto the tarmac?”

  “He has a press pass for the forum,” replied Gabriel. “So does Rimona.”

  “Who are they working for?”

  “An industry newsletter called the Energy Times.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It’s new.”

  Smiling, Mikhail picked up the first photo, the one showing the three figures moving in single file down the airstair. Leading the way, looking nothing at all like the bookish mathematician he had once been, was Gennady Lazarev. A step behind was Dmitry Bershov, Volgatek’s deputy CEO, and behind Bershov was a short, compact man whose face was obscured by the brim of a fedora.

  “Who is he?” asked Mikhail.

  “We haven’t been able to figure that out.”

  Mikhail picked up the second photograph, then the third. In neither was the man’s face visible.

  “He’s rather good, isn’t he?” asked Mikhail.

  “You noticed that, too.”

  “Hard to miss, actually. He knew where the cameras were, and he made certain no one got a good shot of him.” Mikhail dropped the photos onto the coffee table. “Why do you suppose he did that?”

  “The same reason you and I do it.”

  “He works for the Office?”

  “He’s a professional, Mikhail. The real thing. Maybe he’s retired SVR and does it out of habit. But it looks to me as though he’s still on active duty.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “The Hotel Imperial, along with the rest of them. Gennady is rather disappointed with his accommodations.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Mordecai and Oded paid a visit to his room an hour before the Volgatek plane landed, and they left a little something under the night table.”

  “How did you know which room was Lazarev’s?”

  “The Unit hacked into the Imperial’s reservation system.”

  “And the door?”

  “Mordecai has a new magic card key. The door practically opened itself.” Gabriel returned the photographs to the file folder and the folder to the briefcase. “You should know that Gennady has been talking about more than just the quality of his room,” he said after a moment. “He’s obviously looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Any idea when he might make his move?”

  “No,” said Gabriel, shaking his head. “But you should expect it to be subtle.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “You know his name,” said Gabriel, “but not his face.”

  “And if he makes a pass at me?”

  “I’ve always found it best to play hard to get.”

  “And look where it’s gotten you.” Mikhail poured another inch of champagne into his glass but said nothing more.

  “Is there something you wish to say to me, Mikhail?”

  “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  “For what?”

  “Come on, Gabriel. Don’t make me say it out loud.”

  “Say what?”

  “People talk, Gabriel, especially spies. And the talk around King Saul Boulevard is that you’re going to be the next chief.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

  “That’s not what I hear,” Mikhail said. “I hear it’s a done deal.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Gabriel exhaled heavily. “How much does Uzi know?”

  “Uzi knew from the minute he took the job that he was everyone’s second choice.”

  “It’s not something I sought.”

  “I know. And I suspect Uzi knows it, too,” Mikhail added. “But that’s not going to make it any easier when the prime minister tells him he won’t be serving a second term as chief.”

  Mikhail raised his glass to the light and watched the bubbles rising to the surface of his champagne.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Gabriel.

  “The time we were in Zurich, at that little café near the Paradeplatz. It was when we were trying to get Chiara back from Ivan. Do you remember that place, Gabriel? Do you remember what you said to me that afternoon?”

  “I believe I might have told you to marry Sarah Bancroft and leave the Office.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I was just wondering whether you still thought I should leave the Office.”

  Gabriel hesitated before answering. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said at last.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I become the next chief, you have a bright future, Mikhail. Very bright.”

  Mikhail rubbed his scalp. “I need to shave,” he said.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Are you sure you won’t have some of this champagne?”

  “It gives me a headache.”

  “Me, too,” said Mikhail as he poured another glass.

  Before leaving the hotel suite, Gabriel installed a piece of Office software on Mikhail’s mobile phone that turned it into a full-time transmitter and automatically forwarded all his calls, e-mails, and te
xt messages to the team’s computers. Then he headed down to the lobby and spent a few minutes searching for familiar faces amid the crowd of well-lubricated oilmen. Outside the afternoon blizzard had ended, but a few thick flakes were falling lazily through the lamplight. Gabriel headed westward across the city, along a winding pedestrian shopping street known as the Strøget, until he came to the Rådhuspladsen. The bells in the clock tower were tolling six o’clock. He was tempted to pay a visit to the Hotel Imperial, which was located not far from the square, on the fringes of the Tivoli Gardens. Instead, he walked to a despondent-looking apartment building on a street with a name only a Dane could pronounce. As he entered the small flat on the second floor, he found Keller and Eli Lavon hunched over a notebook computer. From its speakers came the sound of three men conversing quietly in Russian.

  “Have you been able to figure out who he is?” asked Gabriel.

  Lavon shook his head. “It’s funny,” he said, “but these Volgatek boys aren’t big on names.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Lavon was about to reply but was stopped by the sound of one of the voices. He was speaking in a low murmur, as though he were standing over an open grave.

  “That’s our boy,” Lavon said. “He always talks like that. Like he assumes someone is listening.”

  “Someone is listening.”

  Lavon smiled. “I sent a sample of his voice to King Saul Boulevard and told them to run it through the computers.”

  “And?”

  “No match.”

  “Forward the sample to Adrian Carter at Langley.”

  “And if Carter asks for an explanation?”

  “Lie to him.”

  Just then, the three Russian oil executives collapsed in uproarious laughter. As Lavon leaned forward to listen, Gabriel moved slowly to the window and peered into the street. It was empty except for a young woman walking along the snowy pavement. She had Madeline’s alabaster skin and Madeline’s cheekbones. Indeed, the resemblance was so startling that for an instant Gabriel felt compelled to run after her. The Russians were still laughing. Surely, thought Gabriel, they were laughing at him. He drew a deep breath to slow the clamorous beating of his heart and watched Madeline’s wraith pass beneath his feet. Then the darkness reclaimed her and she was gone.