by Eva Hudson
“What about,” Ingrid said, immediately distracted by the second red light switching off, “if we flattered him into coming forward?”
Marshall looked distinctly unimpressed.
“Go on,” Usher said.
“We’ve spoken a fair bit today about Rybkin’s ego, about his need for the big stage. Can’t we let it be known, through diplomatic or intelligence channels, that there is a problem only he can solve? That the world needs him?”
“What are you suggesting?” Marshall asked.
“I don’t know. But if force isn’t an option, persuasion seems like something to consider. Is there, Mr Guthrie, a negotiation the State Department is involved with that he could be made to believe he could be pivotal in? Could you set up a meeting with the Secretary, maybe? Something like that?”
Guthrie looked doubtful. “I was rather thinking, from everything I’ve heard from you all this morning, the best thing we could do would be to find that damned Picasso and let it be known it’s for sale.”
Ingrid felt the blood rush to her face. “Well—” She stopped herself, unsure if what she was about to say was unwise. “I do know who bought it.”
“Really?” Marshall was incredulous. “Who?”
Does he think I’m lying? Or that I can’t possibly be as good at Natalya’s job as I am at this one? She swallowed her pride. “But I don’t see how that helps us. It’s not for sale. Nor is it likely to be for sale.”
“Who? Who bought it?” Marshall asked again.
Ingrid really didn’t want to answer. Not in front of the CIA and the NSA. She didn’t want to bring heat on a useful contact, a man she’d cultivated for two years. But not answering made her seem like she was lying. “Vitali Shevchenko.”
Usher nodded. “And who is he?”
Ingrid pressed her palms onto the table. “An old associate of Rybkin’s, an old enemy, really.”
“Go on.”
“In his twenties, Igor Rybkin worked as a filing clerk for the district office in St Petersburg. Of course it was still Leningrad then. Rybkin had a reputation as the worst filing clerk west of the Moskva River, managing to mislay documents that would have been embarrassing to the KGB, where—of course—the young Vladimir Putin was working.”
“How does this relate to Shevchenko?” Marshall asked.
“Rybkin left the municipal government and started working at Fisneft, the steel company owned by Vitali Shevchenko, who I’m guessing made good use of a sloppy, well-connected bookkeeper.” Ingrid paused. “Agent Rennie, have you got a photo of Shevchenko you can put up?” she asked.
“Sure.”
A new image appeared on their screens.
“So this is Shevchenko, frequently called the ‘friendly oligarch.’” He was wearing almost the exact same outfit in the photo he had worn at the Albert Hall. Black turtleneck sweater and slacks. “Think it’s pretty obvious he models himself on Steve Jobs. His favorite topics of conversation these days are his art collection, tech innovation and philanthropy, but back in the early nineties he was one of the prizefighters sparring for the Soviet spoils. Made about $8 billion in six years from oil fields in the Bering Straits.
“For about twenty years, Shevchenko and Rybkin worked together. At some point, Rybkin bought a subsidiary of Fisneft, though Shevchenko remained a director. Then—” Ingrid paused “—I guess it’s five or six years ago now, the two of them fell out, and they let the lawyers divide their joint assets. It never went to court, and nobody knows the details, but ever since, the two have avoided each other, even though both men base themselves in London. For tax purposes.” Ingrid took a sip of water.
“Does Rybkin know that Shevchenko is the actual owner of the Picasso?” Gonzales asked.
“We have no way of knowing,” Ingrid said.
“But if he hates Rybkin, he might want to play ball?” Marshall said.
“Play ball how?” Ingrid let out a sigh. “He’s not going to give us his $200 million investment to offer for sale, is he? Besides, it doesn’t matter how much they hate each other, if Rybkin is alive—and that’s still a pretty big if—and he’s doing Putin’s bidding, then Shevchenko is never, ever going to help. No one goes against Putin and comes out alive.”
The deputy ambassador and his assistant were staring at Ingrid and Marshall, a look of discomfort on their faces. They had let their personal animosity show, and Ingrid was mortified she’d let Marshall push her buttons in front of such esteemed colleagues.
“Okay,” Frank Usher said, “that’s one idea, but what else have you all got? We’ve got two weeks to show him, and the rest of the world, we will stop at nothing to defend American democracy.” He looked straight into the camera. “Is the Picasso really the only game in town?”
11
Ingrid followed Marshall into his office after the meeting wrapped up. “I cannot believe you did that.” She was fuming. “How could you do that to me?” She slammed the door behind them.
“It’s high risk,” Marshall said, “but it’s the only thing we have that’s quick. If your plan works—”
“It sure as hell isn’t my plan.”
“If it works,” he continued, “we could have Rybkin in custody within two weeks. We do a deal with Shevchenko; you offer it for sale; Rybkin comes out of hiding.”
Ingrid couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Can you even hear yourself? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”
Marshall continued: “If it works, it’s the biggest win for the Bureau, and Lord knows we need a win after the investigation into Pryce’s campaign finances. The people think the Bureau is trying to influence the election: we arrest Rybkin, we restore our reputation.” He inhaled so deeply his nostrils flared. “There’s a commendation in it for you for sure.”
“You’re crazy. They’re crazy.” She thumped a wall in frustration. Trust Marshall Claybourne to measure an operation’s value by the likelihood of a goddamn medal. “It will never, ever work.”
Marshall stood in front of his window, staring out at the rain. Ingrid slumped onto his leather visitor couch, her head falling into her hands.
“Look, how about I make this better for you. Let me make it an Omaha operation.” There was a note of pride in his voice.
“What?”
“If it comes out of Omaha and it goes wrong, it’s on them, not us. The fact Rennie’s already in the country makes it a no-brainer.”
Ingrid let out a strangled scream. “You cannot be serious!” Was Marshall really that big a jerk? “The Bureau wants to run an operation using my contacts, against my advice, that puts my undercover work on the line, and I don’t even get to run it? Is that what you’re saying?”
Marshall chewed his lip. “It’s win-win for you, Ingrid. If it works, you’re a hero; if it fails, you were right all along.”
She inhaled sharply. “If it fails, Marshall, Natalya’s dead. Over. All the intelligence I’m gathering. All the convictions she’s enabled. That will stop. You realize that?”
A sneer soured her face. She felt sick. Betrayed.
Marshall turned to her and softened his stance. “Usher realizes it too. That’s the risk they’re taking.”
They? The risk was all on her. She was being hung out to dry. She was speechless. Ingrid’s desire to push Marshall away, to make the whole stupid plan stop, manifested in a sharp, terse, “Fine.” She stood up and marched out of his office: a superior had ordered that London organize the sting, and Marshall Claybourne was too much of a careerist to question it.
Rennie was sitting at the spare desk in her office, looking sheepish.
Ingrid’s head swayed from side to side as disbelief and rage vied for control of her thoughts. Tears pricked her eyes, but she was damned if she was going to cry. “This is the dumbest, craziest thing I’ve ever been asked… told to do.”
He held her stare. “I understand, but actually the odds aren’t that bad. The risk-reward ratio—”
“I thought you were just as skeptic
al?”
He jutted his jaw out. “Listen, you’re right and you’re right to be angry, but the probability isn’t great, but the risk is low.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Low to everyone else, you mean.”
He pressed his lips together. “Yes. That was the calculation. If it all goes wrong, the only thing the Bureau loses is Natalya.”
Ingrid felt hollow.
“And, bluntly, if you’ll forgive me, Natalya can be replaced.” He got to his feet. “Another agent will go UC. Perhaps set themselves up as a caviar importer, whatever, but the calculation for the Bureau is the risk is low and the reward—Rybkin in an orange jumpsuit the day after the election—is massive.”
“I’ve been shafted,” Ingrid said, her fists whitening with rage.
“Pardon.”
“A British expression. I’ve been screwed.”
Jen entered quickly, then pulled herself up when she sensed the tension in the room. Neither Ingrid nor Rennie acknowledged her. “I went looking for you,” she said softly. “Call from the Met.”
Slowly, furiously, Ingrid turned her head toward Jen.
“Yelena Rybkina’s divorce lawyer is dead.”
The rain was hard and relentless, slicking the city’s streets in shades of slate and steel. It was just after 11 a.m., and the weak fall sun barely penetrated the charcoal sky. Ingrid unlocked her top box and grabbed an umbrella. She was soaked before she’d opened it.
The police cordon was manned by two uniformed Met officers who insisted Ingrid wait until Inspector Faulkner came to collect her. The DI was wearing a yellow sowester and rain jacket: she looked like she’d just made a delivery to Billingsgate fish market by boat.
“Thanks for coming. Cath fill you in?”
“Not really, I just got a message to come down.” In consultation with Frank Usher, it had been decided Ingrid should not reveal the Bureau’s interest in finding Rybkin. Her brief was to stay close to the Met’s investigation and act on any lead that would help them find him. Ingrid ducked under the blue and white police tape and followed Faulkner down an alleyway that opened out into a large garden square. “It’s her lawyer, the one handling the divorce. Kashli-something. His secretary stepped out of his office to check a record, and when she went back in, the window was open and he was gone. She heard screams from outside and looked out to find him skewered on the railings below.”
Ahead of them, a small group of CSIs in soaked-through Tyvek suits were erecting a tent to preserve evidence.
“It ain’t pretty. He fell two floors onto a row of iron spikes. Speared through the abdomen in three places.”
Ingrid winced. “He survive?”
“For about five minutes. Passersby tried to help, but by the time the ambulance got here, he was dead.”
They reached a Georgian red brick building with black render on the lower and upper ground floors. Ingrid guessed the pretty square would have been residential once, but it was now home to discreet offices of lawyers, financiers, elite headhunters and private equity firms. They hurried past the tent and into the entranceway of Kashlikov and Lytkin LLP. Ingrid collapsed her umbrella and put it with several others dribbling a puddle onto the tiled floor.
“He say anything before he died?”
“We’re interviewing witnesses now.”
Cath appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs. Ingrid gave her a little wave. Before they went up, Ingrid turned to the inspector. “Leopold Novotny?”
“Not here.”
“Had to check.”
“Understood. We know he can’t see you in your sexy motorcycle gear. But of course that would actually require the Met’s own Russian expert to attend the scene of a crime.”
“So it’s definitely not suicide?”
“Doubtful,” Faulkner said, taking the stairs two at a time. “His wife’s expecting their third child. He bought a villa near Cannes two weeks ago.”
They both knew those things could just as easily signal increased financial pressure as the expectation of a happy future.
“Think you can take that off now, boss,” Cath said to Faulkner, who swiftly pulled off her bright yellow hat before marching through one of the doors off the landing. “The inspector filled you in?”
“The basics, yep.”
Kashlikov and Lytkin’s offices had been taken over by Metropolitan Police officers, who flitted around like a swarm of vampire bats. Uniformed PCs took statements from staff on the landing, in the high-ceilinged reception area and in the rooms beyond. Ingrid’s gaze lingered on the corporate logo behind the reception desk. Kashlikov and Lytkin. Kashlikov was Ingrid’s mother’s family name. Maybe she was distantly related to the dead lawyer.
Cath steered Ingrid toward the quietest corner of the reception area and leaned her back against the wall.
“Still hurts?” It had been three days since Cath had fallen hard on the training pitch.
“Only when I stand. Or walk.”
The rain had flattened Cath’s formidable quiff, making her look even shorter. There was a dirty five-inch ring of wet around the bottom of her trousers. Ingrid’s jeans clung uncomfortably to her thighs. She unzipped her jacket, shaking off a fresh deluge on to a floor already covered in grimy, wet footprints.
“So how can I help?” Ingrid said.
“Intel, I guess. Any background you might be sitting on about the Rybkins’ divorce, anything you know about this firm. I understand they deal with a lot of rich Russians.”
Ingrid wiped her wet hands on her sodden jeans. “I’ve never had any dealings with them, but I can do some digging, see if I can join any dots for you.” Behind the reception desk, a young man with angular features and red-rimmed eyes answered the phone in Russian. He offered to take a message for Yvgeny Kashlikov before taking dictation. With all the police activity outside, it wouldn’t be long before the firm’s clients would start asking questions. Somewhere in the building would be files, if not vaults, of privileged information extremely wealthy individuals would want kept under lock and key. “Your inspector was saying she didn’t think it was suicide. What do people here say?”
Cath nodded. “I spoke to Kashlikov’s secretary. Apparently he was his usual cantankerous self this morning. I don’t get the impression he was particularly well liked. Big ego, wanted everything done yesterday.”
“You suggesting he was pushed by an employee?”
“It’s a possibility, certainly, but unlikely.” Cath picked the skin on her bottom lip. “One of our DCs is going through his computer. Maybe he got an email and simply decided enough was enough.”
“We both know what the Russian mafia do to people,” Ingrid said. “It’s entirely possible he received a message, knew he couldn’t deliver on whatever it demanded and, all of a sudden, jumping onto the railings becomes the logical choice.”
Most of Ingrid’s insights into Russian pride came from her mother. Nothing was worse to Svetlana Kashlikova than losing face. After her defection to the US, she never once admitted to any desire to visit Russia again, though she must surely have wanted to see her home and family one last time. If Kashlikov was about to be called out on an indiscretion or a soured deal, suicide could almost be expected. To a Russian, reputation and pride is everything.
“But,” Cath said, exhaling deeply as the investigation whirled around them, “the spider thing.”
Ingrid knew what she meant. After the suspected murder of one of his most high-profile clients, the Met had a duty to suspect foul play. “You know how come it wasn’t spotted first time round?” Ingrid asked. “The spider bite?”
It was the first opportunity the friends had had to talk since the second autopsy. Cath leaned in conspiratorially. “I think Dr Pearson’s in the clear. Feel sure an enquiry will say she did a good job.”
“So what did she miss?”
“Well”—Cath pushed up her sleeves, then pulled a face when she felt how wet they were—“the new pathologist didn’t start by looking at the body,
he started with her effects, which were all labeled in evidence bags, and when he gets to the Jimmy Choos, a desiccated spider drops out. I’m guessing that when the shoes were first removed, the spider was moist enough to still stick to the inside.”
Ingrid listened intently, trying to block out the eddies of chatter and incessant thrum of rain hitting slate and Tarmac.
“Not sure if he immediately said to himself, ‘Oh, that’s a poisonous spider. I’ll send it to the lab,’ but when he checked Rybkina’s feet, he concluded the patches Dr Pearson had logged as rubbing from a life in stilettos—” the two of them rolled their eyes in gratitude for sensible footwear “—were in fact bites. On closer inspection the spider had bitten her on callouses, which is why they didn’t produce the sort of welts common with entomological and arachnid aggression.”
Ingrid couldn’t quite believe Cath had strung such a sentence together. She sounded like she was giving evidence in court. “And the lab identified the brown recluse spider?”
“Yup. Not always fatal, but much more likely to be so in someone with a suppressed immune system.”
“And Yelena had just recovered from pneumonia.”
“And way more likely if you get bitten twice.”
It was starting to sound like she’d been killed by someone close enough to her to know that she’d been ill. That had to make it less likely Rybkin, a man who hadn’t seen his wife in two years, could be behind it. “Any chance this spider came in with her bananas or pineapples?”
Cath looked Ingrid right in the eye. “Nope. You want to know why?”
Of course she did.
“There was a spider in both shoes.”
Ingrid sucked in a deep breath.
“Which is why,” Cath said, “I’m not going to accept a diagnosis of suicide here until murder has been ruled out.”
The phone rang again and the young receptionist took a message. The moment he replaced the handset, it rang again. Word was getting out.
“Didn’t you say that Yelena Rybkina, almost the last thing she did before she collapsed, was get a pedicure?”