Outside, it was blindingly hot. Two town cars were waiting at the curb. In one were Elena and Orlov, the security chief; the other, which they entered now, was empty except for the driver, who would return Maddy to her hotel before taking Tarkovsky to his next round of meetings.
As the car started, Tarkovsky glanced out the window. “You did well. I’ve found that it’s often wise to appeal to your rival’s best interests.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Maddy said. “But I still wouldn’t overstate our chances.”
“I know. But this was more of a test. I’ve heard good things about you, and I wanted to see them for myself.” He looked at her directly for the first time. “Lermontov, in particular, always spoke of you highly—”
Maddy froze. For a moment, she was aware of nothing but the throaty murmur of the engine, and she felt for a paralyzing second how close the two of them were. “What are you talking about?”
Tarkovsky glanced away again. “I wasn’t sure if you knew. In any event, I thought it best that you hear it from me. I knew Alexey Lermontov. I worked with him years ago, as part of my efforts to recover Russian art from overseas, and often visited his gallery in New York.”
Maddy found that her hands had gone cold. “I don’t remember seeing you there.”
“It would have been shortly after you left. Lermontov often mentioned you. He seemed to think that you were making a mistake by trying to start your own gallery. That your true talents lay elsewhere—”
Listening, she felt something rise in her throat, and she realized that she was dangerously close to being sick. “And you never knew—”
“That he was working for state intelligence?” Tarkovsky said this nonchalantly, as if discussing something of limited interest. “I had my suspicions, of course. Especially given the friends we had in common. As you pointed out, the art world makes strange bedfellows. Your former employer and I found each other useful. Until it was no longer possible.”
Maddy fought back her growing sense of queasiness. “And when did that happen?”
Tarkovsky continued to look out the window. “If nothing else, as soon as he was no longer alive.”
A silence fell over the car. When Tarkovsky turned to her again, his voice was oddly gentle. “I know this is hard, which is why I wanted to tell you myself. I still want you to work for me. In the end, however, the choice is yours.”
He glanced away as the car slowed to a stop. Following his gaze, Maddy saw that they had pulled up at the Jefferson. When the driver came around to open her door, she gathered up her belongings and slid out, looking back once at Tarkovsky, who had remained in the car.
“Think it over,” Tarkovsky said. Then the door closed again, hiding him from sight.
13
“The body is that of an adult white male, the carotid arteries cut, a second stab wound above the left kidney,” Wolfe said to the board. “Adipocere, or grave wax, has formed over much of the corpse, preserving it, but before it was dumped, the face was systematically disfigured and the teeth and fingertips removed. In the left femur, there’s a metal intramedullary rod from an old fracture. We’re working to identify it from medical records.”
The chairman spoke up, as slim and sleek as a mink. “And you believe that Rogozin was involved with this murder?”
“That’s a reasonable conclusion,” Wolfe replied. “But I need time to build a case.”
“I see,” the chairman said. “Unfortunately, time is a rare commodity these days.”
Wolfe wanted to say that was common sense, but she held her tongue. The hearing was being held in a conference room in Victoria, not far from New Scotland Yard. She was seated alone at one of four folding tables that had been set up in a square. At the other three sat the nine members of the board, along with Dana Cornwall, the deputy director of the intelligence directorate. Asthana was somewhere behind her, her presence comforting but unseen.
The director general, a bespectacled civil servant with long white hands, was the next to speak. “We’ve reviewed your decision logs. At the moment, we have no physical evidence and a very tenuous link to Rogozin, who can be held for only five more days without charges.”
“Five days is a long time,” Wolfe said. “We’re going through his files and contacts now. I’m confident that we’ll emerge with a case for the Crown that Rogozin was Karvonen’s handler.”
The chairman nodded sourly. “Except that Karvonen was shot twice before he could be questioned.”
Dana Cornwall broke in. The deputy director had aged visibly in the past six months, but she was still an attractive older woman with a manner that commanded attention. “That’s bloody unfair. Wolfe had no alternative.”
“I’m well aware of that,” the chairman said sharply. “No one here is questioning the present officer’s bravery. But in my report, I have no choice but to consider the larger picture.”
As she listened, Wolfe reflected that the chairman was a lifetime bureaucrat with no law enforcement experience who had been in his current position for less than two years. “I’m still not sure what you mean by this.”
The chairman leaned forward. “This case has been a disaster for this agency. Karvonen was allowed to commit several murders practically under our noses, and we were unable to prevent him from carrying out a major act of terrorism. Not to mention the issue of Arnold Garber, an officer who appears to have passed information freely to Russia and may still be doing so as we speak—”
“And it happened at the worst possible time,” the director general put in. “This agency is already under scrutiny. In my capacity as head of operations, I’m obliged to evaluate your ongoing involvement with this investigation, considering your public connection to Rogozin—”
Wolfe focused on a point on the wall above the director general’s head. “What does that have to do with the merits of the case?”
The director general was eyeing her coolly. “Are you denying that you have a personal stake in the outcome?”
“Not at all,” Wolfe said. “But this has nothing to do with my actions, which I carried out in the mutual interest of both our countries.”
Even as Wolfe spoke, she heard how naïve this sounded. With the agency on the verge of being reorganized, officers and directors alike were scrambling to position themselves. In any merger, there would always be reductions, and she had no illusions about her own invulnerability.
She chose her next few words with care. “I’m aware that the review process is necessary. But I stand by my decision. All I ask is a chance to see the rest of this through, within the legal period of detention.”
The chairman glanced around at the other board members. “Your request has been duly noted. The secretary will testify before the Home Affairs Select Committee next week as to whether this detention is an appropriate use of resources. I only wish we had better news to share.”
With that, the hearing adjourned. As Wolfe got up to leave, the members of the board remained seated, talking quietly among themselves, their eyes looking everywhere but in her direction. Her partner was standing behind her. “Come on,” Asthana said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
As they headed for the door, Cornwall approached. She looked tired, as she often did these days. “Wolfe, they had no right to be so hard on you. Everyone at the agency respects what you’ve done.”
“I appreciate that,” Wolfe said, meaning it, although much was also being left unspoken. Cornwall, she knew, had hoped to be promoted to director general, only to find herself tainted by association with the Garber scandal. Wolfe wanted to say something more, but she contented herself with a nod goodbye as Asthana took her arm and led her gently away.
An hour later, Wolfe found herself at a crowded pub in Vauxhall, staring at the few amber inches remaining in her pint glass. In recent months, she had begun to drink more than before, which reminded her of the old joke
about why you should always take two Mormons on a fishing trip. Bring only one, the punch line said, and he’ll drink all your beer.
Next to her, Asthana was halfway through another monologue about her wedding table cards when she trailed off, sensing that Wolfe wasn’t listening. “Cheer up. They were bound to knock you down a little. It doesn’t look great for the agency when its star officer isn’t even British.”
Wolfe managed to smile. “Sometimes I wish Powell were still here. He knew how to ignore the political side.”
Finishing her beer, Wolfe ordered another. Asthana was watching her with a mixture of amusement and friendly concern. “I haven’t talked to Powell in a long time. You still see him?”
“Occasionally,” Wolfe said. “He knows more about the ties between intelligence and organized crime than I ever will, and we sometimes trade ideas over the phone, but we’ve fallen out of touch since he joined Cheshire.”
Asthana shook her head. “I still think he was a fool to leave, especially given the timing. It looked like they were buying him off.”
“I know.” Wolfe accepted her fresh pint with a nod. “I understand why he did it, but he refused to see what people would think. He’s always been like this, but it got worse after the crash. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve heard.” She looked glumly into her glass. “Maybe it’s better that he’s gone.”
Asthana lifted her daiquiri. “That’s doesn’t seem fair. What’s he really done, then?”
Wolfe was about to avoid the question, then heard herself speak before she could help it. “You know Vasily Tarkovsky?”
Her partner frowned. “The oligarch. He’s negotiating for some kind of oil venture?”
Wolfe nodded. “Cheshire is advising on the deal. Powell has been looking into Tarkovsky’s activities. Most of it is the standard background check. But he’s also planted a source on Tarkovsky’s staff.”
Asthana set down her glass. “What kind of source are we talking about?”
“Someone passing him files under the table. Powell told me yesterday. He wanted my advice about how far to trust her. His source, I mean.” Wolfe took another big sip. After the farce of the hearing, which had left her feeling more isolated than ever, she was suddenly eager to share the misgivings she had been bottling up inside. “You see, it’s someone we both know. Someone with no business being involved. I told him this, but I don’t think he agrees.”
Asthana had absorbed this information with what looked like mounting dismay. “Rachel, listen to me. If this comes out, forget the business angle. We’re talking about a major diplomatic scandal. Who’s his source, anyway?”
Wolfe belatedly realized that she’d had too much to drink, but it was too late to backpedal now. “It’s the girl from the Archvadze case. I’ve told you about her before. Maddy Blume—”
She was about to say more when her cell phone rang. Fishing it with some difficulty out of her purse, she checked the display, then fumbled the phone open. “Lester, how are you?”
“I’m fine,” the pathologist said, although his voice was tense. “I just got off the phone with the orthopedic center at the Royal London. They’ve identified your body. You need to hear the name now.”
Wolfe saw that Asthana was watching her intently. Even through her alcoholic fog, she had a premonition of what was coming, and, much later, she would wonder if she had known all along. “What is it?”
Lewis hesitated. “I don’t quite know how to say this. It’s Garber. Your dead man is Arnold Garber—”
14
Asthana knew what the call meant as soon as she saw the look on Wolfe’s face. After hanging up to dial Cornwall, Wolfe had to be forcibly dissuaded from going to the office. In the end, Asthana managed to get her partner into a cab that would take her home. Then she headed on foot back to where she had left her own car, glad for the chance to think in private.
As she walked, Asthana recalled the last time she had seen Garber alive, parked in his car near the Battersea Power Station. Garber, who had been a loyal but disillusioned officer of law enforcement, had told her that Putin’s regime would never give up control as long as the world needed its energy resources, and that he suspected the agency’s current investigation was nothing more than a game being played out between the civilian and military sides of the Russian security services.
Looking out at the power station’s four monumental smokestacks, Asthana had asked him what their colleagues thought of his theory. Garber had replied that he hadn’t told anyone yet. And he had seemed genuinely surprised, a few seconds later, when Asthana had cut his throat.
Thinking back to that moment now, Asthana knew that she had taken a considerable risk, but to her credit, she had remained calm in the aftermath. Around her, the street had been quiet. After wiping the blade on Garber’s shirt, she had left a message for her fiancé, telling him that she was going to be late. Then she had taken the dead man’s keys and gone around to the trunk.
After a moment of rummaging, she had come up with a heavy blanket. Returning to the front of the car, she had covered Garber’s body so it lay across the seats. When she studied the result, she had been satisfied that the body was not obvious from the street. Then she had locked up the car, crossed to the opposite curb, and stood there in the darkness, thinking very carefully.
Even after the killing, her thoughts had remained clear. She did not think that anyone had seen them leaving the office. For all the world knew, Garber, who was unmarried and lived alone, had gone home as usual after work. If he failed to appear the next day, the agency would suspect that something was wrong. Unless, of course, she managed to shape the story in the meantime.
Once her plan was complete, Asthana had taken out her phone and made two calls. A quarter of an hour later, she had accompanied the car as it was towed by a breakdown truck to Dalston. The mechanic had spoken only after they were safely inside the garage. The vehicle, he had said slowly, would be cleaned and taken to a car breaker in Norwood. He would look after the body himself.
Thinking back to this now, as she neared the office, Asthana was newly incensed at the botched job he had done, but it was too late for recriminations. And in any case, she had more important things to consider.
Arriving at her car, Asthana drove home to Knightsbridge, where she found Devon seated with a laptop at the dining room table. She gave him a kiss. “How are you, darling?”
“Swamped, as usual,” Devon said, not looking away from the computer, on which rows of government spending figures were arranged in an indecipherable spreadsheet. “How was the hearing?”
“A disaster.” As Asthana spoke, she studied her fiancé in the circle of light from the overhead lamp. She had secretly cast him years ago with a particular role in mind, and even to her critical eye, he was quite handsome, with thick dark hair and a lanky frame that was only slightly too narrow at the shoulders. “Rachel was torn to pieces. I couldn’t bear to watch.”
She knew that Devon liked Wolfe a great deal, and the sympathy in his eyes now was genuine. “Is there anything I can do?”
“We’ll pull through.” Asthana checked the pot on the counter and found that the tea was still warm. Pouring herself a cup, she said, “I need to take care of a few things before supper. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Devon only nodded, frowning at a column of figures on the screen. Asthana gave him another light peck on the cheek, then headed for the stairs, cradling her mug of tea in one hand.
The house was spacious and pleasant, a perfect stage set, with far more room than they could have afforded if her parents had not offered to help. Upstairs, she entered her office and closed the door. Setting down her tea, she checked her email. The only message was from her mother, written in obvious distress, urgently asking whether the tablecloths at the reception would be ivory or champagne.
Asthana closed the email without answering it, the
n glanced at a picture on the wall. It was the only piece of Indian art in the house, an image of Kalki, the destroyer of darkness, riding a white horse against the sky. He was destined to guide the world into a new golden age, but no one knew what shape he would take, although it was widely believed that he would come from the north. And, like most symbols, the story concealed a deeper meaning.
If asked, she would have been insulted by the implication that any of her choices had been influenced by her background. She had never considered herself particularly Indian, except by accident, and took little interest in the fact that India had always had close ties with Russian military intelligence. Like most things in her life, this decision had been driven by a cold process of analysis, one that had led her to conclude, years ago, that the values her family took for granted would soon be gone.
Garber, she reflected, turning back to her computer, had been right about one thing. The world still ran on oil, and the dislocation between importers and exporters would only grow as petroleum reserves decreased over time. It came down to a simple curve. No matter where you drew the peak, in the face of its remorseless logic, all other considerations fell away. What was required, more than anything else, was a hand strong enough to guide the world through the coming transition. An oil exporter that was also a nuclear power. And this meant only one country.
Putin, she had seen long ago, was not a monster but a pragmatist. He preferred injustice to disorder, which was a choice that could not be avoided. Asthana understood that she had been born at a time when much of her life would be spent in a world where power had shifted east, so when the opportunity arose, she had seen no alternative but to throw in her lot with the forces of history.
As inevitable as the curve was in theory, however, you often ran into trouble in the details. The last few weeks, in particular, had presented a number of challenges, especially now that so much depended on her alone. Which made it all the more important to act decisively.
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