It was the first time she had ever spoken to him directly. Wolfe saw Ilya turn toward her, sizing her up, and for a second, she saw a trace of interest in his expression, a single spark in those black eyes. Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, it was gone, and Ilya turned back to Powell.
“Let me tell you a story,” Ilya said. “Four men entered the king’s orchard. When they saw what was there, one of them died at once. Another went mad. The third cut down all the shoots. And only one departed in peace.” He paused. “You see, you had your chance. When the time comes, you’ll see that you should have let me go. I have nothing more to say.”
Ilya turned aside. Mentally replaying his words, Wolfe thought that she had heard this story somewhere else before, but couldn’t remember where. Before she could ask him about this, Powell rose from the table. She saw that he was angry. “We’re done, then. But this is far from over.”
He left the room. The inspector glanced at Wolfe, then spoke for the benefit of the audio recorder: “Interview terminated at three fifteen.”
With that, Wolfe left the room as well, glancing back once at Ilya, who remained in his seat. A moment later, a pair of constables appeared to escort him back to the custody area.
She joined the others in the hallway, where they discussed what the next steps would be. “We’ll keep him at the station overnight,” the inspector said. “I’ll consult with Crown Prosecution about the rest. We’ll start by charging him with Lermontov’s death, and take it from there.”
“Fine,” Powell said. Wolfe could see for the first time how drained he was. “I’ll want to talk to him again, but not until we’ve had more time to prepare. There must be a way inside—”
Powell broke off. Following his eyes, Wolfe saw that Garber was coming up the hall, a camera in one hand. “Just got this from a photographer at the scene. It’s our best set of pictures so far. Wolfe, I need you to take a look.”
“Be right there,” Wolfe said. She glanced over at Powell. “Anything else you need?”
The real question, buried in her words, was whether he was doing all right, but Powell seemed to take it literally. “Not right now. I’ll call you when I know what we’re doing next. Go on, then.”
He turned away, resuming his conversation with the inspector. Wolfe regarded them for a moment, then followed Garber to the station entrance. She saw that he was on edge, as if the high of taking down Ilya had already dissipated in the heat of the chase. “What else have we got?”
“Nothing. That’s the goddamned problem.” Garber led her out of the station and toward the van at the curb. “The killer chose just the right moment to make his move. Four hundred people, and nobody saw a bloody thing.”
He slid open the doors of the van. Wolfe climbed into the rear, where a laptop had been set up on a plastic crate. As she sat down, Garber took the camera, hooked it up to the computer, and began loading the photos. “Shots cover the past four hours. Tell me if you see our guy.”
In the darkened interior, Wolfe studied the pictures, scrolling quickly past the earlier shots. Most were close-ups of the players, but a few took in the larger crowd. She pointed one out. “Look here. You can see Morley and his security chief. Ilya is right behind them. And—”
She frowned. In Morley’s lap, obscured by the chair in front of him, there was a hint of silver. “He’s carrying some kind of briefcase. It wasn’t there when we found him, was it?”
“No,” Garber said. “The killer must have taken it. So maybe this was a robbery.”
“Or an exchange.” Wolfe scrolled to the next set of pictures, focusing on the faces in the crowd, especially the photographers. Finally, in one of the very last shots, she saw a familiar figure in the corner of the image, a tall blond man with a green jacket and camera. He was not looking at the lens, but the light made a sort of halo around his face, which was one she would never forget.
“Here we are,” Wolfe said. She pointed at the screen. “That’s him. That’s our man.”
24
Karvonen was heading up the ramp from Old Street station when his phone rang. The underground terminal stood in a noisy roundabout, the bicyclists chiming their bells as they sped past, so he had to hold the phone close to his ear to hear the voice on the other end. “Yes?”
“You’ve been blown,” his handler said. “The police already have your picture.”
His head lowered, Karvonen strode quickly up the sidewalk, moving past rows of cafés and kebab stands. He was carrying only the shoulder bag with his camera and gun. The silver case had been left in an alley three blocks from the convention center, after he had disposed of the fake canisters and padding in two separate trash bins. “How did it happen?”
“Our source says an officer saw you at the tournament. We’re still trying to figure out how she identified you. And it gets worse. They’ve found Renata’s body. Or most of it. It won’t be long until they put the rest together.” His handler’s voice grew cold. “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out?”
As he listened, Karvonen found himself swept up by a wave of anger. He had been coasting on a kind of high, and he resented being brought so abruptly down to earth. Still, he knew that his state of mind had been a dangerous one, so he did not entirely begrudge the wakeup call. “I did what had to be done. And you’ve kept things from me as well. Who was the man I saw?”
His handler hesitated, then said, “A nobody. An outsider showing his face where it wasn’t wanted. We’ll take care of him ourselves. It wasn’t necessary for you to know who he was—”
“And it wasn’t necessary for you to know about Renata.” Karvonen touched the canisters in his pocket. “If you want what I have, you’ll let me see this through. Otherwise, you’ll never hear from me again.”
There was silence on the other end. When his handler spoke again, his tone was all business. “Fine. But we need to regroup. The police will be looking for you. You have half an hour, maybe less, to close everything down.”
“Done,” Karvonen said. “But I’m going to need a few things. When can we meet?”
“I’ll need time to prepare. Come and find me two hours from now.” The handler gave him an address in Highgate. “Do you know it?”
Karvonen recognized the location. “A barber shop. You going to give me a shave?”
“And a haircut.” A note of grim humor appeared in his handler’s voice. “If you’re going to make it out alive, you’ll need a new face.”
His handler hung up. Karvonen pocketed his phone, then rounded the corner into the Shoreditch Triangle, the kebab stands giving way to pubs and art galleries. The street was narrow and paved in cobblestones, and after a few steps, the noise of the roundabout fell silent.
As he drew closer to his own building, which was halfway up the block, Karvonen crossed the street, heading for a Vietnamese restaurant on the other side. Above the door, an overhang cast a rectangle of shade. Karvonen halted in this area of shadow, then looked across the way.
He studied the entrance to his building. On the ground floor was an architectural firm with scale models of houses displayed behind plate glass. His own motorbike was parked at the curb. Raising his eyes, he found the row of windows that belonged to his studio. From where he was standing, he could tell that the curtains were drawn, and he saw no sign of movement behind the drapes.
Karvonen remained there for another minute, watching the windows intently. It was not just the police he was concerned about. He knew it was possible that his handler, concerned by his ability to complete the project, had sent someone else to retrieve the canisters. Granted, there were not many men left with his particular set of skills, which meant that his handler might not want to dispose of him so casually. But the possibility could not be dismissed.
In the end, he emerged from the shade of the overhang, crossed the street, and went around to the other s
ide of the building. Beneath the rows of hanging air conditioners, the stairs were accessible through a rear entrance. Unlocking this door, Karvonen let himself in, glancing back once before going inside.
The stairwell was silent and dark. Karvonen shut the door behind him, then crept quietly upstairs, checking each landing as he went, one hand on the pistol in his camera bag. When he reached his own floor, he stationed himself to one side of the doorway, then peeked carefully through the pane of frosted glass that looked into the corridor beyond. It was empty.
Karvonen opened the door, hand still on the gun, and stepped softly onto the fourth floor. He checked the door leading to the opposite stairwell, confirmed that it was clear, and finally went back to his own flat.
Placing an ear against the door, he listened. Nothing. He drew the gun and took out his keys, inserting one into the lock. Listening intently, he turned the key, then pushed the door open.
He swung inside, leading with the gun. His flat was dark, with only a narrow line of sunlight shining through the gap in the curtains. Leaving the door ajar, Karvonen rapidly checked the entire loft, going from one room to another, and found that everything was as he had left it. Only when he had confirmed that the loft was clear did he close and lock the door again.
As he was sticking the gun into his belt, Karvonen heard paws against the floorboards as his cat came running to meet him. Bending down, he tried to scoop the cat up with his free hand, then felt sharp teeth sink into the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He cursed and flung the cat away, watching it scamper on skittering claws into the kitchen.
Sucking on his injured hand, Karvonen set his bag on the floor and made his way into the loft, leaving off the lights. He began by changing his clothes, tossing the ones he had been wearing into the empty bathtub. A packed bag already stood at the rear of his closet. From the lowest drawer of his bureau, where the device had once resided, he extracted the charger for his encrypted phone, sliding both charger and phone into the bag’s outside pocket.
The device itself was no longer here. A few days earlier, after checking the components one last time, Karvonen had taken the device apart and mailed it in two packages to an address he knew by memory. Traveling by regular mail, it would take several days for the parcels to reach their destination, which gave him just enough time to get there as well.
Back in the main loft, he removed the memory card from his camera and slid it into his pocket. Kneeling by his desk, he removed the plastic cover from the computer tower, undid the screws holding the hard drive in place, and yanked it away from its cables. A stack of printouts from the desk went under his arm. Returning to the bathroom, he threw everything into the tub, along with his wallet, his passport, and, after removing the clip, his gun.
In his darkroom, tucked neatly among a shelf of other chemicals, stood two glass jars of potassium permanganate, as well as a soft plastic bottle of glycerin. He took them into the bathroom, where he smashed the jars in the tub, scattering the dark purple crystals. Then, squeezing the bottle, he sent a colorless stream of glycerin arcing over the rest. After a few seconds, the crystals flared into flame, cooking the metal and plastic and burning the paper to ashes, the words on the page disappearing like a photo developed in reverse.
When the paint above the bathtub had begun to blacken, Karvonen left the bathroom, the fire still burning, and looked around the studio. The cat was in the corner, yowling, but he ignored it as he slung the bag over his shoulder, canisters tucked in his pocket, and left the flat.
As he was locking the door behind him, a voice came from over his shoulder: “We missed you the other night—”
Karvonen turned. It was his neighbor from across the hall, her hair tied back in a ponytail, her work shirt spattered with paint. He gave her a smile. “Sorry, but something came up at the last minute.”
Wagging a finger, she headed for her own flat. “Well, I forgive you this time. But you won’t get a second chance.” She paused, listening, then arched an eyebrow. “Is that your cat I hear?”
Karvonen’s smile grew wider. From behind the door, the cat’s faint howling could still be heard. In his mind’s eye, he saw the fire spreading in the bathtub, and knew that it would not be long before the smell of smoke spread into the hallway. “He misses me. But he’ll quiet down soon.”
He gave his neighbor a wave, then headed for the stairs as she went into her flat. Behind him, the first few strands of smoke were beginning to seep out from under the studio door.
Taking the rear stairs, he was out on the street in under a minute. Going back around to the front of the building, he passed his bike without pausing, feeling only a twinge of regret at the thought that he would never ride it again. From his coat pocket, he took a knit cap, which he pulled down over his head.
As Karvonen went up the street, heading for the underground station, he heard a two-tone siren, then saw a pair of panda cars coming in his direction. Passing him, they drove on without pausing, heading for the triangle. Karvonen continued onward, moving into the crowd near the roundabout, and when nobody was watching, he took the keys from his pocket and flung them away.
25
“Request for bail is denied,” Mr. District Judge Roundhay said, looking down from his long oak bench at the man installed in the dock. “The accused shall be remanded into custody until the date of his next court appearance, provisionally scheduled for one week from today, at which time—”
It was the day after his arrest. Ilya was seated in a wooden chair at the center of the dock, a Securicor officer beside him, only a step away from the bench with his advocate and the prosecution counsel. Above the courtroom ran a cramped public gallery. Along with a number of unfamiliar faces, he could see Powell and Wolfe.
Ilya turned back to the courtroom. As his advocate, a small, bearded man with whom he had spoken only briefly, went over the timetable for the trial, he began to tune out. The police had laid out their case quickly and efficiently. Somewhat to his surprise, he had been indicted for the murder of Lermontov. He guessed that this was due to Powell’s influence.
A moment later, he was informed that the hearing was over. Rising, he allowed himself to be escorted out of the courtroom by a guard, who led him downstairs to a long yellow corridor. At the end of the hallway stood a row of cells. The Securicor man unlocked the nearest steel door and eased it open. “Here we are, then,” the guard said. “End of the yellow brick road.”
Ilya went inside. It was a small room, about ten feet by five, with two plastic chairs, a cheap table, and walls covered in graffiti. Despite its lack of charm, it represented a step up from his most recent accommodations, a cell at the Kensington police station with a mattress infested with lice.
Behind him, the guard withdrew, saying, “You have visitors. Won’t be a moment.” Then he shut the door. There was no need for him to lock it, because there was no handle on the inside.
Ilya remained standing in the cell, waiting for whatever was coming. Over the past twenty hours, he had carefully considered his situation from all sides. He had never expected to receive bail, meaning that he would be sent to prison, on remand, until his trial. This in itself was not a cause for concern. Ilya had spent years in the worst prisons in the world, and there was no question in his mind that he would survive. But he knew, even now, that there would be complications.
He was still standing in the middle of his cell when the door was opened a second time. As Powell and Wolfe entered, the Securicor man pocketed his keys. “Door open or closed?”
“Open,” Powell said. He pulled out a chair, then gestured at the other. “Have a seat.”
After a beat, Ilya sat down. He saw that Wolfe remained standing, as she had at their earlier interview. Turning to Powell, he thought back to their first meeting. Even in a mob of men with guns, something about the Englishman had caught his attention. This was no less true t
oday, which was why he was slightly annoyed when Powell began by laboriously explaining the situation to him yet again.
“Let’s not waste time,” Powell said, laying a file on the table. “You’re being sent to Belmarsh. You know what that means.”
Ilya said nothing. The news was not a surprise, but it gave him a peculiar satisfaction to hear it. This, he saw clearly, was the test he was meant to receive. Anything less would have been a disappointment.
“Vasylenko is there,” Wolfe said, speaking for the first time. “Along with many of his men. We know that he wants you dead. And you’ve certainly given him reason enough to call for your blood.”
“Which presents us with a problem,” Powell said. “We need you alive. We’re doing our best to transfer you to a safer location, but the process can take weeks or months. And we might have better luck if you agree to cooperate.”
Ilya, remaining silent, saw immediately that this offer was less straightforward than it seemed, and was sorry that they evidently thought so little of him. Still, he sensed that further information was forthcoming, so he only inclined his head, as if inviting them to continue.
Powell opened the case file, removed a photograph, and slid it across the table. “This is Lasse Karvonen, the man who killed Morley and his bodyguard. We also believe that he murdered Campbell, Akoun, and a photographer named Renata Russell, for whom he was working as a retoucher. He’s missing. We’ve been to his flat, but it’s cleaned out. He burned everything before he left.”
Ilya looked at the picture, which was of the man he had seen at the tournament. It was a handsome face, but as he looked it now, he saw an underlying coldness that was apparent even in this unguarded shot.
Powell took the photo back. “We don’t know where he’s gone, but whatever he’s doing, it isn’t over yet. Based on the evidence, he was gathering the components for some kind of device. And we suspect that the plot involves Russian intelligence.” He paused. “If you know anything about this man, you should share it with us. Then, perhaps, we can get you out of the lion’s den.”
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