by Eva Hudson
“You forgot to mention footwear,” Dr Ives said, referring to notes from a previous session.
Ingrid glowered at her. “And the heels, of course. Absolutely nothing less than four inches.”
Ever since she had begun inveigling her way into the Russian social scene in London, Ingrid had made sure never to wear anything other than flats in her regular life. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice—she only owned two pairs of heels anyway—but wearing heels as Natalya Vesnina forced her to adopt a different posture, which made all the other mannerisms of the high-class art dealer come a little more naturally. Ingrid didn’t even like answering the phone as Natalya unless she was wearing heels.
“So when you said you were working at the office, did you mean Natalya’s flat?” the doctor asked.
“Her apartment, yes. I’ve just negotiated to have a first look on a pair of Maleviches. Discovered at a dacha outside Nizhny. They’d been used as window shutters, believe it or not, but it seems they’re genuine.” Ingrid had stopped trying to guess what Dr Ives wrote down during their sessions, but paused while her pen scurried urgently across the page.
“That’s good,” Ives said. “Progress.”
“Progress?”
She put her pen down. “Do you remember how worried you were when you started working as Natalya? How you said that you couldn’t tell a Manet from a Monet? You’ve worked hard. It’s important to recognize that.”
You condescending… Ingrid stopped herself. “I was actually thinking I could do it for real. Natalya made over eighty thousand last month.”
“I don’t suppose you get to keep it?” Was that a stab at humor?
“I don’t even get a bonus.” Please don’t ask me how I feel about that.
“And how does that make you feel?”
Ingrid pulled her sleeves down over her hands, trying to thaw them out. “I take it as a sign I’m doing a good job. For Natalya to be believable, for her to check out, she needs accounts and bank statements. She needs to be able to pick up the tab at the Beaufort every now and then.”
“And are you ever tempted to use Natalya’s credit card for yourself?”
Wow. An unusually direct question. “No. Of course not.”
“I suppose what I’m trying to get at, where I’m trying to take you, are to those occasions where you feel torn or compromised or conflicted. Undercover work, even glamorous five-star work like yours, can take a toll.”
Ingrid nodded. “So they say.”
“You never worry about which hat, euphemistically speaking, you’re wearing? You never use the wrong language? Or fear you’ll call from the wrong phone?”
Ingrid knew the anger slowly churning through her thoughts was roiling precisely because she feared all those things. “No. I’m a professional. I’ve been trained.”
Sensing her hostility, the doctor softened her body language. “Okay then, so let’s talk about what’s worrying you most at the moment. What are you finding trickiest?”
Um, this. “It’s all going fine. Really.”
“Except for the fact that you’re forced to see a therapist?”
“We’ve been over this. You know I’d rather not come. It’s not personal.” It totally is.
“But you understand why it’s necessary?”
“Sure.”
Dr Ives had a face that Ingrid had come to know too well. Thin lips, slightly lopsided features, skin starting to sag at the jaw, gray hairs clawing their way out of her severe parting and colonizing her bob, her head perpetually tilted to signify that she was listening. Every now and then Ingrid wondered if she might actually like her therapist if they had met in any other situation.
“And what about your drinking?” The doctor had both hands on her knees, facing Ingrid square on.
Ingrid’s chest heaved, drawing in air audibly. “My what?”
“It’s been a while since we discussed alcohol.”
Ingrid stared at her.
“It’s a risk, isn’t it, in your line of work. Or rather in Natalya’s.” Statement rather than question.
“Of course.”
“And do you ever worry that, one day, you may drink too much, say the wrong thing?”
Ingrid scrunched up her features. “No. Not often.”
“Not often?”
“Not really.”
“So you do worry occasionally? A bit?”
“I guess. A bit.”
“Let’s talk about that for a while.”
Ingrid glanced up at the clock. 6:16. It was going to be a long forty-four minutes.
4
Natalya Vesnina stepped out of the limousine and carefully placed a four-inch Louboutin heel on the cobbled forecourt of the Royal Albert Hall. She pulled her pashmina tight around her shoulders and, clutching her black suede purse, took purposeful steps through the drizzle towards the entrance. Her ankle buckled slightly, a reminder of the soccer injury Ingrid had picked up after her therapy session the night before.
Many of the faces outside the landmark music venue were now familiar to Ingrid, as was the smell of their Golden Gate cigarettes. She could handle the vodka required to pass as Natalya, but the tobacco was going too far. She smiled at two men who worked for a British law firm, no doubt there to acquire new clients or to impress old ones: she was damn sure they weren’t attending for the Shostakovich.
Several of the attendees stood in the cold, drawn by the bright arc lights illuminating the piazza. A line of supersized broadcast trucks were parked opposite, emitting a steady stream of people wearing jeans, puffer jackets and headsets. A cloud of hair, makeup and costume artists attended to a woman in thick foundation Ingrid didn’t recognize, while crew members huddled behind a camera mounted on a crane. It looked like a substantial production. Maybe Russian TV were recording the concert?
Inside the Albert Hall, Ingrid navigated her way to the private reception being held on the second floor, flashing her invite to the security guy at the door, who could have been the third Klitschko brother. His neck was almost as big as her waist. The room was sultry with low lighting from the chandeliers, and the heavy flocked wallpaper and fleur-de-lis drapes gave the place the air of a burlesque club. Everyone in the room was speaking Russian, and they were dressed like guests at the wedding of a minor royal. The women all wore dazzling smiles and were wrapped tight like gifts in figure-hugging dresses. Most of them sported enough jewelry to put their children through university. The men, with few exceptions, sported high-waisted tuxedos and the rictus grins of overenthusiastic cosmetic surgery.
Ingrid picked up a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and wondered why no rich Russian had a demure, subtle facelift. Was it because people wouldn’t then know you could afford one? Perhaps they had all used the same surgeon? Or had their social circles simply become so incestuous they no longer knew what a real person looked like? Even the younger women had features frozen by fillers and spray tans. Ingrid feared she would have to succumb or else risk raising suspicion.
“Natalya!”
Ingrid turned to see Grigor Birbatov, the son of the Russian ambassador to the UK.
“Grigor.” She smiled. “Is your father here?”
The youth shook his head. “No, summoned to Moscow.”
“Intriguing.”
“I have no details. No gossip.”
“How unlike you.”
“But I aim to have plenty by the end of the evening. Have you seen Sergei Mikhailov is here?”
Ingrid knew exactly who Mikhailov was, but it might not be appropriate for Natalya to know. She acted dumb. “Remind me.”
“The gymnast. Two golds in Rio.”
“Oh, of course.” An image surfaced of the staircase in her childhood home in Minnesota. Two bronze medals in an oak frame, won by her mother in the 1976 Olympics. Svetlana Kashlikova’s achievements had paled next to Olga Korbut’s, and her defection to the USA after the Montreal Games had all but written her out of the Soviet history books.
Ingri
d did not want to spend her evening talking to Grigor Birbatov. He was a pale-faced balloon of a boy, sweat perpetually threatening his wide forehead, a human ball of mozzarella, but on the chance he might one day be as helpful or powerful as his father, she didn’t want to peer over his shoulder too obviously.
“Yes,” Birbatov said, craning his neck to get a better look, “the ladies are a little gaga for him.”
“And some of the men?”
Birbatov blushed. Definitely gay. “Though I think they are more excited about Benedict Cumberbatch.”
“The actor?”
“Did you not see the cameras outside? Apparently they are filming a scene here tonight.”
“Of Londongrad?”
“Yes.” Enthusiasm made his voice squeak. “Perhaps we may be in the background somewhere?”
There had been a lot of talk about Londongrad, a sumptuous fictionalization of a book about the lives of London’s oligarchs. The main topic of conversation about the BBC adaptation was who the protagonists were based on. No one admitted to speaking to the scriptwriter, but everyone was happy for people to speculate they might have.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Ingrid took a sip of her champagne and snaked her way through the guests toward a group of women that included Serena Ivanova, the wife of the owner of the Evening News. Serena was a rake-thin brunette in her sixties whose perfume was frequently overpowering. Ingrid fetched her phone out of her purse and scrolled through messages while eavesdropping, hoping to glean something that might help Cath’s investigation.
Grigor Birbatov, not taking the hint, had followed her. “Another sale?”
Don’t you have any friends to play with? “Possibly.” She stared intently at her phone. “If you will excuse me.” She put her finger in her ear and pretended to listen to messages. Birbatov didn’t move, only waving occasionally to people who had someone better to talk to.
Russians, particularly Russians who live overseas, are usually passionate about their nation’s achievements. Attending the ballet to see Sergei Polunin is a vital expression of national pride. Getting tickets to see Maria Sharapova play at Wimbledon is a way of showing fealty to the motherland. And turning out in your thousand-dollar shoes to listen to the St Petersburg symphony orchestra perform Shostakovich’s Fifth at the Albert Hall on a dreary October evening is as important as lining your bookshelves with Turgenev and Dostoyevsky. Yet Ingrid couldn’t help noticing no one was talking about the music they had all paid several hundred pounds to come and listen to.
These events were about being seen rather than seeing, listening or tasting anything in particular, and for Serena Ivanova they were also about being seen to be doing the right thing. It therefore wasn’t long before her conversation turned to the event she was organizing in Yelena Rybkina’s memory.
“And is there any word,” one woman asked, “on, you know, the cause of—”
“I heard there has been a cover-up,” another said. “Several eyewitnesses saw blood. At least that’s what I was told.”
“Are you suggesting she was stabbed? Shot?”
Ingrid wished she could turn round and look at their faces as they gawped and gossiped.
“Yes, a sniper with a silencer.”
“Shhh,” one of them said. “Over there?”
Ingrid scanned the room and spotted the dead woman’s niece. She also noticed, standing next to a vodka ice sculpture, a man who was staring at her. He was balding, fifties, white and without question English. His threadbare tuxedo and worn-but-polished shoes told her he was a former public schoolboy who got more use out of his penguin suit than she got out of her soccer kit. She was also damn sure he was MI6. She looked away.
Before the gossip and speculation could turn to who might have wanted Yelena Rybkina killed, Ingrid’s ears were wrenched away from Ivanova’s clique by a conversation in English. A woman who harbored hopes of becoming a pop singer was making introductions. The woman was slightly overweight and more than slightly over thirty, but her husband was a billionaire who wanted to keep her happy. Spending a few hundred thousand on recording sessions and videos that got fifteen views on YouTube made the kind of dent in his fortune that corresponded with Ingrid shelling out for a half decent bottle of sauvignon blanc. Ingrid couldn’t remember the woman’s name, only that her husband had recently caused a stir when he bought a fully armed helicopter at a military fair in Qatar.
The wannabe singer introduced her English friend to a real estate agent, a jeweler, a hairdresser, and a television producer. They all said hello in thick Russian accents before the singer said, “And this is my friend Angela Tate.”
Ingrid almost dropped her phone. Angela Tate? What the hell was Tate doing here? Ingrid turned away from the group and made a beeline for the other side of the room, hoping her speed didn’t attract attention. The friendless Birbatov followed.
Ingrid hadn’t seen Angela Tate for a couple of years and hadn’t missed her. She had once been the most feared journalist on Fleet Street and had interfered with several of her investigations. Her byline had been absent from the Evening News for a long time, and she’d assumed Tate had retired. She caught sight of Angela’s frizzy hair and noted her penchant for leopard print hadn’t faded.
Angela Tate. The indestructible Angela Tate. Ingrid looked away again. She needed to leave. Now. The risk of Tate recognizing her was too great. Even though Natalya’s hair, makeup and attire were convincing, it would only take Angela to say something like ‘Haven’t we met?’ for Ingrid’s entire undercover world to come to an end. She put her glass down and hurried toward the door, this time finally shedding her puppy. Coming straight at her, with a beaming smile, was another familiar face.
“Natalya! How charming.”
Vitali Shevchenko, the eighth richest man in the world, leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. He was the only man in the room not wearing a jacket, just his regular black turtleneck sweater tucked into a pair of black slacks. He looked like he had dressed for reading the Sunday papers in his conservatory.
“Vitali Shevchenko,” she said, “how lovely to see you again.”
“You do not have a drink,” he said, signaling to a waiter. “I am glad to see you. I received your email about the Malevich. This is excellent news.”
Vitali Shevchenko swiped two champagne flutes and handed one to Ingrid and the other to the woman standing next to him. “Have you two met?”
“I do not believe so.” Ingrid extended her hand. “Natalya Vesnina. Art broker.”
“Ivanka. Ivanka Shevchenko.” She was the most remarkable woman in the room. Chaotic hair, unreconstructed face and a figure that suggested she was big fan of the dessert menu. “My husband speaks very highly of you.”
“And of you also. I understand it was your idea to move away from the French painters and invest in Russia. Very astute.”
Ivanka smiled and Ingrid warmed to her. She pinched her finger and thumb together, a technique she’d adopted whenever she felt her own emotions threaten to override what she thought Natalya’s should be.
“So tell me about the discovery,” Vitali Shevchenko asked. “It is genuine?”
Ingrid nodded. She desperately wanted to convince the couple to buy at least one of the paintings she had sourced, but it was more important she left the room before Angela Tate spotted her.
“I’ve had a colleague in Moscow travel to inspect them. There are two, did I mention that in my email?”
The couple nodded.
“I believe there may have been a small amount of damage, but I am having them sent to London. I think the damage—they had been used as window shutters, can you believe it—means the price will not be excessive. But they are important pieces. From his time in Belarus.”
Vitali Shevchenko nodded. “Can you bring them to me this week?”
“Yes, of course. I will speak to Coco.” Coco, her nonexistent assistant.
Vitali Shevchenko pulled a business card from his pants pocket. “Call me
direct.”
“Perfect, I will be sure to.” Ingrid tried to inch her way toward the door without seeming rude. The Shevchenkos were among London’s most prolific art collectors, and their house in Kensington could easily substitute for the Hermitage in film shoots.
“You are not staying for the concert?” Ivanka asked, sensing Ingrid’s eagerness to leave.
“I just need to make a call. I will be back.”
Ingrid nodded her farewell and edged closer to the door. She could hear the crisp consonants and enunciated vowels of Angela Tate rising above the fog of Russian. Ingrid kept an eye on her as she hurried toward the exit. Tate glanced in her direction, and for a millisecond, the old adversaries made eye contact.
5
The following morning, Ingrid waited an inordinately long time for an elevator at a hotel on Park Lane. The London Hilton was an iconic piece of sixties architecture that looked more like a corporate skyscraper than a place to relax, an impression enhanced by the number of businesspeople passing through the lobby in identical suits. The doors opened with a ting, and a large family group dressed for a day at the races—or maybe the Palace—spilled out and gave her biker outfit a series of dirty looks. She got in and pressed seven. Ingrid found room 712 and knocked.
“Hello?”
“Agent Skyberg. From the embassy.”
The man in the doorway—thirties, hipster beard, buttoned-up plaid shirt—looked surprised.
“It’s the motorcycle gear, isn’t it?” She rooted around for her ID. “It’s me, I promise.”
He checked it thoroughly, looked at her suspiciously, then handed it back. “Special Agent David Rennie, from the Omaha field office.”
“Pleasure to meet you. You requested assistance?”
