She went to the door of the cell. Before opening it, she looked back at Rogozin, who was still seated at his desk.
“I’m aware that forensic linguistics can be inexact,” Wolfe said. “But even after all your objections, I can’t help but wonder how you knew that Garber’s desk was next to mine.”
Rogozin said nothing in response, although Wolfe thought she saw something flicker in his hazel eyes as she left the cell. Closing the door, she went down the hallway, where Asthana was standing with her phone to one ear.
As she approached, Asthana hung up. Before her partner could say anything, Wolfe spoke first, not wanting to lose her insight from a moment before. “Something was missing from Rogozin’s house. If he’s a writer, where are his manuscripts? His papers have to be somewhere.”
“That’s a good idea,” Asthana said, following her to the end of the hall. “But there’s something you need to hear first. That was Cornwall on the phone. The director general wants to hold a hearing into the circumstances of the arrest. It’s scheduled to take place in five days.”
Wolfe pressed the button for the elevator. “I’m surprised it took him this long.”
As she waited for the elevator to descend, she found herself thinking of Powell, who had escaped before the agency degenerated into an endless political nightmare. Five days wasn’t nearly enough. But now it was all she had.
The elevator doors opened. Wolfe got in, pressing the button for the first floor.
Caught up in her thoughts, she did not notice, except in passing, that her partner had lingered for a second in the hallway outside. And she did not see Asthana look for a long moment at the closed door of Rogozin’s cell, her face unreadable, before entering the elevator as well.
7
The following morning, the gates of Tarkovsky’s estate slid back, allowing Maddy to enter for the first time. She was seated in the backseat of the car that had picked her up at home, driven by a silent figure who had resisted all her efforts to engage him in conversation. As they rolled past the guardhouse, she saw two men seated at a bank of monitors. One of them spoke inaudibly into a phone as the town car drove by, passing a sign warning of the electrified fence.
It had been an hour’s drive from London. The estate, as Maddy had learned, was located in West Sussex, covering more than three hundred acres outside the city of Chichester. Through her window, she could see a trailed gang mower cutting the grass, with a separate crew filling in the hoof marks on the field with sand. The girl she had seen on horseback the day before, whom she had confirmed was Tarkovsky’s daughter, Nina, was nowhere in sight.
At the end of the drive stood the main house, a Tudor mansion fronted with stone and framed by two projecting wings. Next to it ran a modern extension and, to the north, a line of evergreen woods. As Maddy looked ahead, she noted a jeep coming in the other direction, carrying two men in uniform. Powell had instructed her to keep a close eye on Tarkovsky’s staff, especially security.
A moment later, the car eased to a stop at the driveway in front of the mansion. As the driver came around to open her door, Maddy saw Elena Usova emerge from the narrow entrance gable. Elena had exchanged yesterday’s Armani suit for Versace, but she was carrying the same leather folder as before.
It was a cool morning with a hint of rain, and she could smell damp fir and freshly mown grass as she followed Elena along the footpath. As she walked, she noticed a man in a gray suit watching from the door of the main house, and she increased her tally of security staff to five.
Maddy saw that they were heading for the new building. “We aren’t going inside?”
Elena’s heels crunched on the gravel of the path. “No. The foundation’s employees are housed in the extension. Only Vasily, his family, and his personal staff work in the main house.”
Hearing Elena refer to her employer by his first name, Maddy wondered if there was more to their relationship than met the eye. She knew that Tarkovsky and his wife had been separated for years. “It’s a beautiful property.”
Elena nodded as they passed a walled garden, followed by a pair of clay tennis courts. “The oldest buildings date from the sixteenth century. The main house, which is more recent, was built by Sir Edwin Lutyens. All the stone was quarried here. After Vasily acquired it, he began restoring it to its original state. You’ll find that he cares deeply about the past.”
When they arrived at the extension, Elena unlocked the door with a keycard. Maddy followed her into a reception area. Inside, a secretary, also tall and blond, was seated at right angles to a security desk, where a guard asked politely to examine her bag. “You’ll need to be searched when you leave each day,” Elena said. “It’s a standard precaution for all employees.”
Once the search was complete, Maddy followed Elena up the corridor. The walls were covered in photographs of a yacht under construction, the emblem of a white lotus visible on its hull. This was the Rigden, which was being built in Italy by Fincantieri at a cost of nearly two hundred million dollars. When it was launched later this month, it would be one of the largest yachts in the world.
“This building houses the foundation’s London staff,” Elena said, heading up the hall. “There are eight employees working with our group in Moscow. I’ll introduce you to the others in a moment.”
The assistant halted at a room two doors down. A flick of the light switch revealed a windowless space lined with file cabinets and shelves packed with books and binders. “These are the archives,” Elena said. “It’s where the foundation keeps provenance information for art under investigation. You’ll want to study our previous projects to get a sense of what we need, then turn to the files on Fabergé to prepare a proposal for repatriation.”
Maddy ran her eyes across the files. “Is there a catalog of materials available?”
“Yes. And everything is fully indexed. If you require any translations, you can photocopy the relevant pages and leave them for our service. They’ll be ready for you overnight.” Elena switched the light off. “If you want to take any materials with you, you’ll need to clear it with us beforehand.”
“That’s fine,” Maddy said. She saw a second file room across the hall. “And here?”
“Files relating to the foundation’s other activities,” Elena said, continuing up the corridor. “You don’t need to concern yourself with those.”
Maddy nodded, but she did not look away just yet. On one of the shelves, there was a row of black binders, the location of which she quietly noted as she turned to join Elena at the end of the hallway.
Elena opened the last door. Inside, there was a small office with a pedestal desk, two chairs, and a computer and phone. A window looked out on the walled garden beyond. “This is your workstation. Someone in the kitchen will call you about lunch. And a car will come around at six to take you home.”
Maddy set her purse down on the desk. “When can I meet with Tarkovsky?”
Elena gave her a glacial look. “Are any aspects of your assignment unclear?”
Maddy, who had worked with women like this for much of her life, returned the stare without blinking. “Not at all.”
“In that case, you can begin. If Vasily wants to see you, I’ll be sure to let you know.” The assistant headed for the door. “I’ll check on your paperwork. Someone will be here to see you shortly.”
Elena left the office, closing the door behind her. Once she was alone, Maddy exhaled and went to the window with its garden view, thinking back to the binders she had seen in the other room. “We need a sense of how the money goes in and out,” Powell had said. “This means travel records, payroll information, but especially the cashbook, a journal of disbursements and receipts—”
Maddy had been doubtful. “But they wouldn’t just leave this lying around.”
“No,” Powell had said. “But even the most secretive enterprise has to maintain this information
. Unless they’re incredibly careless, you won’t have access to the server. But if they’re like most businesses, hard copies will be printed and saved. They’ll be in Russian, so you’ll need to know exactly how they look. Once we know what we have to work with, we’ll figure out the rest.”
As Maddy stood at the window now, remembering this conversation, she reminded herself to take things one step at a time. Her first task was to find out if the records she needed were really there. And then—
The door of the office opened, breaking into her thoughts. Turning around, instead of the human resources employee she had expected to see, she found herself facing the man in the gray suit who had been watching earlier from the main house. “Please, sit down,” the man said. “I am Pavel Orlov, head of internal security. I must ask you a few questions.”
For no good reason, her heart began to thump. Maddy awkwardly claimed the chair behind the desk, studying the security chief as he sat down. He had short hair, a worsted tie, and a silver ring with a red stone. “Tarkovsky and I have been over this. He’s comfortable with my background.”
Orlov smiled. “With all due respect, Tarkovsky will be comfortable when I say so.”
Opening the personnel folder in his hands, Orlov began with a question about her most recent employer, then inquired into her time in New York. Maddy had gone over all these matters with Powell, and she responded readily, her uneasiness gradually diminishing.
A moment later, Orlov asked a question she had not been expecting. “Tell me about Ilya Severin.”
Maddy sensed a special interest here. “There isn’t much to tell. I was only in the same room with him twice.”
“Yes, I know,” Orlov said. “The first was when you were trespassing in the home of Anzor Archvadze, another powerful man, looking for information to put to your own advantage. The second was at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. You went to break into an installation there, for reasons that remain unclear—”
“It’s a long story. I thought I was uncovering evidence of a plot against my life, but it was all in my mind.”
“Yet there were men who wanted you dead. Alexey Lermontov knew that you had learned he was trading in stolen art, so he dispatched an assassin to kill you at the museum. Ilya Severin prevented this, then took out Lermontov himself a year later. From what I hear, it’s uncertain how he managed to find him. Did you ever wonder if he might come after you?”
Maddy found again that it was easiest to be honest. “No. He has no reason to do so.”
Orlov closed the folder, apparently satisfied. “Perhaps not. Indeed, the first time you met Ilya Severin, he spared your life. The second time, he saved it. Do you have any idea why?”
From outside, she could hear the sound of birds in the garden, and she thought once more of the house where Lermontov had died. “I don’t know,” Maddy said at last. “I imagine he had reasons of his own.”
8
Ilya was seated at the table in his cell when the call he had been expecting finally came. He had been reading from his volume of midrash when something made him glance at the door, which was open. There was no one there. All the same, he paused, keeping his eye on the landing. Closing his book, he rested it casually in one hand, the spine facing outward.
A second later, there was the sound of footsteps, and a shadow fell across the threshold. The prisoner standing outside did not attempt to enter. Prison etiquette dictated that you never went into another inmate’s cell without permission. “Vasylenko wants to see you.”
Ilya rose from his chair. It was association time. For forty minutes every day, prisoners who were not in segregation were allowed to mix freely. Ilya, for his part, had kept to himself. Since his transfer, he had followed his usual routine, reading, walking on his own in the yard, and reporting to his job in the workshop, where inmates filled remanufactured printer cartridges. Until now, he had been left alone. But he had also been waiting for this moment.
Taking his book with him, he left his cell and joined the other prisoner on the landing. This inmate, whose name was Sasha, was a thickly muscled man with glasses, red hair, and skin so sensitive that, even in this gray climate, he was perpetually pink with sunburn. Six years ago, he had been convicted of torturing and killing his wife and her lover. His arms were covered in tattoos, but to the eyes of a man like Ilya, they were nothing but nonsense.
They descended a flight of metal steps to the association room, a common space with steel mesh running from floor to ceiling and guards stationed at each end. In one corner, a group of West Indians were playing dominoes, shouting with excitement at every move, while other prisoners watched television or stood in a line for the pay phones on the far wall.
Sasha continued through a separate gate, which led to the space reserved for enhanced prisoners. A few cleaners were playing cards, while others were shooting pool. And in the corner was seated a tight circle of inmates, five in all, who turned to look as Ilya approached.
Ilya returned the scrutiny. Most of the men seemed to range from twenty to their early thirties. Some, like Sasha, had the usual meaningless tattoos, while the youngest had no marks at all.
Seated at the center was Grigory Vasylenko. The old man was smaller than Ilya remembered, over seventy by now, his hair and mustache white, along with a fine layer of scruff on his cheeks and chin. He was wearing his jacket indoors, his hands lost in their sleeves, and yet a core of hardness remained, along with a look in his eyes that made Ilya feel as if he were back in Vladimir.
Vasylenko regarded Ilya for a moment, then spoke to his men. “Leave us alone.”
At once, the others stood, their eyes fixed on the newcomer, and departed one by one. Vasylenko gestured for Ilya to sit down, then motioned for the book in the younger man’s hands, which Ilya handed over. “Still lost in the myths of the Jews, I see. It must have been hard to survive on your own for so long.”
“It’s what I was taught to do,” Ilya said. “I was once told that a man can reach his full potential only when he has been left with nothing.”
Vasylenko smiled slightly, evidently recognizing his own words. Looking across at the vor, Ilya marveled at how easy it would be. Seated a few feet away from him was the man who, long ago, had ordered the death of Ilya’s parents, transforming him into a killer who was unknowingly serving the very forces he hated. More than enough reason, Ilya thought, to end it all now.
But there was another reason to hold back. The death of one man was nothing compared to the survival of the system as a whole. And the possibility still remained, as remote as it might seem, that there was a larger picture elsewhere that he would be allowed to see. “I hear your leave to appeal was granted.”
Vasylenko gave an absent wave. “Yes. I do not have much hope of success, but for now, I will go along with the charade. If nothing else, it will be good to have a change of scene.”
Looking into the old man’s eyes, Ilya saw the true meaning there. “When will it be?”
“One week from now,” Vasylenko said calmly. “But I expect that Dancy has told you this already. He claims that you have been quite helpful in giving him insight into the situation on the ground. What have you said?”
“I told him that you’re the last of your kind,” Ilya replied, knowing that Dancy would have passed along most of this information. “Once, in prison, the thief was king. But I’ve seen the men you control here. Outside, there are those who still honor you and what you represent. But not in this place.”
In response, the vor only grunted. “And what do you expect for such insights?”
“Nothing,” Ilya said. “But what I expect and what I need are two different things.”
Vasylenko laughed softly, shaking his head. “I asked you here, Ilyuha, because I wanted to look in your eyes. Dancy thinks you can be trusted. But I know you too well. I’m aware that a man like you, who has so often put revenge above his own best inte
rests, might have other reasons to get close to this lawyer, when in fact you haven’t changed at all.”
“You’re right,” Ilya said. “There are things no man should be willing to forgive. But a man might be willing to forget the past, at least for a time, in exchange for a chance at a future.”
Vasylenko seemed unmoved by this. “These are strong words. But are they true?”
“A year ago, I would have said no. I may say no again tomorrow. But I will be in prison for the rest of my life. I have no fear of this, but I value my freedom and my invisibility. This is not how I want to die, and I have nothing else. But then again, you saw to that yourself.”
As he spoke, Ilya tugged down the collar of his shirt, revealing the pale area of skin where a tattoo had been removed. Vasylenko eyed it dispassionately. “So what are you willing to do?”
“Whatever it takes,” Ilya said, releasing his collar again. “At least for now.”
Vasylenko smiled. “And later? Do you believe you can simply walk away?”
“No. I have no illusions. But I also know that Dancy would not consider taking such a risk without good reason. If you are willing to consider me, you must be out of options. And as I see it, neither of us has a choice.”
Vasylenko glanced over at his men, who were watching from their table in the corner. “Perhaps. The world is full of those who think they have what it takes, but there are few with the proper detachment. In your case, I have no doubt that the skills are there, but it will be necessary to prove that you can be trusted.”
Ilya had known that this moment was coming. “I understand. Then set me a task.”
“Very good,” Vasylenko said. “As it happens, the task has already been set. A problem, shall we say, that I need you to resolve.”
Lowering his voice, Vasylenko switched to Assyrian, the language used for the most secret communications between thieves. Ilya listened as the old man described what he had in mind, which took only a few words.
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