Opening a new window in her browser, Asthana typed in a name. She took a sip of tea, then clicked on the first result. Scrolling down the page, working slowly and carefully, she began to read.
Half an hour later, she had reviewed most of the information available online. Turning to one of the more recent articles, Asthana studied a picture of a young woman’s face. As she looked into the pixels of the girl’s eyes, she found that she wasn’t sure if she agreed with Wolfe. Maddy Blume, she thought, might be more suited for this kind of work than she seemed. Her face was that of a woman with secrets. Asthana knew the signs all too well.
On an impulse, she unlocked and opened her desk drawer. It was cluttered with pens, pencils, and other odds and ends, but among this deliberate confusion lay a small object with a curved steel handle.
Asthana took out the knife and unfolded it. The hawkbill blade, curved like a raptor’s talon, was spotless now, and she had kept it for sentimental reasons, although she used it these days only to open the mail.
She studied the blade for another moment, then closed it. As she put the knife back into the drawer, her eyes fell again on the photo of Maddy. Asthana considered it briefly, then shut the window on her computer screen, although she continued to wonder about the secrets behind the girl’s face.
Perhaps, she thought, closing the drawer, it would be necessary to keep an eye on her.
15
“You should have told me,” Maddy said to Powell. “Did you know that Tarkovsky had worked with Lermontov?”
Powell gazed out at the lake at the heart of Hyde Park. He had not been looking forward to this conversation, but there was no longer any way of avoiding it. “I knew. But it’s more complicated than you think.”
“You’d better explain,” Maddy replied. “Otherwise, I’m walking away now.”
They made their way slowly along the Serpentine. Powell’s legs were bothering him, but he was always glad to be outside. It was a bright morning, one of those pleasant London days, of which there had been all too few this year, that made you all the more aware of how summer was passing.
He decided to approach the topic in the way that would seem most reassuring. “You need to understand that there are two competing sides to Russian intelligence. The FSB and its affiliates are what we call the civilian side. At home, they hold the power of life and death, but they’re less effective at foreign operations. Lermontov was one of their leading paymasters, channeling money from art deals to agents across the world, and his death was a great blow.”
Maddy’s voice remained cold. “I imagine that he was very good at what he did.”
“He was,” Powell said. “And no one has yet emerged to take his place. But there’s a second group, the GRU, on the military side. This is a separate world entirely from civilian intelligence. Until recently, they had been growing even more powerful, as the energy companies they controlled spread across the globe. The result is a rivalry that goes back decades. And it culminated late last year.”
Maddy kept her eyes on the path, her hands in her pockets. “With the plane attack.”
Powell nodded. “Military intelligence thought the civilian side was plotting to seize control of the gas industry. To foil this, they brought down the plane of an opposition leader and tried to pin it on their rivals. It was a very good plan. I should know. But it backfired. The plan was exposed. And as a result, the military side appears to have fallen apart.”
As he walked, he was unable to prevent a note of satisfaction from entering his voice. “It’s hard to be sure, but the withdrawal seems to have been a messy one. Agents have been left stranded without any way of contacting their handlers at home. Meanwhile, the civilian arm has grown in power, and most of the leading energy companies have come under its influence. So it’s no surprise that the remains of the military side are trying to cling to their last source of advantage.”
Maddy appeared to understand at once. “You’re talking about Tarkovsky.”
“Yes,” Powell said. “Tarkovsky owns one of the last major oil companies in Russia that isn’t in government hands. But his situation is a precarious one. As a banker, he was ready to act when the government privatized state businesses to pay off its debts. He became a billionaire overnight. But he was an upstart, an outsider, and privatization was supposed to benefit the old guard. In order to survive, he had to come to terms with the security services.”
Powell headed for a bench by the lake, motioning for Maddy to follow. “Of course, this was true of all energy companies. To avoid being taxed out of existence, they had to set up subsidiaries to distribute the oil and gas. The easiest way of doing this was to partner with organized crime, which already had the infrastructure in place. And this meant dealing with state intelligence, especially in the military, which had strong ties to the mob.”
Maddy seemed struck by this. “Tarkovsky’s security chief. Orlov. Is he one of them?”
“He’s a former military translator, which generally points to an intelligence role. That ring he wears is a sign of this as well. But his contacts, if they exist, are on the military side. These aren’t Lermontov’s people. And there’s no evidence that Tarkovsky was involved with what happened to you in New York.”
Powell studied her face as he spoke, hoping that his words would have the proper effect. All the same, he knew that while such distinctions were correct in theory, the lines were not always so clear. Maddy, for her part, seemed to sense this. “So why was he working with Lermontov?”
“It might have been exactly what he told you,” Powell said. “We’ve looked into this very carefully. Tarkovsky spent much of the last few years acquiring Russian art that had been illegally removed from the country. Lermontov had access to work that was sold to raise funds for operations. Tarkovsky may have seen a partnership as the best way to retrieve it—”
Maddy broke in. “No. It isn’t that simple. Lermontov killed a friend of mine with his own hands, and he tried to do the same to me. You knew exactly how I’d feel about his connection to Tarkovsky, but you said nothing. Were you afraid I’d refuse the assignment?”
“Of course,” Powell said. “But in any case, it wasn’t necessary for you to know.”
“Well, it’s necessary now,” Maddy replied. “Before this goes any further, you need to tell me everything.”
Looking at her, Powell wondered if she sensed that he was not the same man he had been when they first met. The change had begun with the crash, but there had also been the death of his father, who had passed away four months ago, his mind mercifully gone, after a lifetime of work at Thames House. Studying the files and books that his father had left behind, Powell had come to a decision. If his life had been spared, it was so he could make something real and lasting, even if the rest of the world failed to understand his reasons.
Powell watched a couple in a pedal boat on the lake, the man and woman laughing as they paddled across the water. “Russia will only change if it’s forced to do so by its foreign partners. This is why I went to Cheshire. I had no interest in the investment side, but I saw a chance to influence events in a way that might actually matter, and to make sure that the men who did this to me don’t return to power again when the wheel comes full circle.”
Glancing over, he saw that Maddy had turned away. “So what happens now?”
Powell sensed that she was close to a decision. “It’s your choice. I won’t blame you for leaving. But I need you.” He hesitated. “The documents you’ve provided are useful. They show that much of the foundation’s money is being sent to a range of holding companies that we’re still trying to identify. But there’s more that you could do for us, at least until this deal is concluded.”
She did not reply. After a minute had passed in silence, Powell rose from the bench, thinking of his conversation with Wolfe. Maddy, she had said, had no business being involved, and he knew from long experie
nce that Wolfe was usually right. But this was also the last real chance he would ever have.
“Take your time,” Powell finally said to Maddy, who was still looking away. “When you’re ready, we’ll talk about what comes next.”
There was no response. In the end, he only turned aside, moving along the path by the water.
From the bench, Maddy watched him go. Once he was out of sight, she turned back to the other faces along the lake. Her thoughts were clear and cold, but she was no closer to an answer than before.
Powell had used her. The wisest course of action would be simply to end it now. Yet she also remembered the look in Tarkovsky’s eyes when he had told her about Lermontov. And she had made a vow to see something through, a promise with consequences that Powell would never understand.
Only one other person in the world knew what she had done. At the museum in Philadelphia, he had seen something in her face, and later, he had come to her, knowing that they both wanted the same thing. In the end, Maddy had done her part. Which was how she had found herself standing outside the house in Fulham, two years ago, when Ilya Severin had killed Lermontov.
Ever since, she had tried to bury this memory as deep as she could. She had told herself that the gallerist’s death was the end of it all, that she could move on, but even then, she had known better. Lermontov was only a piece of a larger pattern. If Tarkovsky had been a part of it, she owed it to herself, and to others, to learn more. And if he bore any of the responsibility—
Maddy cut off the thought, afraid, more than anything else, to find out what she might be willing to do. She looked out at the water for another moment, then rose and headed down the path in the opposite direction from Powell.
And she did not realize, as she left the lake, that someone had been watching her the entire time.
16
By late morning, Wolfe’s hangover was still there. At the moment, as she sat in the deputy director’s office with the door closed, it had been reduced to a dull throb, rising occasionally to the surface as Cornwall tried to get a handle on the situation. “Forensics is sure about the timing?”
“As far as they can be,” Wolfe said. “They think he’s been there at least six months. If they’re right, it means Garber died soon after his disappearance. So all our assumptions need to be thrown away.”
Cornwall leafed through the files on her desk. Wolfe had recognized them earlier as a complete set of internal reports, many of which she had written herself, on Garber’s presumed defection, all of which could now be consigned to the fire. “And the train ticket to Lausanne?”
“It was bought using Garber’s credit card and identification, to make it look like he was leaving the country. The files on his computer are suspect as well. It means we’ve been chasing a ghost.”
Cornwall sighed, removing her glasses. “So let’s lay it out. If Garber wasn’t the informant, then our mole isn’t just guilty of a leak, but of accessory to murder, if not more. It could tear this agency apart.”
Wolfe didn’t bother denying this. “But it could also work to our advantage. The real informant doesn’t know we’ve identified the body. Only Asthana, Lewis, and a few staff members at the Royal London are aware of it. Garber was unmarried. His next of kin is an aunt in Manchester. If we can, I’d like to hold off on announcing his death for as long as possible, until we can question Rogozin again.”
Cornwall seemed to consider this. There was a pair of marks on the bridge of her nose where her glasses had pinched too tightly. “I’ll need to inform the board. But I’ll try to buy you a day or two. I can’t promise anything more.”
Putting her glasses back on, Cornwall looked across the desk at Wolfe. “I’m entrusting you with this for a reason. When this is over, you can still go home. I don’t want a witch-hunt, but we need to tie this off. Otherwise—”
She left the thought unfinished, but Wolfe knew what she had been about to say.
Leaving the office, Wolfe walked through the cubicle farm on the third floor of agency headquarters. Asthana was seated at her workstation, not far from Garber’s old desk, which was still vacant. Before Wolfe could sit down, her partner rose, lifting a finger for silence, and motioned her into an empty conference room. She was carrying a thick stack of folders. “What’s the word?”
“We have a day’s head start, maybe less.” Wolfe quickly described her meeting with Cornwall, then spread out the files Asthana had brought, which turned out to be summaries of personnel records for the entire agency.
Wolfe finished laying out the files, ordering them in separate stacks by division, and took a step back. “Let’s start with what we know. We’re looking for someone who had access to information about the Karvonen case and could have hacked into Garber’s workstation to plant evidence.”
Asthana looked over Wolfe’s shoulder. “Which points to someone in the intelligence directorate. A hundred names. I’ll get the files from corporate services. We can tell them it’s part of the restructuring—”
“Which will just make them afraid that they’re going to be downsized.” Wolfe shook her head, then thought of something else. “And there’s one more thing. You need to see Rogozin.”
Asthana, who had been stacking the files, glanced up in surprise. “Why me?”
“I can’t go myself. I’m being watched too closely. But we need to find out what he knows about Garber. And at this point, you have a better chance than I do.” Wolfe began packing up the papers. “We can discuss it later. I’ll take care of this. Just get me those records.”
After a beat, Asthana left the conference room. Wolfe watched her go, then gathered up the remaining files. As she did, her eyes passed across the names of her colleagues, one of whom, she feared, was a traitor and murderer. Weighing the papers in her hands, she found herself thinking of something she had been told long ago: Words would only deceive you—
As she remembered this, she suddenly saw what she had to do next. There was someone she had to see. And before she could come up with a list of reasons to put the thought out of mind, she quickly stuffed the rest of the files into their folders and headed back out to the main floor.
An hour later, Wolfe was in the interview room at Belmarsh, waiting to see Ilya Severin. It was strange to be back. She had not returned since late the previous year, and her last conversation with Ilya had been a phone call lasting less than a minute. Since then, she had made sure he was treated fairly, but she had otherwise kept her distance. Ilya, she had hoped, would understand.
Looking out at the guards, Wolfe wasn’t sure what had brought her here again. She had not asked for permission from Cornwall, knowing that it would certainly be denied. Yet she had learned long ago to trust her intuition, which didn’t tell her that Ilya would know the informant’s name, or even that he would see something that she could not, but only that their conversation might set up a vibration that would lead her, in the end, to the answer.
She was still reflecting on this when she saw a familiar figure in the corridor outside. After consulting inaudibly with one of the guards, he came through the door of the interview room. “Why, hello there,” Owen Dancy said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d have the pleasure again—”
Wolfe stared up at the solicitor’s substantial frame. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” Dancy said, lowering himself carefully into a chair. “It seems rather strange, given the timing, for you to suddenly decide to see my client now.”
“Ilya is your client?” Wolfe heard herself echoing his words. “Since when?”
Dancy smiled. “We came to a private arrangement some time ago. More recently, we’ve decided to formalize our relationship, now that preparations have started in earnest for his upcoming trial.”
Wolfe tried to get her head around this. It didn’t make sense. Ilya hated the solicitor’s clients and all they represented, and
it was unthinkable that he would accept their help. “I want to see him.”
“That may be rather difficult,” Dancy said. “I just spoke with our friend, and my impression is that he would prefer that you not contact him again. It might give the appearance of a conflict, given the evolving nature of his case—”
Wolfe became aware that her headache had returned. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m hardly at liberty to discuss. However, my client will have more to say at his next court appearance. In the meantime, it seems best for him to refuse any visitors.” He gave her another silky smile. “I do hope you understand.”
With that, the solicitor rose and headed for the door. Wolfe remained where she was, her head still pounding with that same inner voice, which told her that something was terribly wrong.
17
Later that afternoon, Ilya was seated at his table by the window, reading, when he heard the door of his cell unlock. Looking up, he saw a pair of unsmiling officers in the doorway, both wearing blue nitrile gloves. The older of the two guards spoke. “Time for a spin. Get up.”
Ilya rose silently from his chair. He had been expecting this visit for some time. Without being asked, he pulled off his shirt, raised his hands, and turned a complete circle. Then, as instructed, he ran his fingers through his hair to show that it concealed no drugs.
After putting his shirt back on, he took off his trousers. As one of the officers checked the clothes and examined the soles of Ilya’s feet, the other tested the bars on the window with a tuning fork. When they told him to get dressed, he could see that they were already bored. “Do you have any contraband belonging to another inmate, or legal papers you do not wish us to read?”
Ilya said that he did not. As the older guard remained behind to begin the full search, the younger escorted Ilya to a waiting room at the far end of the spur, where he was left alone. He was not particularly concerned by what the guards might find, but the overall pattern was troubling. Security at the prison had recently been heightened, evidently because of Sasha’s death.
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