43
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
They held the forum in the Bella Center, a hideous glass-and-steel convention hall that looked like a giant greenhouse dropped from outer space. A pack of reporters stood shivering outside the entrance, behind a cordon of yellow tape. Most of the arriving executives had the good sense to ignore their shouted taunts, but not Orlov. He paused to answer a question about the sudden spike in global oil prices, from which he profited wildly, and soon found himself holding forth on subjects ranging from the British election to the Kremlin’s crackdown on Russia’s pro-democracy movement. Gabriel and the team heard every word of it, for Mikhail was standing at Orlov’s side in plain sight of the cameras, his mobile phone in his hand. In fact, it was Mikhail who finally put an end to Orlov’s impromptu news conference by taking hold of his coat sleeve and tugging him toward the center’s open door. Later, a British reporter would remark that it was the first time she had ever seen anyone—“And I mean anyone!”—dare to lay so much as a finger on Viktor Orlov.
Once inside, Orlov was a whirlwind. He attended every panel discussion the morning had to offer, visited every booth on the exhibition floor, and accepted every hand that was extended his way, even those that were attached to men who loathed him. “This is Nicholas Avedon,” he would say to anyone within earshot. “Nicholas is my right hand and my left. Nicholas is my north star.”
Lunch was a vertical affair—Orlov-speak for a buffet meal with no assigned seating—and there was no alcohol or pork in deference to the many delegates from the Muslim world. Orlov and Mikhail sailed through it without a bite and then settled in for the afternoon’s first panel, a somber discussion of the lessons learned from BP’s disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. Gennady Lazarev was in attendance as well, seated two rows behind Orlov’s right shoulder. “Like an assassin,” Orlov murmured to Mikhail. “He’s circling for the kill. It’s only a matter of time before he draws his gun.”
The remark was clearly audible in the little flat on the street with an unpronounceable name, and the sentiments expressed were shared by Gabriel and the rest of his team. In fact, thanks to the camera hanging around Yossi’s neck, they had the photographs to prove it. During the morning session of the forum, Lazarev had kept a safe distance. But now, as the afternoon wore on, he was moving ever closer to his target. “He’s like a jetliner in a holding pattern,” said Eli Lavon. “He’s just waiting for the tower to give him clearance to land.”
“I’m not sure the weather conditions on the ground will allow it,” replied Gabriel.
“When do you expect a window to open?”
“Here,” said Gabriel, tapping his forefinger on the final entry of the first-day schedule. “This is when we’ll set him down.”
Which meant that Gabriel and the team were forced to endure two more hours of what Christopher Keller described as “oil babble.” There was a deeply boring speech by an Indian government minister about the future energy needs of the world’s second most populous nation. Then it was a chiding lecture by France’s new president about taxation, profit, and social responsibility. And finally there was a remarkably honest panel discussion about the environmental dangers posed by the extraction technique known as hydraulic fracturing. Not surprisingly, Gennady Lazarev was not in attendance. As a rule, Russian oil companies regarded the environment as something to be exploited, not protected.
With that, the delegates filed onto the escalators and headed to the center’s upper gallery for a cocktail reception. Gennady Lazarev had arrived early and was talking to a couple of tieless Iranian oil executives in the far corner of the room. Orlov and Mikhail each snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and settled among a group of festive Brazilians. Orlov had turned his back to Lazarev, but Mikhail had a clear view of him. Therefore, it was Mikhail who saw the Russian separate himself from the Iranians and begin a slow journey across the room.
“Now might be a good time for you to take a walk, Viktor.”
“Where?”
“Finland.”
A skilled cocktail party actor, Orlov drew his mobile phone from his suit pocket and raised it to his ear. Then, frowning as though he could not hear, he moved swiftly away in search of a quiet place to talk. In Orlov’s absence, Mikhail turned his back to the room and fell into a serious discussion with one of the Brazilians about investment opportunities in Latin America. But two minutes into the conversation, he became aware of the fact that a man was standing behind him. He knew this because the smell of the man’s rich cologne had overwhelmed all other scents within its zone of influence. He knew it, too, because he could see it in the wandering eye of the Brazilian. Turning, he found himself staring directly into the face that had adorned the wall of the Grayswood safe house. Training and experience allowed him to react with nothing more than a blank stare.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” the face said in Russian-accented English, “but I wanted to introduce myself before Viktor returns. My name is Gennady Lazarev. I’m from Volgatek Oil and Gas.”
“I’m Nicholas,” said Mikhail, accepting the outstretched hand. “Nicholas Avedon.”
“I know who you are,” said Lazarev, smiling. “In fact, I know everything there is to know about you.”
The conversation that came next was one minute and twenty-seven seconds in length. The quality of the recording was remarkably clear except for the background hum of the cocktail reception and a dull pile-driver thumping that the team later identified as the sound of Mikhail’s heart. Gabriel’s own heart beat a matching rhythm as he listened to the recording five times from beginning to end. Now, as he clicked the PLAY icon and listened to the recording for a sixth time, he seemed to have no pulse at all.
“I know who you are. In fact, I know everything there is to know about you.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Because we’ve been watching some of the moves you’ve been making with Viktor’s portfolio, and we’re very impressed.”
“Who’s we?”
“Volgatek, of course. Who did you think I was talking about?”
“The business environment in Russia is rather different than it is in the West. Pronouns can be tricky things.”
“You’re very diplomatic.”
“I have to be. I work for Viktor Orlov.”
“Sometimes it looks as though Viktor is working for you.”
“Looks can be deceiving, Mr. Lazarev.”
“So the rumors on the street aren’t true?”
“What rumors are those?”
“That you’ve taken control of Viktor’s day-to-day operations? That Viktor is nothing more than a name and a flashy necktie?”
“Viktor is still the master strategist. I’m just the one who pushes the buttons and pulls the levers.”
“You’re very loyal, Nicholas.”
“As the day is long.”
“I like that in a man. I’m loyal, too.”
“Just not to Viktor.”
“You and Viktor have obviously talked about me.”
“Only once.”
“I can’t imagine he had anything decent to say about me.”
“He said you were very smart.”
“Did he mean it as a compliment?”
“No.”
“Viktor and I had our differences—I won’t deny that. But that’s all in the past. I’ve always respected his opinion, especially when it comes to people. He was always a good talent spotter. That’s why I wanted to meet you. I have an idea I’d like to discuss.”
“I’ll tell Viktor you’d like to have a word.”
“This isn’t a Viktor Orlov idea. It’s a Nicholas Avedon idea.”
“I’m an employee of Viktor Orlov Investments, Mr. Lazarev. There is no Nicholas Avedon, at least not where Viktor’s money is concerned.”
“This has nothing to do with Viktor’s money. It’s about your future. I’d like a few minutes of your time before you leave Copenhagen.”
“I’m afr
aid my calendar is a nightmare.”
“Take my card, Nicholas. My private cell number is on the back. I promise to make it well worth your while. Don’t disappoint me. I don’t like to be disappointed.”
Gabriel clicked the STOP icon and looked at Eli Lavon.
“Sounds to me as if you’ve got him,” Lavon said
“Maybe,” replied Gabriel. “Or maybe Gennady’s got us.”
“It can’t hurt to meet with him.”
“It might hurt,” Gabriel said. “In fact, it might hurt a lot.”
Gabriel slid the toggle bar of the audio player back to the beginning of the conversation and clicked PLAY again.
“I know who you are. In fact, I know everything there is to know about you.”
He pressed STOP.
“Figure of speech,” said Lavon. “Nothing more.”
“You’re sure about that, Eli? You’re one hundred percent sure?”
“I am sure the sun will rise tomorrow morning and that it will set tomorrow night. And I am reasonably confident Mikhail will survive a drink with Gennady Lazarev.”
“Unless Gennady serves him a glass of polonium punch.”
Gabriel reached for the computer mouse, but Lavon stilled his hand. “We came to Copenhagen to make the meeting,” Lavon said. “Now make the meeting.”
Gabriel picked up his phone and dialed Mikhail’s mobile. The bleating of his ringtone came back at him from the speakers of the computer, as did the sound of Mikhail’s voice when he answered.
“Do it tomorrow night,” said Gabriel. “Control the venue to the best of your ability. No surprises.”
Gabriel hung up without another word and listened while Mikhail dialed Gennady Lazarev’s number. Lazarev answered immediately.
“I’m so glad you called.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lazarev?”
“You can have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
“I have something with Viktor.”
“Make up an excuse.”
“Where?”
“I’ll find some place out of the way.”
“Not too out of the way, Mr. Lazarev. I can’t be out of pocket for more than an hour or so.”
“How’s seven?”
“Seven is fine.”
“I’ll send a car for you.”
“I’m at the Hotel d’Angleterre.”
“Yes, I know,” said Lazarev before severing the connection. Gabriel switched the audio source of the computer from Mikhail’s phone to the transmitter in Gennady Lazarev’s room at the Imperial. The three Russians were laughing uncontrollably. Surely, thought Gabriel, they were laughing at him.
44
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
The second day of the forum was a tired rerun of the first. Mikhail remained loyally at Viktor Orlov’s side throughout, smiling with the overbright air of a man who was about to commit adultery. At the cocktail reception, he once again clung to the festive embrace of the Brazilians, who seemed crestfallen when he turned down their invitation to join them for a romp through some of Copenhagen’s livelier nightclubs. Taking his leave, he extracted Viktor from the clutches of the Kazakh oil minister and herded him into the back of their hired limousine. He waited until they were a few blocks from the D’Angleterre before saying that he hadn’t the strength for dinner. He did so in a voice that was loud enough to be picked up by any Russian transmitters present.
“What’s her name?” asked Orlov, who already knew of Mikhail’s plans for that evening.
“It isn’t that, Viktor.”
“What is it then?”
“I have a catastrophic headache.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“I’m sure it’s only a brain tumor.”
Upstairs in his room, Mikhail made a few phone calls to London for the sake of his cover and sent a naughty e-mail to his secretary to let the cybersleuths of Moscow Center know that he was human after all. Then he showered and laid out his clothes for the evening, which proved to be more of a challenge than he first imagined. How does one dress, he thought, when one is betraying his ersatz employer by meeting with executives of an oil company owned and operated by Russian intelligence? He settled on a plain suit, Soviet gray in color, and a white dress shirt with French cuffs. He decided against a necktie for fear it would make him appear overeager. Besides, if it was their intention to kill him, he didn’t want to wear an article of clothing that could be used as a murder weapon.
At Gabriel’s instruction, he left every light in the room burning and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the latch before making his way to the elevators. The lobby was a sea of delegates. As he headed toward the door, he saw Yossi, newly minted reporter for the nonexistent Energy Times, interviewing one of the tieless Iranians. Outside a gritty snow was blowing like a sandstorm across the expanse of King’s New Square. A black Mercedes S-Class sedan waited curbside. Standing next to the open rear door was an eight-foot Russian. If his name wasn’t Igor, it should have been.
“Where are we going?” Mikhail asked as the car shot forward with a lurch.
“Dinner,” grunted Igor the driver.
“Well,” said Mikhail quietly, “I’m glad we cleared that up.”
The Russian driver did not hear Mikhail’s remark, but Gabriel did. He was behind the wheel of an Audi sedan, parked on a side street around the corner from the hotel’s entrance. Keller was beside him, a tablet computer on his knees. On the screen was a map of Copenhagen, with Mikhail’s position depicted as a blinking blue light. At that instant, the light was moving rapidly away from King’s New Square, headed toward a section of Copenhagen not known for its restaurants. Gabriel turned the key with no sense of urgency. Then he looked at the blue light and followed carefully after it.
It soon became apparent that Mikhail and Gennady Lazarev would not be dining in Copenhagen that evening. Because within minutes of leaving the hotel, the big black Mercedes was headed out of town at speeds that suggested Igor was accustomed to driving in snowy weather. Gabriel had no need to match the car’s reckless pace. The blue light on Keller’s computer screen told him everything he needed to know.
After clearing Copenhagen’s southern districts, the light moved onto the E20 motorway and headed southward, into the region of Denmark known as Zealand. And when the highway turned inland toward the ancient market town of Ringsted, the light detached itself and floated toward the coastline. Gabriel and Keller did the same and soon found themselves on a narrow two-lane road, with the black waters of Køge Bay on their left and fields of snow on their right. They followed the road for several miles until they came upon a settlement of summer cottages huddled along a rocky, windswept beach, and it was there the blinking light finally stopped moving. Gabriel eased to the side of the road and increased the volume on his earpiece. He heard a car door opening, footfalls over snowy paving stones, and the pile-driver beating of Mikhail’s restive heart.
The cottage was among the finest of the lot. It had a small U-shaped drive, an open-sided carport with a red tile roof, and a terraced front garden framed by manicured hedges and stout little brick walls. Twelve steps rose to a veranda with a white balustrade; two potted trees stood like sentries on either side of the paned-glass door. As Mikhail approached, the door swung open and Gennady Lazarev stepped onto the veranda to greet him. He was wearing a roll-neck pullover and a thick Nordic-style cardigan. “Nicholas!” he called, as though to a deaf relation. “Come inside before you catch your death of cold. I’m sorry to drag you all the way down here, but I’ve never felt comfortable doing serious business in restaurants and hotels.”
He offered Mikhail his hand and pulled him across the threshold, as though he were dragging a drowning man from the sea. Then, after closing the door too quickly, he relieved Mikhail of his coat and spent a moment carefully regarding his captured prize. Despite his power and riches, Lazarev still looked like a government scientist. With his round spectacles and furrowed brow, he had the air of a man who w
as forever struggling to solve a mathematical equation.
“Did you have any trouble getting away from Viktor?” he asked.
“None,” replied Mikhail. “In fact, I think he was happy to be rid of me for a few hours.”
“It seems you two get along quite well.”
“We do.”
“But you came in any case,” Lazarev pointed out.
“I felt that I had to.”
“Why?”
“Because when a man like Gennady Lazarev asks for a meeting, it’s usually a good idea to take the meeting.”
Mikhail’s words were obviously pleasing to Lazarev. Clearly, the Russian was not immune to flattery.
“And you didn’t tell him where you were going?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Very good.” Lazarev clamped his delicate hand on Mikhail’s shoulder. “Come and have a drink. Meet the others.”
Lazarev escorted Mikhail into a great room with windows looking onto the sea. Two men waited there in the sort of uncomfortable silence that usually follows a quarrel. One was pouring a drink at the trolley; the other was warming himself in front of the fire. The one at the trolley had the shadow of a heavy beard and dark thinning hair combed close to his scalp. Mikhail couldn’t see much of the man at the fire because his back was turned to the room.
“This is Dmitry Bershov,” Lazarev said, indicating the man at the trolley. “I’m sure you’ve heard the name. Dmitry is my number two.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mikhail, accepting the outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” intoned Bershov.
“And that man over there,” said Lazarev, pointing toward the figure at the fire, “is Pavel Zhirov. Pavel handles corporate security and any other dirty deed that needs to be done. Isn’t that right, Pavel?”