The Defector (23 page)

She did indeed come at seven, though she was hardly alone. A maid took her coat and escorted her to the second-floor study, where Orlov greeted her lavishly in Russian. Gabriel and Graham Seymour, headphones over their ears, listened to the simultaneous translation.

“It’s so lovely to see you again after all these years, Olga. Can I get you some tea or something stronger?”

41

CHELSEA , LONDON

TEA WOULD be fine, thank you.”

Orlov could not conceal his disappointment. No doubt he had been hoping to impress Olga with a bottle or two of the Château Pétrus he drank like tap water. He ordered tea and savories from the maid, then watched with obvious satisfaction as Olga pretended to admire the vast office. It was rumored Orlov had been so impressed by his first visit to Buckingham Palace he had instructed his army of interior decorators to re-create its atmosphere at Cheyne Walk. The room, which was three times the size of Olga’s old Moscow apartment, had reportedly been inspired by the queen’s private study.

As Olga endured a tedious tour, she could not help but reflect upon how different her life was from Viktor’s. Freed from Communism’s yoke, Viktor had gone in search of money while Olga had set out to find truth. She had spent the better part of her career investigating the misdeeds of men like Viktor Orlov and believed such men bore much of the blame for the death of freedom and democracy in her country. Orlov’s greed had helped to create the unique set of circumstances that had allowed the Kremlin to return the country to the authoritarianism of the past. Indeed, were it not for men like Viktor Orlov, the Russian president might still be a low-level functionary in the St. Petersburg city government. Instead, he ruled the world’s largest country with an iron fist and was thought to be one of Europe’s richest men. Richer, even, than Orlov himself.

The tea arrived. They sat on opposite ends of the long brocade couch, facing a window hung with rich floor-to-ceiling drapery. It might have been possible to see Chelsea Embankment and the Thames had the curtains not been tightly drawn as a precaution against snipers—ironic, since Orlov had spent several million pounds acquiring one of London’s best views. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a shirt with stripes the color of cranberries. One arm was flung along the back of the couch toward Olga, revealing a diamond-and-gold wristwatch of inestimable worth. The other lay along the armrest. He was twirling his spectacles restlessly. Veteran Orlov watchers would have recognized the tic. Orlov was perpetually in motion, even when he was sitting still.

“Please, Olga. Remind me when it was we last met.”

Orlov watchers would have recognized this, too. Viktor was not the sort to blurt “I never forget a face.” He actually made a habit of pretending to forget people. It was a negotiating tactic. It said to opponents they were unmemorable. Insignificant. Without merit or consequence. Olga cared little about what Orlov thought of her, so she answered the question honestly. They had met just once, she reminded him. The encounter had taken place in Moscow, shortly before he fled to London.

“Ah, yes, I remember it now! If I recall, I became very angry at you because you were not interested in some valuable information I had for you.”

“If I had written the story you wanted me to write, I would have been killed.”

“The fearless Olga Sukhova was afraid? That never stopped you before. From what I hear, you’re lucky to be alive. The Kremlin never said what happened in that stairwell last summer, but I know the truth. You were investigating Ivan Kharkov, and Ivan tried to silence you. Permanently.”

Olga made no reply.

“So you don’t deny that’s what happened?”

“Your sources have always been impeccable, Viktor.”

He acknowledged the compliment with a twirl of his eye-wear. “It’s a shame we haven’t had the opportunity to meet again until now. As you might expect, I followed your case with great interest. I tried to find some way of making contact with you after your defection was made public, but you were quite difficult to locate. I asked my friends in British intelligence to pass a message to you, but they refused.”

“Why didn’t you just ask Grigori where I was?”

The spectacles went still, just for a few seconds. “I did, but he refused to tell me. I know you two are friends. I suppose he doesn’t want to share you.”

Olga took note of the tense: I know you two are friends . . . He didn’t seem to know about Grigori’s absence—unless he was lying, which was a distinct possibility. Viktor Orlov was genetically incapable of telling the truth.

“The old Viktor wouldn’t have bothered to ask Grigori where I was hiding. He would have just had him followed.”

“Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind.”

“But you never did?”

“Follow Grigori?” He shook his head. “The British give my bodyguards a good deal of latitude, but they would never tolerate private surveillance operations. Remember, I am still a Russian citizen. I am also the target of a formal extradition request. I try not to do anything to make my British hosts too angry.”

“Other than criticize the Kremlin whenever you feel like it.”

“They can’t expect me to remain mute. When I see injustice, I am compelled to speak. It’s my nature. That’s why Grigori and I get along so well.” He paused, then asked, “How is he, by the way?”

“Grigori?” She sipped her tea, and said she hadn’t spoken to him for several weeks. “You?”

“Actually, I had one of my assistants put a call to him the other day. We never heard back. I assume he’s very busy on his book.” Orlov gave her a conspiratorial glance. “Some of my people have been working with Grigori in secret. As you might expect, I want this book to be a big success.”

“Why am I not surprised, Viktor?”

“It’s my nature. I enjoy helping others. Which is why I’m so pleased you’re here. Tell me about the story you’re working on. Tell me how I can be of service.”

“It’s a story about a defector. A defector who disappeared without a trace.”

“Does the defector have a name?”

“Grigori Nikolaevich Bulganov.”

IN THE surveillance van, Graham Seymour removed his headphones and looked at Gabriel.

“Very nicely played.”

“She’s good, Graham. Very good.”

“Can I have her when you’re done?”

Gabriel raised a finger to his lips. Viktor Orlov was speaking again. They heard a burst of rapid Russian, followed by the voice of the translator.

“Tell me what you know, Olga. Tell me everything.”

42

CHELSEA , LONDON

ORLOV WAS suddenly in motion in several places at once. The spectacles were twirling, the fingers were drumming on the back of the brocade couch, and the left eye was twitching anxiously. When he was a child, the twitch had made him the target of merciless teasing and bullying. It had made him burn with hatred, and that hatred had driven him to succeed. Viktor Orlov wanted to beat everyone. And it was all because of the twitch in his left eye.

“Are you sure he’s missing?”

“I’m sure.”

“When did he disappear?”

“January the tenth. Six-twelve in the evening. On his way to chess.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m Olga Sukhova. I know everything.”

“Do the British know?”

“Of course.”

“What do they think happened?”

“They believe he redefected. They think he’s now back at Lubyanka telling his superiors everything he learned about your operation while he was working for you.”

The eye was now blinking involuntarily like the shutter of a high-speed automatic camera.

“Why didn’t they tell me?”

“I’m not sure you were their first concern, Viktor. But don’t worry. It’s not true about Grigori. He didn’t redefect. He was kidnapped.” She let it sink in, then added, “By Ivan Kharkov.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m Olga Sukhova.”

“And you know everything.”

“Not quite everything. But perhaps you can help me fill in some of the missing pieces. I don’t know the identity of the man Ivan hired to handle the kidnapping. All I know is that this man is very good. He’s a professional.” She paused. “The kind of man you used to hire in Moscow—in the bad old days, Viktor, when you had a problem that just wouldn’t go away.”

“Be careful, Ms. Sukhova.”

“I’m always careful. I never had to print a single retraction in all the years I worked for the Gazeta. Not one.”

“That’s because you never wrote a story about me.”

“If I had, it would have been airtight and completely accurate.”

“So you say.”

“I know a great deal about the way you made your money, Viktor. I did you a favor by never publishing that information in the Gazeta. And now you’re going to do one for me. You’re going to help me find the man who kidnapped my friend. And if you don’t, I’m going to pour everything I have in my notebooks into the most unflattering exposé ever written about you.”

“And I’ll take you to court.”

“Court? Do you really think I’m afraid of a British court?”

She reached into her handbag and withdrew a photograph: a man standing in the arrivals hall of Heathrow Airport. Orlov slipped on his spectacles. The eye twitched nervously. He pressed a button on the side table, and the maid materialized.

“Bring me a bottle of the Pétrus. Now.”

HE TRIED to slip out of the noose, of course, but Olga was having none of it. She calmly recited a couple of names, a date, and the details of a certain transaction involving a company Viktor once owned—just enough to let him know her threats were not idle. Viktor drank his first glass of Pétrus quickly and poured another.

Olga had never seen Viktor show fear before, but he was clearly afraid now. An experienced reporter, she recognized the manifestations of that fear in the behavior that came next: the exclamations of disbelief, the attempts at misdirection, the effort to foist blame onto others. Viktor tended to blame all his problems on Russia. So it came as no surprise to Olga when he did so now.

“You have to remember what it was like in the nineties. We tried to snap our fingers and turn Russia into a normal capitalist country overnight. It wasn’t possible. It was utopian thinking, just like Communism.”

“I remember, Viktor. I was there, too.”

“Then you surely recall what it was like for people like me who were able to make a bit of money. Everyone wanted a piece of it. Our lives were in constant danger, along with the lives of our families. There was the mafia, of course, but sometimes our competitors were just as dangerous. Everyone hired private armies to protect themselves and to wage war on their rivals. It was the Wild East.”

Orlov held the goblet of wine up to the light. Heavy and rich, it glowed like freshly spilled blood.

“There was no shortage of soldiers. No one wanted to work for the government anymore, not when there was real money to be made in the private sector. Officers were leaving the Russian security services in droves. Some didn’t bother to quit their jobs. They just put in an hour or two at the office and moonlighted.”

Olga had once written an exposé about this practice—a story about a pair of FSB officers who investigated the Russian mafia by day and killed for them by night. The FSB men had vehemently denied the story. Then they had threatened to kill her.

“Some of these men weren’t very talented,” Orlov continued. “They could handle simple jobs, street killings and the like. But there were others who were highly trained professionals.” Orlov studied the photograph. “This man fell into the second category.”

“You’ve met him?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “It was in Moscow, in another lifetime. I’m not going to discuss the nature or circumstances of this meeting.”

“I don’t care about the meeting, Viktor. I only want to know about the man in that photograph.”

He drank some more of the wine and relented. “His KGB code name was Comrade Zhirlov. He specialized in assassinations, abductions, and finding men who wished not to be found. He was also supposed to be very good with poisons and toxins. He put those skills to good use when he went into private practice. He did the kind of jobs others might refuse because they were too dangerous. It made him rich. He worked inside Russia for a few years, then broadened his horizons.”

“Where did he go?”

“Western Europe. He speaks several languages and has many passports from his days with the KGB.”

“Where does he live?”

“Who knows? And I doubt even the famous Olga Sukhova will be able to find him. In fact, I highly recommend you forget about trying. You’ll only get yourself killed.”

“Obviously, he’s still selling his services on the open market.”

“That is what I’ve heard. I’ve also heard his prices have increased dramatically. Only men like Ivan Kharkov can afford to hire him any longer.”

“And you, Viktor.”

“I’ve never engaged in such things.”

“And no one is making that accusation. But let us suppose one required the services of a man like this. How would one make contact with him? Where would one go?”

Viktor lapsed into silence. He was a Russian—and like all Russians, he suspected someone was always listening. In this case, he happened to be correct. For a moment, the two men seated in the back of the MI5 surveillance van feared their source was unwilling to take the final step. Then they heard a single word that required no translation.

Geneva.

. . .

THERE WAS a man there, Orlov said. A security consultant to wealthy Russians. A broker. A middleman.

“I believe his name is Chernov. Yes, I’m sure of it now. Chernov.”

“Does he have a first name?”

“It might be Vladimir.”

“Do you happen to know where he keeps his office?”

“Just off the rue du Mont-Blanc. I believe I might have the address.”