“Did Viktor tell you where he got the documents?”
“They were given to him by Nina.”
“Was he at all concerned about their authenticity?”
“If he was, he never raised it. Therefore, I assume he believed the documents to be genuine.”
“So why did Nina fly to London Wednesday night and give Viktor a package of documents contaminated with Novichok? And why was he foolish enough to open it?”
“Obviously, he trusted her. But I’m certain she had nothing to do with Viktor’s death. Nina is a pawn in a much larger game, which means her life is in danger.”
“All the more reason why we need to find her as quickly as possible.” Gabriel paused, then asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know where she is, would you, Olga?”
“No,” she answered. “But I know someone who might.”
“Who?”
“George-dot-Wickham at Outlook-dot-Com.”
She rose without another word and entered the cottage. When she returned, she was clutching a MacBook Pro, which she placed on the table before Gabriel. On the screen was a Gmail account for someone named Elizabeth Bennet.
“I learned to speak English by reading Jane Austen,” she explained. “Pride and Prejudiceis my favorite novel.”
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know. Not GCHQ and certainly not the Spetssviaz.”
“What’s the alternative? Total digital isolation?”
“How many people have the address?”
“Seven or eight, including Nina. But yesterday afternoon I received an email from an Outlook address I didn’t recognize.” She pointed out the entry in the in-box. “The conniving George Wickham. A wastrel, a scoundrel, a compulsive gambler. Only a close friend would know to use his name.”
The email had arrived at 11:37 a.m. on Thursday, approximately twelve hours after Nina’s flight arrived in Amsterdam. Gabriel opened it and read the text. It was a single sentence, written in the stilted, dated tone of an early-nineteenth-century novel of manners.
I would be most grateful if you would advise your British friends that I had nothing at all to do with the unpleasantness last evening in Chelsea.
“Did you realize it was from Nina?”
“Not at first. But I was fairly certain theunpleasantnessto which the author was referring was Viktor’s murder.”
“What did you do?”
“Check my out-box.”
Gabriel clickedsent. At 11:49 a.m. Olga had replied with a single sentence of her own.
Who is this?
The answer arrived two hours later.
S...
Gabriel clicked thereplyicon and began to type.
Please tell me where you are. A friend of mine will help you.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s not exactly Austenian prose, but it will do.”
