“What does she look like?”
“Me.”
Le Tambourin, the museum’s stylish café, was one level down, on the ground floor. A single customer, a woman sitting alone at a table overlooking the Museumplein, had ink-black hair streaked with royal blue. Gabriel sat down uninvited and removed his mask. She regarded him with apprehension, followed by profound relief.
“It must be difficult for you,” she remarked.
“What’s that?”
“To have so famous a face.”
“Fortunately, it’s a recent phenomenon.” He looked down at her tea. “You’re not actually drinking that, are you?”
“I thought it would be safe.”
“Viktor obviously thought the same thing.” He moved the teacup to the adjacent table. “Using that American girl upstairs was a lovely piece of tradecraft. If the roles were reversed, I would have done it the same way.”
“To survive as a Russian journalist, one must operate by a certain set of rules.”
“In our business they’re known as the Moscow Rules.”
“I can recite them from memory,” said Nina.
“Which is your favorite?”
“Assume that everyone is under opposition control.”
“Are you?” asked Gabriel.
“Is that what you think?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I did.”
She smiled. “You’re not what I expected.”
“How so?”
“Given your exploits, I imagined you’d be taller.”
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Quite the opposite. In fact, this is the first time I’ve felt safe in a very long time.”
“I’ll feel better when you’re on board my plane.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“The British would like to clear up a few details of your visit to Viktor’s home on the night of his death.”
“I’m sure they would. But what happens if they conclude that I was under the control of the opposition?”
“They won’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I won’t let them.”
“You have influence over the British?”
