I know who killed Viktor Orlov.
Isabel addressed Nina in German, with her eyes downcast. “I hope you sued the person who did that to your hair.”
Nina reclaimed the sheet of paper.
“I risked my life giving you those documents. Why didn’t you publish a story?”
“Viktor said it was too dangerous.”
“Am I responsible for his death?”
“No, Isabel. I am.”
“Why?”
“I’ll let my friend explain. He’d like to have a word with you tonight. Which means you’re going to have to break your date with Tobias.”
“How do you know I was meeting him?”
Nina glanced at Isabel’s phone. “Tell him you had a work emergency. Trust me, you won’t regret it.”
Isabel sent the text message, then switched off the phone without waiting for a reply. “It wasn’t a date. It was only drinks.”
“I can’t remember how many times I told myself the same thing.”
Isabel squeezed Nina’s hand. “I thought you were dead.”
“So did I,” said Nina.
18
Römerhofplatz, Zurich
A blond-haired man with bright blue eyes and a permanent suntan followed them from the tram at Isabel’s usual stop in the Römerhofplatz. As they were crossing the street, he nudged her toward a waiting BMW X5. Nina joined them in the backseat. The man behind the wheel looked like a dealer of rare books. He eased into the sparse evening traffic as though he feared there were small children about and headed south on the Asylstrasse.
The man next to Isabel was now typing something on his mobile phone. “Who do you work for?” she asked.
“A very dull department of the British Foreign Office.”
“MI6?”
“If you say so.”
“What’s your name?”
“The Swiss seem to think it’s Peter Marlowe.”
“Is it?”
“Not even close.”
Isabel looked at the man behind the wheel. “What about him?”
“If we put our heads together, I’m sure we’ll think of something.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re in good hands, Isabel. You have absolutely nothing to fear.”
“Unless you’re both from Russian intelligence.”
“We hate the bloody Russians.” He smiled at Nina. “Present company excluded, of course.”
