“I’m an intelligence officer. The spies are the people we seduce into betraying their countries.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I have the world’s worst singing voice.”
“Nonsense.”
“It’s true, actually. When I was in the first grade at Brearley,my teacher wrote a lengthy treatise on my report card about my inability to carry a tune.”
“You know what they say about teachers.”
“Miss Hopper,” said Sarah spitefully. “Fortunately, my father was transferred to London the next year. He enrolled me at the American School in St. John’s Wood, and I was able to put the entire episode behind me.” She gazed out her window at the deserted pavements of Birdcage Walk. “My mother and I used to take the longest walks when we lived in London. That’s when we were still speaking to one another.”
Christopher’s Marlboros were resting on the center console beneath his gold Dunhill lighter. Sarah hesitated, then plucked one from the packet.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t.”
“Haven’t you heard? They say it kills the coronavirus.” Sarah struck the lighter and touched the end of the cigarette to the flame. “You could have visited me, you know.”
“The NHS forbids all patient visits with the exception of end-of-life scenarios.”
“I was exposed to a Russian nerve agent. End of life was a distinct possibility.”
“If you must know, I volunteered to stand guard outside your door, but Graham wouldn’t hear of it. He sends his best, by the way.”
Christopher switched on Radio Four in time to hear the beginning of theSix O’Clock News. Viktor Orlov’s assassination had managed to displace the pandemic as the lead story. The Kremlin had denied any role in the affair, accusing British intelligence of a plot to discredit Russia. According to the BBC, British authorities had not yet identified the toxin usedto murder Orlov. Nor had they determined how the substance found its way into the billionaire’s home in Cheyne Walk.
“Surely you know more than that,” said Sarah.
“Much more.”
“What kind of nerve agent was it?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified, darling.”
“So am I.”
Christopher smiled. “It’s a substance known as Novichok. It’s—”
“A binary weapon developed by the Soviet Union in the seventies. The scientists who created it claimed it was five to eight times more lethal than VX, which would make it the deadliest weapon ever produced.”
“Are you quite finished?”
“How did the Russians get the Novichok into Viktor’s office?”
“The documents you saw on his desk were covered in ultrafine Novichok powder.”
“What were they?”
“They appear to be financial records of some sort.”
“How did they get there?”
“Ah, yes,” said Christopher. “That’s where things get interesting.”
“And you’re absolutely sure,” asked Sarah at the conclusion of Christopher’s briefing, “that the woman who came to Viktor’s house was in fact Nina Antonova?”
“We compared a surveillance photo of her taken at Heathrow with a recent television appearance. The facial recognitionsoftware determined it was the same woman. And Viktor’s bodyguards say he greeted her as though she was an old friend.”
“An old friend with a batch of poisoned documents?”
