“You’ll soon discover that Martin isn’t the saint he makes himself out to be.”
“Are you forgetting I already have a job?”
“Not for long. In fact, I’m confident that in a few short days your position at RhineBank will be quite untenable. In the meantime, I would like you to copy as many incriminating documents from the Russian Laundromat as you can safely lay your hands on. I would also like you to continue to practice the cello.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Is Rachmaninoff’s ‘Vocalise’ part of your repertoire?”
“It’s one of my favorite pieces.”
“You have that in common with one of RhineBank’s biggest clients.”
“Really? Who?”
He smiled. “Arkady Akimov.”
29
Kensington, London
Such was the unrelenting pace of the news cycle that the death of Viktor Orlov had all but receded from the collective memory of the British press. Therefore, it came as something of a surprise when the Crown Prosecution Service accused the well-known Russian journalist Nina Antonova of complicity in Orlov’s assassination and issued domestic and European warrants for her arrest. The murder weapon, the authorities alleged, was a parcel of Novichok-contaminated documents delivered to Orlov’s Cheyne Walk mansion on the night of his death. CCTV images documented the reporter’s arrival and departure from the residence, her brief stay at the Cadogan Hotel, and her passage through Heathrow Airport, where she boarded a late-night flight to Amsterdam. According to Dutch authorities, she spent the night in a popular youthhostel in the city’s notorious Red Light District and likely left the Netherlands the next day on a false passport supplied by her handlers in Russian intelligence.
Absent from the charging statement was any mention of Sarah Bancroft, the beautiful former CIA officer turned London art dealer who had stumbled upon Viktor Orlov’s body. She, too, was caught off guard by the announcement, for no one, not even the MI6 officer whose Kensington maisonette she shared, had bothered to warn her it was coming. She had not seen Christopher since the night of Nina’s interrogation at Wormwood Cottage. Nor had she had any meaningful communication with him, only the odd text message rendered in the manner of Peter Marlowe, his cover identity. It seemed his stay in Switzerland would be longer than anticipated. A visit by Sarah was not possible—not in the short term, at least. He would try to get back to London soon, perhaps at the next weekend.
To make matters worse, Sarah’s friend the prime minister had imposed new coronavirus restrictions. There was no point in trying to sneak across the West End to the gallery; business had once again slipped into a coma. Instead, Sarah sheltered in place in Kensington and promptly put on five additional pounds of unwanted weight.
Fortunately, the new rules contained an exception for exercise. In black leggings and a new pair of trainers, Sarah bounded along the deserted pavements of Queen’s Gate to the entrance of Hyde Park. After pausing briefly to stretch her calves, she set out along a footpath into Kensington Gardens, then headed up Broad Walk to the park’s northern boundary. Her stride was smooth and relaxed as she flowed toward Marble Arch, but bythe time she arrived at Speakers’ Corner, her breath was ragged and her mouth tasted of rust.
It had been her ambition to circle the park twice, but it was out of the question; the pandemic had taken a terrible toll on her fitness. She managed one final burst of good form along Rotten Row and then walk-jogged back to Queen’s Gate Terrace. There she found the lower door of the maisonette slightly ajar. In the kitchen, Gabriel was pouring bottled water into the Russell Hobbs electric kettle.
“How was your run?” he asked.
“Depressing.”
“Maybe you should stop smoking Christopher’s cigarettes.”
“Is there any chance I can have him back?”
“Not anytime soon.”
“You sound pleased by the prospect.”
“I told you not to get involved with him.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t have much say in the matter.” She settled atop a stool at the granite island. “I assume Nina won’t be taken into custody anytime soon.”
“Unlikely.”
“Was there really no other way?”
“It’s for her own good,” answered Gabriel. “And the good of my operation.”
“Do you have any need of a washed-up field agent with a pretty face?”
“You have a gallery to run.”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard, but business isn’t exactly booming.”
