Page 101 of The Collector
Magnus slowed to a stop behind the Mercedes SUV containing Gennady’s bodyguards. The oligarch had assured them that the security check at the compound’s entrance would be cursory. But when a minute passed with no movement, Ingrid removed the gun and suppressor from her handbag and slid it beneath her seat.
Another minute passed before Gennady and his bodyguards were granted admission to the compound. A security guard with a PP-2000 submachine gun slung across his chest beckoned Magnus forward, then raised a gloved hand. Magnus braked to a halt and, lowering his window, bade the guard a pleasant evening.
A conversation ensued, not a single word of which Ingrid was able to comprehend. Then the guard embarked on a slow walk around the vehicle. The beam of his powerful torch lingered for a moment on Ingrid’s face—and on the aluminum-sided attaché case lying on the backseat. Returning to Magnus’s open window, he inquired as to the contents of the bag. Of that, Ingrid was certain. Hearing Magnus’s answer, the guard waved them forward.
Ingrid returned the gun to her handbag. “Did he ask you what was in the attaché case?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“He didn’t think it odd?”
“In Rublyovka? You must be joking.”
Gennady’s two-car motorcade was waiting a few meters beyond the gate, tailpipes gently smoking. Magnus followed it past a parade of floodlit reproduction palaces, here Buckingham and Blenheim, here Élysée and Schönbrunn. There was also a miniature Kensington Palace, complete with an ornate gold-leaf gate, through which all three vehicles were allowed to pass without inspection.
The owner of the property was at that moment emerging from the back of a sleek Russian-made Aurus Senat limousine. It was a smaller version of the car used by the man with whom he had just finished meeting at Novo-Ogaryovo. He had a phone to his ear and was carrying his own attaché case. Because it was snowing heavily, he hurried through the front door of his home without first greeting his three late-night visitors.
The limousine rolled away with the slowness of a hearse, but a few members of Petrov’s security detail remained behind in the forecourt. One of them was chatting with Gennady, who was clutching an attaché case of his own. Inside were financial documents related to tonight’s after-hours gathering. The security man did not know that. Still, he appeared to have no interest in looking inside the bag. The man holding it was a former KGB officer and a trusted member of the Russian president’s innermost circle. He was also Nikolai Petrov’s banker and the manager of a significant portion of his ill-gotten wealth. He was above suspicion, as was his friend Magnus Larsen.
Magnus switched off the Range Rover’s engine and opened his door. “Wait here,” he said to Ingrid. “I won’t be but a moment.”
He climbed out and started across the forecourt toward Gennady. Ingrid, affecting irritation, lowered the visor and touched up her makeup in the lighted vanity mirror. A security man in cold-weather gear observed her efforts from his post on the snow-whitened lawn.
Judging her appearance satisfactory, she raised the mirror and sawMagnus walking back to the Range Rover. He opened her door and said quietly, “Let’s go.”
She seized her handbag and climbed out. Magnus draped an arm around her shoulders as they walked over to Gennady, who wore on his face a businesslike smile. The security men in the forecourt allowed them to approach the front of the residence unimpeded. The guard standing watch at the entrance opened the door for them and then stepped to one side.
They were in.
Gennady led the way into the foyer, and behind them the door closed. Ingrid quickly took her bearings. The mansion’s overwrought center hall was exactly the way it had appeared in the Sotheby’s brochure. Arched passageways left and right, the curved main staircase straight ahead. The marble floor was the color of a gold bar, as were the appalling wall treatments. The light of the crystal chandelier was surgical white.
They followed the sound of Nikolai Petrov’s voice through a passageway on the left, into a cavernous drawing room. It had been furnished expensively but without taste. Petrov was still on the phone and had yet to shed his overcoat. He had placed his attaché case on a credenza. It was a handsome leather model, black in color, with twin combination locks.
Petrov caught Gennady’s eye and pointed out the silver drinks tray resting on one of the oversize coffee tables. Gennady removed the cap from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and poured out three glasses. Ingrid accepted hers with a relaxed smile.
Gennady poured a fourth glass of the whisky and gave it to Nikolai Petrov. Two additional minutes went by before he finally ended his phone call. His eyes settled immediately on Ingrid. He addressed her in excellent English.
“Please forgive me, Ms. Sørensen. But as you can imagine, I’mrather busy at the moment.” He slid his phone into the breast pocket of his jacket and extended his hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m only sorry we weren’t introduced at Yuri Glazkov’s dinner party. I might have been able to prevent you from making a dreadful mistake.”
“What mistake is that, Secretary Petrov?”
“Marrying Magnus, of course. A woman like you could do much better.”
At Petrov’s suggestion, they removed their coats and sat down. Ingrid settled next to Magnus with the Givenchy bag at her side. Nikolai Petrov was eyeing her over his drink.
“I’m told you work with Magnus at DanskOil.”
“That’s correct, Secretary Petrov.”
“Is there no way you can convince him not to dissolve his joint venture with RuzNeft?”
“I’m trying, but our woke prime minister is putting enormous pressure on poor Magnus to walk away from our Russian investments.”
Petrov smiled. “Gennady tells me you’re something of a populist.”
