Page 103 of The Collector
“What sort of assurances?”
“The kind one generally receives when entrusting a man with two and a half billion dollars.”
“Magnus has been a great friend and supporter of Russia. And he has never done anything to violate our trust.”
“That’s because Magnus is a most compromised man.” Petrov looked at Gennady’s attaché case. “I assume you have some papers you’d like me to sign.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“I intend to read every word of every document.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Gennady removed a thick folder from the attaché case and laid it on the table next to the golden ormolu clock.
It was 11:35 p.m.
The door was where Gennady had promised it would be, at the top of the central staircase, a few steps to the right. Ingrid slid the bump key into the German-made lock and gave it a single tap with the handle of the screwdriver. A second strike wasn’t necessary; the lock yielded at once. She turned the latch, and the door swung inward without a sound.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. From below she heard a baritone murmur of male voices, but otherwise there was no sound. There was no light, either. Petrov had left the shades drawn, a time-saving piece of good fortune.
She slipped the bump key and screwdriver into her handbag, then drew the Genesis phone. Using only the glow of the home screen, she illuminated her surroundings. The room was instantly familiar; she had entered another version of it several hundred times in an office building in suburban Copenhagen. The desk, the chair and ottoman, the drop leaf table.
The safe...
She crouched before it and laid a hand on the dialer. When Petrovhad used it last, it had come to rest on the number forty-nine. She turned it counterclockwise five times to reset the wheels of the lock, then stopped on twenty-seven. The rest of the combination she entered as though it were second nature. The last step in the process was to turn the dial clockwise again until it stopped. The bolt retracted with a gentle thump.
The combination was accurate.
Ingrid opened the heavy door and shone the flashlight of the Genesis into the interior. Gold ingots, bundles of cash, Security Council of Russia documents stored vertically like books on a shelf.
She removed the first document, examined the cover page, then returned it to the safe. She did the same to the neighboring document, and the next one, and the one after that as well. And on it went, document after document, until she reached the end of the row. Then she closed and locked the door and reset the dial to forty-nine.
Security Council of Russia directive 37-23\VZ was not in Nikolai Petrov’s safe.
The floor plan in the Sotheby’s brochure had shown four large bedrooms on the second level of the mansion, all with private en suite baths. After slipping from Petrov’s office, Ingrid turned to the right and made for a pair of double doors. The latch gave way, and she went inside. Exterior floodlight poured through tall, unshaded windows. Ingrid recognized the furnishings; photographs of the room had appeared in the sales brochure. By all appearances it was a guest room. There was nothing out of place, nothing personal—and no sign of a Security Council directive dated August 24, 2022, eyes only the state president of the Russian Federation.
Leaving the room, Ingrid headed toward the double doors at the opposite side of the landing. Beyond them was the bedroom ofNikolai Petrov. Once again, it was partially illuminated by exterior light. Ingrid peered around the edge of one of the windows and spotted two guards, silhouettes only, standing watch in the snow-covered garden below. Her search was rapid but thorough, the search of a professional thief—the bedside tables, the dressing room, the bath and commode. The Security Council directive was nowhere to be found.
She didn’t bother to look in the other rooms; there wasn’t time. Instead, she stole silently down the central staircase and reclaimed her seat in the drawing room. One of the baritone male voices in the library was now issuing what sounded like a threat of violence, an obligatory element of any gathering involving Russians and money. Fingertips tingling, Ingrid drained her glass of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and stared at the attaché case resting on the credenza. The attaché case that Nikolai Petrov had taken to his meeting that evening with the Russian president. A handsome leather model, black in color, with twin combination locks.
Nikolai Petrov did not make good on his vow to read every word of the documents, but he gave them a thorough review nonetheless, and even excised a few passages he found objectionable. Gennady had made certain to include a few extra needless declarations to sign, all of which required his own needless countersignature. Magnus delayed matters further by taking issue with a clause regarding his liability for investment losses. He was more than willing to hold the client’s money free of charge, but under no circumstances would he agree to make the client whole for a bad bet or two.
It was 11:52 p.m. when Petrov signed his name to the last of the documents. Gennady handed over a set to Magnus. He would need them to activate the accounts at Bank Argos. At least that was the explanation Gennady gave to Nikolai Petrov, not a word of whichwas true. Neither was Gennady’s description of Magnus’s travel itinerary—a predawn flight from Moscow to Cairo on EgyptAir, a midafternoon connection into Larnaca.
Petrov demanded to know where Magnus would be staying in Cyprus.
“The Four Seasons in Limassol,” he answered, untruthfully.
“Alone?”
“Astrid is coming with me.”
“She really is a remarkable woman,” said Petrov as he rose to his feet. “It would be a shame if anything were to happen to her.”
“Don’t worry, Nikolai. I’ll take very good care of your money.”
“I certainly hope so. Otherwise, you will die a slow and painful death. A Russian death,” said Petrov. “Trust me, Magnus. There’s a difference.”
