Page 104 of The Collector
They pulled on their overcoats and gloves, and Nikolai Petrov, having threatened murder only a moment earlier, showed them graciously into the night. In the snow-dusted forecourt, with the security guards looking on, Gennady shook Magnus’s hand. The last of his three formal Russian kisses lingered on Ingrid’s left cheek.
“Was it there?” he asked quietly.
“Run, Gennady,” was all she said.
Expressionless, he lowered himself into the back of the Mercedes, and Ingrid and Magnus climbed into the Range Rover. Two minutes later, after passing between the twin Gothic-style towers at the front gate, they were racing eastward along the most pampered highway in all of Russia. Their phones lay between them on the center console. Ingrid spoke as though the FSB was listening.
“How did your meeting go?” she asked with profound if contrived indifference.
“Better than I expected. Nikolai only threatened to kill me once. You, however, made quite an impression on him. He thinks you’re a remarkable woman.”
“I am, actually.”
“What have you done now?”
“I got you a little something for our trip to Cyprus.”
Ingrid reached into her handbag and removed the only copy of Security Council of Russia directive 37-23\VZ. Magnus glanced at the document, then stared straight ahead, both hands gripping the wheel.
“It’s beautiful,” he said calmly. “But you really shouldn’t have.”
“I couldn’t resist.” Ingrid laid the document across her lap and reached for her phone. “What time does our plane leave tomorrow morning?”
“Five thirty, I’m afraid.”
Ingrid groaned and photographed the document’s cover page. “We might as well go straight to Sheremetyevo.”
“I have to say, I’m looking forward to spending a few days by the sea in Limassol.”
“Not as much as I am,” replied Ingrid, and photographed the next page.
52
Rublyovka–Copenhagen
Nikolai Petrov poured another two fingers of the Johnnie Walker Blue Label scotch into his glass and, snatching his attaché case from the credenza, headed up the stairs to the door of his office. The room he entered was in darkness. He placed the attaché case on the desk and switched on the lamp. Then he lifted the receiver of his secure phone to his ear and from memory dialed the number for the overnight duty officer at FSB headquarters in Lubyanka.
The officer’s voice, when he came on the line, sounded heavy with fatigue—or perhaps alcohol. His tone changed abruptly when Petrov identified himself.
“Good evening, Secretary Petrov. How can I help you?”
Petrov told the officer what he wanted, a routine check of an airline passenger manifest.
“Which flight?”
“EgyptAir 725. Tomorrow morning.”
Petrov heard the clatter of a keyboard. When it stopped, the duty officer said, “They’re in first class. Seats 2A and 2B.”
The next call Petrov placed was to the Four Seasons Hotel inLimassol. He did so from his personal cellular device. “Larsen,” he told the switchboard operator. “Magnus Larsen.”
“I’m sorry, but we have no one by that name staying in the hotel.”
“Are you certain? I was told he was there.”
“One moment, please.” The operator placed Petrov on hold. She was back on the line a few seconds later. “Mr. Larsen and his wife are checking in tomorrow.”
“My mistake,” said Petrov, and killed the connection.
