Page 86 of The Collector
“What time?” she asked, but received no answer. Magnus was staring at the television, his face ashen. “What is your neighbor saying now?”
“He’s reminding his many millions of viewers that Russia has the world’s largest nuclear arsenal. He’s wondering why Russia bothers to build and maintain such weapons if it is afraid to use them.”
Ingrid snapped another selfie and forwarded it to her friend, along with a chatty update on their itinerary. Then she opened her menu and asked, “What do you recommend?”
“The linguini with crabmeat and cherry tomatoes. It’s absolutely divine.”
43
PET Headquarters
“A promising beginning.”
“It’s early, Lars.”
“I’ve always believed in the power of positive thinking.”
“That’s because you’re Danish,” said Gabriel. “I find it comforting to prepare myself for a calamity and to be pleasantly surprised if it turns out to be a garden-variety disaster instead.”
They were seated in the back row of the PET’s op center. They had been there, side by side, since the moment the chartered aircraft carrying Ingrid and Magnus Larsen touched down in Saint Petersburg. Mortensen had spent much of the day enraptured by the wizardry of Proteus, which allowed them to securely monitor Ingrid and Magnus’s every word and movement—including the meeting, many hours in duration, that had taken place at RuzNeft headquarters on the Makarov Embankment. Mikhail and Eli Lavon had provided a simultaneous translation. Lars Mortensen, appalled by the conduct of one of Denmark’s most prominent businessmen, ordered his technicians to immediately delete the recording of the meeting from the PET’s computers.
At present the prominent businessman was sharing a quiet dinner at Borsalino, one of Saint Petersburg’s better restaurants, with his attractive personal assistant. When the meal concluded, they returned to their adjoining suites at the neighboring Astoria Hotel. As instructed, they left their phones powered on. Their familiar, playful banter made it abundantly clear that they were involved in a torrid if entirely fictitious extramarital affair.
By midnight Saint Petersburg time, both were sleeping soundly. Lars Mortensen headed home to his wife, and Eli Lavon and Mikhail returned to the safe house in nearby Emdrup. Gabriel, however, decided to spend the night on a couch at PET headquarters in the event there was glass that required breaking.
Shortly after 7:00 a.m., while drinking coffee in the staff canteen, he received a text message from the prominent Danish businessman’s assistant. Attached was a photograph of a sleek Russian bullet train awaiting departure at Saint Petersburg’s Moskovsky Station. The next photograph arrived at 11:20 a.m. and showed the same train at the Leningradsky rail terminal in Moscow. It was followed two hours later by a photograph of the prominent businessman and his assistant standing outside a mansion in the moneyed Moscow suburb of Rublyovka.
“Was the house really a gift from the Russian president?” asked Lars Mortensen.
“Trust me, it was the least Vladimir could do.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Thanks to the war, considerably less than what it once was.”
Mortensen contemplated the photograph. “You have to admit, they do make an attractive couple.”
“Let’s hope Magnus’s Russian friends feel the same way.”
“Why must you always be so fatalistic, Allon?”
“It prevents me from being disappointed later.”
The gated community was called Balmoral Hills—a curious name, for the land upon which the forty dwellings stood was as flat as the Russian Plain. The house itself was the smallest on the street, a Carraway cottage amid the palaces of the grotesquely rich. Even so, the opulence was tsarist in scale. Ingrid, stiff and restless after the long train journey, spent three hours in the world-class fitness center. Afterward she headed upstairs in search of Magnus. She found him in his office on a conference call with RuzNeft brass. He tapped the mute button and allowed his eyes to wander over the toned, sweat-soaked body leaning against the doorjamb. It was a performance on his part. The house was undoubtedly littered with hidden cameras and microphones.
“Good workout?” he asked.
“It could have been better.” Ingrid treated him to a flirtatious smile. “How much longer are you going to be on that call?”
“At least another hour.”
She gave a playful pout.
“Why don’t you have a hot bath?”
“Only if you promise to join me later.”
She ascended the fairy-tale double staircase to the second floor. Once again, their suites were adjoining, with separate master baths. Ingrid opened the spigot for the oversize Jacuzzi tub and peeled off her sodden workout clothing. She was slow in reaching for the monogrammed toweling robe that hung from the back of the door. She only hoped the voyeurs at the FSB were enjoying the show.
