Page 87 of The Collector
When the tub had filled, she switched on the jets and allowed the robe to slip from her shoulders. The water she entered was scalding. She cooled it a few degrees and closed her eyes. Gradually, her fear receded, the fear that had been stalking her since the instant her foot touched Russian soil. She had been tempted to let off a little steamon the train—a woman of means, an unattended handbag—but for the sake of the operation she had refrained. Besides, she reminded herself, she was no longer that person. She worked for the counterintelligence division of the PET, Denmark’s small but capable security and intelligence service, and was posing as the personal assistant and mistress of DanskOil CEO Magnus Larsen, who was now standing in the doorway.
Ingrid gave a start, and a wave of water washed over the side of the tub. Magnus spread a towel over the marble floor and poked at it with the toe of his loafer.
“Forgive me,” he said, his eyes averted. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I was just daydreaming, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“You, of course.” She smiled. “How was your call?”
“More of the same. RuzNeft is so desperate to preserve the joint venture that they’re upping the ante.”
“How high?”
“Another seat on their board and a significantly better split on the profits. I told them that my hands were tied.”
“If only,” said Ingrid, and climbed out of the tub. Magnus lowered his eyes to the floor as he handed her the robe. She took her time pulling it on. “I’m famished, Magnus. What are we going to do about dinner?”
“Actually, we received a last-minute invitation from a friend.”
“Do we have to?” said Ingrid with mock apathy. “I’d rather spend some time with you alone.”
“He’s throwing a small dinner party at his place,” said Magnus as he hastened toward the door. “Just a few people from the neighborhood. Very casual.”
44
Rublyovka
The neighborhood friend was Yuri Glazkov, the much-sanctioned chairman of the Kremlin-controlled VTB Bank. Yuri was the proud owner of two private aircraft, though his superyacht, the 214-footSea Bliss, was rather modest by Russian standards. Shortly after the invasion of Ukraine, the Italian government had seized the vessel in Capri, where Yuri owned not one but three multimillion-euro villas. The Italians had seized those, too, based on their well-founded suspicion that the real owner was Yuri’s friend Vladimir Vladimirovich.
The target of a Western travel ban, Yuri was marooned at his miniature Versailles in Rublyovka. Magnus decided to drive there in his Range Rover, the Bentley Continental GT being unsuitable for the heavy snow forecast for later that evening. Beneath his overcoat he wore a cashmere sport jacket and a rollneck sweater. His phone lay next to Ingrid’s on the Range Rover’s center console.
“Are wereallygoing to have this discussion again?” he asked wearily in Danish.
“You made me a promise.”
“And I intend to keep it.”
“When?”
“A date certain? Is that what you’re demanding? Christ, Astrid. You’re beginning to sound like the prime minister.” He fell silent as they passed the flashing blue lights of a police checkpoint. “Do you know how long Karoline and I have been married? Thirty-three years. It will be easier to unwind the RuzNeft joint venture than disentangle our marital finances.”
“I won’t be your mistress any longer.”
“That sounds like an ultimatum.”
“Perhaps it is.”
“This was obviously a mistake.”
“Obviously,” she repeated.
“Bringing you to Russia, I mean. You can leave tomorrow, if you like.”
“I want to stay with you, Magnus.” Then she added pointedly, “Alone.”
“Do you think you can behave yourself tonight?”
