Page 91 of The Collector
“Were you expecting something else?” The banker rotated his champagne glass between his thumb and forefinger. His bespoke suit fit him to perfection, but there was an unsightly gap between his throat and the collar of his handmade shirt. His skin was as white as the tablecloth. He looked unwell.
“No,” said Magnus quietly. “I suppose I wasn’t.”
“If it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t my idea.”
“Whose was it?”
“Who do you think?”
“Vladimir?”
Gennady nodded. “The preservation of the DanskOil joint venture with RuzNeft is of the utmost importance to him. He would like you to know that there will be serious repercussions if you back out of the deal.”
“Repercussions?”
“He didn’t go into specifics. But then he rarely does.”
“He intends to destroy me? What good would that do?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Volodya isn’t terribly concerned about collateral damage these days. You would be wise to heed hiswarning and do everything humanly possible to continue the joint venture.”
“Message received.” Magnus seized his phone and stood abruptly. “It was wonderful to see you again, Gennady. Please give my love to Raisa.”
“But we haven’t finished our lunch.”
“Forgive me, but I’ve lost my appetite.”
“At least allow me to give you this.” Gennady opened his attaché case and removed a small rectangular object covered in gold wrapping paper. “It’s a little something from Vladimir. A token of his esteem.”
“Thank you, no,” said Magnus, and started to leave.
“You’re making a grave mistake, Magnus.” Gennady placed the object on the table. “Open it.”
Magnus reclaimed his seat and removed the gold wrapping paper. Beneath it was a dark blue gift box, and inside the box was a miniature Russian-language edition ofDoctor Zhivagoby Boris Pasternak. Magnus opened the volume to the bookmarked page and read the passage indicated by the red arrow flag.
To hope and to act, these are our duties in misfortune...
“Wouldn’t you agree?” asked Gennady.
Magnus closed the book without a word.
“It’s customary here in Russia to thank someone when they give you a gift.” Gennady nudged the plate of pelmeni across the tabletop. “And you really should eat something, Magnus. Forgive me for saying this, but you look worse than I do.”
Directly opposite Café Pushkin was a small square where Napoleon’s soldiers, after entering Moscow in the autumn of 1812, hadpitched their tents and burned the lime trees for warmth. The woman seated on the bench overlooking the dormant fountain was sorely tempted to do the same. Having arrived in Moscow the previous day, she was unused to the frigid Russian weather. The phone in her ungloved right hand felt as though it were a block of ice. It looked like an ordinary iPhone 14 Pro Max. It was not.
Two of the woman’s associates were inside the iconic Moscow restaurant, feasting on beef stroganoff and pan-seared Muscovy duck. She knew this because she had received a photograph of their succulent meal at 12:47 p.m., when Magnus Larsen had arrived for his luncheon date with the Russian oligarch Gennady Luzhkov. The maître d’ had immediately shown the Danish energy executive to a private room on the second floor. The woman’s two associates had not seen him since.
Finally, at one fifteen, she received another photograph—blini with ice cream, piping hot coffee—with an accompanying update. Gennady Luzhkov was on the move. The woman, whose name was Tamara, spotted the oligarch a moment later, stepping from the restaurant’s doorway. He was trailed by two bodyguards. They helped him into the back of an armored Mercedes sedan and then climbed into an SUV. Both vehicles made a quick right turn onto Tverskaya Street and disappeared from Tamara’s view.
Another five minutes elapsed before Magnus Larsen left the restaurant. Behind the wheel of a flashy black Range Rover, he made the same quick right turn onto Tverskaya Street. So, too, did a beleaguered Škoda hatchback. The driver was another one of Tamara’s associates, a young surveillance specialist called Noam. He had been chosen for the Moscow op because, like Tamara, he was a fluent speaker of Russian.
Twenty minutes later, Noam sent her a photo. She immediatelyfired it to King Saul Boulevard, which in turn bounced it to Gabriel at PET headquarters in the Copenhagen suburb of Søborg. Smiling, he showed it to Lars Mortensen, his operational partner.
“Where are they?” asked the Dane.
It was Mikhail Abramov, a child of Moscow, who answered. The Collector and Komarovsky had gone to Novodevichy Cemetery to walk among the dead.
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