Page 93 of The Collector
They walked in silence for a moment. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed, Magnus. These things happen all the time in Russia. This is the crowning achievement of Volodya’s rule. He has turned Russia into a kompromat state. No one has clean hands in this kleptocracy of ours. Everyone is compromised. Some of us more than others.”
“Not you, Gennady?”
“Most of my sins are financial,” he admitted. “But the worst mistake I ever made was helping to make Volodya the president of the Russian Federation. He has brought us to the brink of disaster, and he needs to be stopped before he can do any more damage.” He lowered his voice. “Which is why I told the CIA about a Security Council of Russia directive regarding the use of nuclear weapons in Ukraine, a directive so alarming that only a single copy exists.”
“The one in Nikolai Petrov’s safe.”
Gennady nodded. “It is essential that the Americans and the rest of the civilized world know what Volodya and Nikolai Petrov are planning. I told the Americans that I would help them acquire the document. All I needed, I said, was a team of experienced operatives.”He addressed his next remarks to the grave of the composer Shostakovich. “Imagine my surprise when they told me they were sending the CEO of DanskOil and his pretty young assistant.”
“Mine as well,” said Magnus.
“Who is she?”
“A professional thief.”
“And what about you?” asked Gennady. “How did you get mixed up in this?”
“Kompromat.”
“Theirs or ours?”
“Both.”
“What in God’s name have you done?”
“There’s a bomb, Gennady. That’s all that matters. It’s a low-yield device made from South African highly enriched uranium acquired on the black market. Volodya is going to use it as a pretext to launch a nuclear strike against the Ukrainians.”
“All of which is spelled out in the directive.”
“Can you get us into Petrov’s home?”
“Actually, we’re expected tomorrow evening at ten o’clock.”
“How on earth did you manage that?”
Gennady smiled. “I’m a professional.”
Tamara found her way to Novodevichy in a gypsy cab driven by a fuzzy-cheeked boy of eighteen or nineteen. His battered old Kia reeked of cheap Russian tobacco and was bedecked with the letter Z. So was the boy. He wore a Z hoodie, a Z pendant round his neck, and a Z woolen hat pulled low over his eyes. The Ukrainians, he volunteered, were subhuman Nazis who needed to be exterminated. His older brother had been killed in the war, as had many of his friends. It was his profound wish, he insisted, to die for the motherland as well.Tamara shoved a wad of greasy rubles into his hand—it was tattooed with the letter Z—and wished him the very best of luck.
Across the street from the cemetery’s entrance stood two hulking apartment blocks with a courtyard and car park between them. Noam was sitting on the hood of the Škoda, chatting with a couple of local skateboard hoodlums—about the war, of course. What else? Tamara declined to take part. Instead, she berated Noam for failing to pick her up at her mother’s apartment. Never mind that her mother now lived in Ashdod in southern Israel.
On the opposite side of the street, the same two bodyguards were once again helping Gennady Luzhkov into the back of his armored Mercedes sedan. He looked fatigued, frail. Not so the tall Scandinavian who emerged from the cemetery five minutes later; Magnus Larsen was the very picture of health. And in good spirits, observed Tamara. It seemed his meeting with the oligarch had gone well.
His Range Rover was around the corner in a street-side space. He made his way to the Kutuzovsky Prospekt and joined the river of late-afternoon traffic flowing west. Tamara and Noam had been forbidden to follow him into the gated, high-security suburb of Rublyovka. But the Barvikha Luxury Village, located a few hundred meters beyond the first police checkpoint, was an entirely different matter. Magnus paid a brief visit to one of the few Western jewelry retailers still willing to do business in Russia. The four-carat cushion-cut diamond ring was a steal at six million rubles.
Tamara thought the purchase sufficiently noteworthy to warrant a secure satellite message to King Saul Boulevard, a message that landed a few seconds later on Gabriel’s phone at PET headquarters. He received a photograph of the diamond ring in question shortly thereafter, sent to him by the woman who was now wearing it. The accompanying en clair text message, exuberant in tone, provided a wholly inaccurate explanation.
It seemed that wealthy, dashing Magnus had at long last asked young, vibrant Astrid to marry him. Astrid, of course, had agreed, provided that Magnus divorce his wife, which he had pledged to do. They were planning to celebrate their engagement that evening at the home of TverBank chairman Gennady Luzhkov. “More details to come,” she wrote. “I’m so very, very happy.”
47
Rublyovka
Gennady lived in a billionaires-only subdivision of Rublyovka called Mayendorf Gardens. His twelve-bedroom home, a glass-and-timber chalet once valued at more than $80 million, was among the development’s least offensive. He answered the door himself, dressed in a pair of tailored flannel trousers and a cashmere sweater. The handshake he gave Magnus was perfunctory, but Ingrid he greeted warmly with Russian-style kisses on each cheek.
In the light of his soaring entrance hall, he admired the ring on her left hand. “A new addition, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You don’t miss much, Mr. Luzhkov.”
