Page 100 of The Collector
“And you’re sure there are no cameras?”
“Inside his private residence? Nikolai would never dream of it.”
“What about the members of his security detail?”
“The guards will be outside the house, including in the rear garden. Therefore, it is essential that you make certain the blinds are closed in Nikolai’s office before you switch on the desk lamp to photograph the document.”
“Security Council of Russia directive 37-23\VZ, dated the twenty-fourth of August, eyes only the state president of the Russian Federation.”
“That’s the one.” Gennady checked the time. “We should leave for Nikolai’s in a half hour or so. Why don’t we have something to eat and try to relax?”
Gennady’s staff had left a tray of traditional Russian sandwiches and salads in the kitchen. Ingrid had only black coffee to drink. She was tempted to steal something, anything, just to take the edge off. The fingers of her right hand were working the imaginary dial of Nikolai Petrov’s safe. Four turns to the right, three to left, two to the right. Twenty-seven, eleven, fifty-five. Magnus and Gennady were oblivious to the fire consuming her. They were watching Dmitry Budanov’s nightly tirade on NTV—with increasing alarm.
Magnus swore softly.
Ingrid’s hand went still. “Is something wrong?”
It was Gennady who answered. “Dmitry Sergeyevich is hearing ominous things from his sources in Russian intelligence. Evidently, these sources are telling him that the Ukrainians have managed to acquire a crude, low-yield nuclear weapon. Dmitry Sergeyevich seems to think Russia should launch a preemptive strike against the Ukrainians.”
“Does he know something?”
Gennady’s phone rang before he could answer. He lifted the device to his ear, spoke a few words quietly in Russian, then killed the connection.
“Nikolai is running behind schedule. He’s with Volodya at Novo-Ogaryovo. A matter of the utmost urgency. He’ll call us when the meeting is over.”
Ingrid quickly dispatched a secure satellite message on her Genesis phone, advising the recipient to watch NTV. Then she placed her hand on the imaginary dial of Nikolai Petrov’s safe. Four turns to the right, three to the left, two to the right.
Twenty-seven, eleven, fifty-five.
50
Rublyovka
When another forty-five minutes passed with no word from Petrov, Ingrid broke into Gennady’s game room with her bump key and shot pool to settle her nerves. She ran five straight tables and had a single ball remaining on her sixth when Magnus finally called down that it was time to leave. The last ball was the dreaded thirteen, but the shot was dead straight into a near corner, the kind she could drop nine out of ten times with her eyes closed. Rather than tempt fate, she laid the cue stick on the table and headed upstairs.
Magnus and Gennady were waiting in the entrance hall in their overcoats and gloves. Ingrid went quickly into the kitchen to fetch her things. She conducted a needless final inventory, just to put at least a portion of her mind at ease. The bump key was in the front-right pocket of her jeans. A screwdriver with tape-wrapped grip was in her handbag along with the gun and its suppressor. Her phone she would carry in plain sight. The clandestine camera function was engaged. She would wait until they were on their way to Saint Petersburg to transmit the photos securely to Gabriel.
She pulled on her overcoat and, taking up the cash-filled attaché case, followed Magnus and Gennady into the frigid night. The snow was coming down harder now, big downy flakes falling straight from a black sky. Gennady, head lowered, made for the open rear door of his Mercedes. Ingrid placed the attaché case on the backseat of the Range Rover and climbed into the passenger seat. Magnus slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
“Petrov was leaving Novo-Ogaryovo when he rang. We should arrive at his home at roughly the same time.”
“What do you suppose they were talking about?”
“Nikolai and Volodya? Why don’t you ask him?”
“I just might.”
“I was only joking.” He gave her a sideways look. “Can you at least pretend to be a little nervous?”
“I don’t get nervous.”
“I do,” said Magnus. “Quite nervous, in fact.”
“Don’t be.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Everything is going to be fine.”
But only if she was able to pick the lock on the door of Nikolai Petrov’s office, open his safe, find the correct Security Council of Russia directive, photograph the directive, and return it to the safe without Petrov or his security goons noticing. They were all former Spetsnaz soldiers and would be armed with the same type of sidearm presently hidden in Ingrid’s handbag, an SR-1 Vektor purportedly capable of piercing thirty layers of Kevlar body armor. Her black pullover and jacket would provide little defense. If she were forced to draw the weapon, she thought, she would be dead. And so would Gennady and Magnus. Their deaths, however, would be slower than hers—and exponentially more painful.
They followed Gennady’s motorcade along the tranquil private lanes of Mayendorf Gardens and out the development’s front gate.The high-security community known as Somerset Estates was located on the westernmost fringes of Rublyovka along the banks of the Moskva River. Residents referred to it colloquially as “the Kremlin.” Its defensive outer wall was the color of terra-cotta and at least six meters in height. The only entrance was flanked by two Gothic-style clock towers with green spires. All that was missing, thought Ingrid, were the luminous red stars.
