Page 84 of The Collector
“This might come as a surprise to you, Allon, but I’m rather well versed in the etiquette of Russian tradecraft. And I’m not at all surprised that this Komarovsky fellow wishes to keep his identity secret from me. He’s playing a very dangerous game.”
“Any candidates?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“He’ll be the very last person you would expect.”
“I suppose that would be Nikolai Petrov himself.” Magnus was suddenly distracted by the sound of Mikhail’s shouted questions upstairs. “Is that really necessary?”
“For your sake, I hope it isn’t.”
“Is this the part where you threaten to destroy me if anything happens to her?” Magnus lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. “You needn’t worry about Ms. Sørensen, Allon. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she leaves Russia alive.”
The next morning, a DanskOil spokesman announced that CEO Magnus Larsen would be traveling to Saint Petersburg to begin the discussions on winding down the company’s joint venture with the Kremlin-owned Russian oil company RuzNeft. Nevertheless, Magnus’s departure from DanskOil HQ that evening was once again marred by an ugly incident involving protesters. He dropped by the safe house for a final session and a communal dinner attended by several officers from the PET, including the director-general. Ingrid was clearly uneasy about what awaited her in Russia. She hid her fear beneath the far-right facade of her cover identity, holding forth on a range of incendiary topics, much to the delight of her audience.
“It’s all scientific stuff,” she said, borrowing a line from Tom Buchanan. “The idea is if we don’t look out, the White race will be utterly submerged.”
After dinner, Magnus returned home to Hellerup, and Ingrid headed upstairs to pack. She went to bed around midnight, and by five the next morning she was gone. Gabriel waited until their chartered aircraft was airborne before entering her room to search for clues as to the true state of her emotions. Her farewell note was adhered to the wall, handwritten on an index card, impaled with a pushpin. “I won’t let you down” was all it said.
Part Three
The Contact
42
Saint Petersburg
In the broad square outside the old House of the Soviets, Lenin stood atop his plinth, his right arm stretched westward. Russians used to joke that the founder of the Soviet Union looked as though he were forever trying to hail a taxi. But one courageous social media dissident had hit upon a new theory, that Lenin was actually exhorting the young and able-bodied to flee Russia before they could be mobilized for the anticipated late-winter offensive in Ukraine. The dissident’s video commentary had not found favor with Russian authorities, who dispatched her to a penal colony in the Ural Mountains after a summary show trial. Her husband and children had not heard from her since.
Ingrid snapped a photograph of the enormous bronze statue with her new phone as their Mercedes limousine sat in late-morning traffic on the Moskovsky Prospekt. The car had been waiting for them on the tarmac at Pulkovo Airport. A reception committee from RuzNeft had eased their way through the arrivals process. No one had bothered to inspect Ingrid’s passport, let alone her mobile cellular device.
She forwarded the photograph via an ordinary en clair text message to a friend in Copenhagen—a friend who did not actually exist—and included a few biting remarks about the European left befitting her new populist image. She also sent it to dashing Magnus, who was sitting next to her in the backseat of the Mercedes. This time her commentary was of a sexual nature. It brought a smile to the handsome features of his face.
“I’d love nothing more,” he murmured in Danish. “But I’m expected at RuzNeft.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
His response was well rehearsed. “Given the circumstances, it’s probably better if you don’t.”
“What will I do with myself all afternoon?”
“Saint Petersburg is one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Take a nice long walk.”
“It’s freezing.”
“You’re Danish.” The playful squeeze he gave her hand did not go unnoticed by the RuzNeft security gorilla in the front passenger seat. “I think you’ll survive.”
“I certainly hope so,” remarked Ingrid quietly, and stared out her window at the Orwellian Soviet-era apartment blocks clustered around Victory Park. Everywhere she looked, in shop windows and on the sides of cars, she saw the letter Z, the symbol of support for the war in Ukraine. Nowhere was there any sign of opposition, for even mild opposition, a shirt, a hand gesture, was no longer tolerated. The Russian president had recently referred to antiwar activists as scum and insects. It was rather tame in comparison to the standard Two Minutes Hate that appeared nightly on state-run television.
Finally, they reached Sennaya Square, and the thunderous Moskovsky Prospekt gave way to the imported European elegance of the tsarist city center. Magnus was on the phone with DanskOil HQwhen they rolled to a stop at the red-awninged entrance of the historic Astoria Hotel. He muted the call as Ingrid was climbing out of the car.
“With any luck, I’ll be back in time for dinner. I’ll send you an update if I have a free minute.”
“Please do,” she said, and followed the porter into the lobby. The girl at Reception scrutinized Ingrid’s Danish passport with a practiced sneer before surrendering two sets of room keys. As requested, their premium suites were adjoining. Ingrid snapped a photo of the view from her window and asked her friend in Copenhagen for advice on how she might kill a few hours in one of the world’s beautiful cities. He advised her to visit the Hermitage. The Monet Room, he said, was not to be missed.
Ingrid hadcoffee and a pastry at Literary Café, the fabled haunt of Russian writers and intellectuals, then walked beneath the soaring Triumphal Arch to Palace Square, where a contingent of black-clad Thought Police were arresting several young antiwar protesters who had unfurled a banner at the foot of the Alexander Column. Several onlookers flashed Z symbols and shouted pro-Kremlin slogans as the protesters were led away.
Unnerved by what she had witnessed, Ingrid spent the next two hours roaming the endless rooms and galleries of the Hermitage, including Room 67, the Monet Room. Afterward, while walking past the garish palaces lining Millionaires’ Street, she became convinced, based on nothing more than her well-honed professional instinct, that she was being followed.
