Page 85 of The Collector
She made no attempt to locate or evade the surveillance, for such countermeasures would not have been in keeping with her character. Instead, she paid her respects at the eternal flame in the Field ofMars. Then she toured the Marble Palace, which Catherine the Great had given as a gift to her lover Grigory Orlov, leader of the 1762 coup that removed Catherine’s husband from power and installed her as empress of Russia.
Leaving the palace, Ingrid reached the conclusion that, had she been born in Russia in the late eighteenth century, she would have undoubtedly been among the crowds of starving workers who stormed the Winter Palace in November 1917 after hearing the shot fired by the warshipAurora. She also became certain that she was being followed by at least two men and a short-haired woman of perhaps thirty-five who wore a dark blue quilted down coat with a fur-trimmed hood.
It was the woman who accompanied Ingrid on a tour of the colossal Saint Isaac’s Cathedral, where she watched the sun setting over the Baltic Sea from the cupola high atop the golden dome. Returning to her suite at the Astoria, she sent a message to her friend in Copenhagen about her visit to the Hermitage—and about the arrests she had witnessed in Palace Square. Then, having nothing better to do, she switched on the television and watched the late-afternoon fare on RT, Russia’s English-language network. War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength. Two Minutes Hate.
It was nearly nine o’clock when Magnus finally returned to the hotel. He came upstairs to his suite long enough to remove his jacket and necktie and pull on a woolen sweater. Ingrid had reserved a table at the Italian restaurant in the neighboring Angleterre Hotel. The worn-out pensioner standing behind the bar looked old enough to remember the siege of Leningrad. The rest of the floor staff werewomen. They were staring dully at the television, which was tuned to NTV.
“Dmitry Budanov,” said Magnus. Then he added gloomily, “My neighbor in Rublyovka.”
“What is he saying?”
“Evidently, Russian forces are advancing on all fronts. The Nazi regime in Kyiv will soon be liquidated, and Ukraine will be wiped from the map like...” Magnus’s voice trailed off. “I won’t translate the rest, if you don’t mind. Dmitry shares the Russian president’s love of scatological political rhetoric.”
They were seated at a table against the window. Outside, a steady snow was falling on Saint Isaac’s Square. There was no one else in the restaurant. Ingrid maintained her cover identity nonetheless. She placed her hand atop Magnus’s and gazed at him with devotion.
“I was afraid they were never going to let you leave.”
“So was I,” he answered quietly. “As you might imagine, it was a rather tense afternoon. The minute I withdraw from the joint venture, Russia’s international isolation will be complete. For all his talk about a new world order, Vladimir doesn’t want that to happen. He’s placing enormous pressure on RuzNeft chairman Igor Kozlov to find some way of salvaging the deal.”
“Personally?”
Magnus nodded. “And Igor Kozlov is placing enormous pressure on me.”
“What kind of pressure?”
“The kind that can get quite unpleasant. But he also offered me a rather large financial incentive to remain in the deal. If I were to accept it, I will be among the most reviled men on the planet. I will also be quite rich, as will DanskOil’s largest shareholders.”
“You already are rich, Magnus.”
“But I’ll be Russian rich. Trust me, there’s a difference.”
“Are you considering it?”
“I’d be a fool not to. Igor would like me to remain in Russia for a couple of days while they crunch the numbers.”
“What about the prime minister’s ultimatum?”
“A sticking point, but hardly insurmountable. She has much less power than she thinks she does.”
“The press are clamoring for a statement.”
“Perhaps we should give them one.”
Magnus reached for his phone and composed a tweet. Ingrid smoothed a couple of the rougher edges but otherwise left the original language intact. The first day of talks between DanskOil and RuzNeft regarding the future of their joint venture had been fruitful and would continue. She tapped the little blue bird and waited for the reaction.
“Well?” asked Magnus after a moment.
“The Twitterati do not approve.”
The waitress arrived with their wine. Ingrid handed the woman the Genesis and asked her to snap their picture, which she sent to her friend in Copenhagen.
“Are we going to stay here in Saint Petersburg?” she asked.
“Actually, I was thinking we should spend a couple of days in Moscow instead. I’d love for you to see my place in Rublyovka.”
Ingrid took up her phone again. “Plane or train?”
“Train.”
