Page 90 of The Collector
“Was it your wife, Magnus?”
“A friend, that’s all.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“It’s none of your affair, Astrid.”
The ensuing quarrel began courteously enough, but by the time they reached Magnus’s home it was Russo-Ukrainian in intensity. Inside, young, vibrant Astrid stormed up the fairy-tale staircase and locked herself in her suite. She waited until she was in bed, buried beneath two thick comforters, before sending the message to theappropriate number in her contacts. It stated that DanskOil CEO Magnus Larsen had received a second invitation. This time it was for lunch at Moscow’s famed Café Pushkin, at one o’clock the following afternoon. His host would be the chairman of TverBank, Gennady Luzhkov.
Or words to that effect.
45
Café Pushkin
The snow fell throughout the night, but by midmorning the traffic was flowing normally along the A106, the two-lane artery connecting Rublyovka to the Moscow Ring Road. The thirty-kilometer highway was the shortest in Russia but doubtless the most pampered. The commuters who used it daily included the country’s wealthiest and most powerful citizens, many of whom traveled by motorcade and worked behind the walls of the Kremlin. Keeping the highway clear of snow and ice was a priority, regardless of the drain on manpower, which was increasingly in short supply.
By the time Magnus set out from Rublyovka, the morning rush had ended. He reached the busy Kutuzovsky Prospekt at twelve thirty and arrived at Café Pushkin, located on the Boulevard Ring in the historic Tverskoy district of central Moscow, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Inside, he was escorted to a small room on the restaurant’s second floor. The decor and ambiance were pre-revolutionary Russia. Only one of the tables was occupied—by Gennady Luzhkov, founder and chairman of TverBank, friend and confidant of the Russianpresident, and a former colonel in the Committee for State Security, otherwise known as the KGB.
Magnus lowered himself into the chair opposite and placed his phone on the white tablecloth in plain view. Gennady summoned the waiter, who filled their glasses with Dom Pérignon champagne.
“What’s the occasion?” asked Magnus.
“Since when does a rich Russian like me need an excuse to drink champagne?”
“Are you still rich, Gennady?”
“Not as rich as I used to be. But at this stage of my life, money isn’t as important as it once was.” Gennady raised a pale fist to his mouth and coughed quietly. “Tell me more about this delightful woman named Astrid Sørensen.”
Magnus repeated the story he had memorized in the safe house in Emdrup, that he and Astrid had been involved in an on-again, off-again affair for some time.
“It’s obviously on again,” said Gennady.
“Obviously,” repeated Magnus.
“What are your intentions?”
“I was given an ultimatum on the way to last night’s dinner party.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Pursue the only sensible course of action.”
“I can’t say I blame you. She’s quite beautiful.”
The waiter placed an assortment of appetizers on the table and withdrew. Magnus helped himself to one of the meat-filled pelmeni. “And Raisa?” he asked, changing the subject. “How is she?”
“Living in Dubai with every other Russian who has the means to flee. I bought her a villa on the Palm Jumeirah. It only cost me twenty million.”
“How often do you see her?”
“Once or twice a month. In fact, I was there a few days ago. Dubai is becoming more Russian by the day. It’s a bit like Moscow with the thermostat set on high.”
“How long can the economy withstand the sanctions and loss of so many talented young workers?”
“Not as long as the Russian people have been led to believe. Which is just one of the reasons why it is so important that you continue your joint venture with RuzNeft.”
“Is that why you invited me to lunch, Gennady? To pressure me to stay in the deal?”
