Daniel Silva - The defector

“Please, Olga. Remind me when it was we last met.”

Orlov watchers would have recognized this, too. Viktor was not the sort to blurt “I never forget a face.” He actually made a habit of pretending to forget people. It was a negotiating tactic. It said to opponents they were unmemorable. Insignificant. Without merit or consequence. Olga cared little about what Orlov thought of her, so she answered the question honestly. They had met just once, she reminded him. The encounter had taken place in Moscow, shortly before he fled to London.

“Ah, yes, I remember it now! If I recall, I became very angry at you because you were not interested in some valuable information I had for you.”

“If I had written the story you wanted me to write, I would have been killed.”

“The fearless Olga Sukhova was afraid? That never stopped you before. From what I hear, you’re lucky to be alive. The Kremlin never said what happened in that stairwell last summer, but I know the truth. You were investigating Ivan Kharkov, and Ivan tried to silence you. Permanently.”

Olga made no reply.

“So you don’t deny that’s what happened?”

“Your sources have always been impeccable, Viktor.”

He acknowledged the compliment with a twirl of his eye-wear. “It’s a shame we haven’t had the opportunity to meet again until now. As you might expect, I followed your case with great interest. I tried to find some way of making contact with you after your defection was made public, but you were quite difficult to locate. I asked my friends in British intelligence to pass a message to you, but they refused.”

“Why didn’t you just ask Grigori where I was?”

The spectacles went still, just for a few seconds. “I did, but he refused to tell me. I know you two are friends. I suppose he doesn’t want to share you.”

Olga took note of the tense: I know you two are friends… He didn’t seem to know about Grigori’s absence-unless he was lying, which was a distinct possibility. Viktor Orlov was genetically incapable of telling the truth.

“The old Viktor wouldn’t have bothered to ask Grigori where I was hiding. He would have just had him followed.”

“Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind.”

“But you never did?”

“Follow Grigori?” He shook his head. “The British give my bodyguards a good deal of latitude, but they would never tolerate private surveillance operations. Remember, I am still a Russian citizen. I am also the target of a formal extradition request. I try not to do anything to make my British hosts too angry.”

“Other than criticize the Kremlin whenever you feel like it.”

“They can’t expect me to remain mute. When I see injustice, I am compelled to speak. It’s my nature. That’s why Grigori and I get along so well.” He paused, then asked, “How is he, by the way?”

“Grigori?” She sipped her tea, and said she hadn’t spoken to him for several weeks. “You?”

“Actually, I had one of my assistants put a call to him the other day. We never heard back. I assume he’s very busy on his book.” Orlov gave her a conspiratorial glance. “Some of my people have been working with Grigori in secret. As you might expect, I want this book to be a big success.”

“Why am I not surprised, Viktor?”

“It’s my nature. I enjoy helping others. Which is why I’m so pleased you’re here. Tell me about the story you’re working on. Tell me how I can be of service.”

“It’s a story about a defector. A defector who disappeared without a trace.”

“Does the defector have a name?”

“Grigori Nikolaevich Bulganov.”

IN THE surveillance van, Graham Seymour removed his headphones and looked at Gabriel.

“Very nicely played.”

“She’s good, Graham. Very good.”

“Can I have her when you’re done?”

Gabriel raised a finger to his lips. Viktor Orlov was speaking again. They heard a burst of rapid Russian, followed by the voice of the translator.

“Tell me what you know, Olga. Tell me everything.”

ORLOV WAS suddenly in motion in several places at once. The spectacles were twirling, the fingers were drumming on the back of the brocade couch, and the left eye was twitching anxiously. When he was a child, the twitch had made him the target of merciless teasing and bullying. It had made him burn with hatred, and that hatred had driven him to succeed. Viktor Orlov wanted to beat everyone. And it was all because of the twitch in his left eye.

“Are you sure he’s missing?”

“I’m sure.”

“When did he disappear?”

“January the tenth. Six-twelve in the evening. On his way to chess.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m Olga Sukhova. I know everything.”

“Do the British know?”

“Of course.”

“What do they think happened?”

“They believe he redefected. They think he’s now back at Lubyanka telling his superiors everything he learned about your operation while he was working for you.”

The eye was now blinking involuntarily like the shutter of a high-speed automatic camera.

“Why didn’t they tell me?”

“I’m not sure you were their first concern, Viktor. But don’t worry. It’s not true about Grigori. He didn’t redefect. He was kidnapped.” She let it sink in, then added, “By Ivan Kharkov.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m Olga Sukhova.”

“And you know everything.”

“Not quite everything. But perhaps you can help me fill in some of the missing pieces. I don’t know the identity of the man Ivan hired to handle the kidnapping. All I know is that this man is very good. He’s a professional.” She paused. “The kind of man you used to hire in Moscow -in the bad old days, Viktor, when you had a problem that just wouldn’t go away.”

“Be careful, Ms. Sukhova.”

“I’m always careful. I never had to print a single retraction in all the years I worked for the Gazeta . Not one.”

“That’s because you never wrote a story about me.”

“If I had, it would have been airtight and completely accurate.”

“So you say.”

“I know a great deal about the way you made your money, Viktor. I did you a favor by never publishing that information in the Gazeta . And now you’re going to do one for me. You’re going to help me find the man who kidnapped my friend. And if you don’t, I’m going to pour everything I have in my notebooks into the most unflattering exposé ever written about you.”

“And I’ll take you to court.”

“ Court? Do you really think I’m afraid of a British court?”

She reached into her handbag and withdrew a photograph: a man standing in the arrivals hall of Heathrow Airport. Orlov slipped on his spectacles. The eye twitched nervously. He pressed a button on the side table, and the maid materialized.

“Bring me a bottle of the Pétrus. Now.”

HE TRIED to slip out of the noose, of course, but Olga was having none of it. She calmly recited a couple of names, a date, and the details of a certain transaction involving a company Viktor once owned-just enough to let him know her threats were not idle. Viktor drank his first glass of Pétrus quickly and poured another.

Olga had never seen Viktor show fear before, but he was clearly afraid now. An experienced reporter, she recognized the manifestations of that fear in the behavior that came next: the exclamations of disbelief, the attempts at misdirection, the effort to foist blame onto others. Viktor tended to blame all his problems on Russia. So it came as no surprise to Olga when he did so now.

“You have to remember what it was like in the nineties. We tried to snap our fingers and turn Russia into a normal capitalist country overnight. It wasn’t possible. It was utopian thinking, just like Communism.”