“It might hurt,” Gabriel said. “In fact, it might hurt a lot.”
Gabriel slid the toggle bar of the audio player back to the beginning of the conversation and clicked PLAY again.
“I know who you are. In fact, I know everything there is to know about you.”
He pressed STOP.
“Figure of speech,” said Lavon. “Nothing more.”
“You’re sure about that, Eli? You’re one hundred percent sure?”
“I am sure the sun will rise tomorrow morning and that it will set tomorrow night. And I am reasonably confident Mikhail will survive a drink with Gennady Lazarev.”
“Unless Gennady serves him a glass of polonium punch.”
Gabriel reached for the computer mouse, but Lavon stilled his hand. “We came to Copenhagen to make the meeting,” Lavon said. “Now make the meeting.”
Gabriel picked up his phone and dialed Mikhail’s mobile. The bleating of his ringtone came back at him from the speakers of the computer, as did the sound of Mikhail’s voice when he answered.
“Do it tomorrow night,” said Gabriel. “Control the venue to the best of your ability. No surprises.”
Gabriel hung up without another word and listened while Mikhail dialed Gennady Lazarev’s number. Lazarev answered immediately.
“I’m so glad you called.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lazarev?”
“You can have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
“I have something with Viktor.”
“Make up an excuse.”
“Where?”
“I’ll find some place out of the way.”
“Not too out of the way, Mr. Lazarev. I can’t be out of pocket for more than an hour or so.”
“How’s seven?”
“Seven is fine.”
“I’ll send a car for you.”
“I’m at the Hotel d’Angleterre.”
“Yes, I know,” said Lazarev before severing the connection. Gabriel switched the audio source of the computer from Mikhail’s phone to the transmitter in Gennady Lazarev’s room at the Imperial. The three Russians were laughing uncontrollably. Surely, thought Gabriel, they were laughing at him.
44
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
The second day of the forum was a tired rerun of the first. Mikhail remained loyally at Viktor Orlov’s side throughout, smiling with the overbright air of a man who was about to commit adultery. At the cocktail reception, he once again clung to the festive embrace of the Brazilians, who seemed crestfallen when he turned down their invitation to join them for a romp through some of Copenhagen’s livelier nightclubs. Taking his leave, he extracted Viktor from the clutches of the Kazakh oil minister and herded him into the back of their hired limousine. He waited until they were a few blocks from the D’Angleterre before saying that he hadn’t the strength for dinner. He did so in a voice that was loud enough to be picked up by any Russian transmitters present.
“What’s her name?” asked Orlov, who already knew of Mikhail’s plans for that evening.
“It isn’t that, Viktor.”
“What is it then?”
“I have a catastrophic headache.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“I’m sure it’s only a brain tumor.”
Upstairs in his room, Mikhail made a few phone calls to London for the sake of his cover and sent a naughty e-mail to his secretary to let the cybersleuths of Moscow Center know that he was human after all. Then he showered and laid out his clothes for the evening, which proved to be more of a challenge than he first imagined. How does one dress, he thought, when one is betraying his ersatz employer by meeting with executives of an oil company owned and operated by Russian intelligence? He settled on a plain suit, Soviet gray in color, and a white dress shirt with French cuffs. He decided against a necktie for fear it would make him appear overeager. Besides, if it was their intention to kill him, he didn’t want to wear an article of clothing that could be used as a murder weapon.
At Gabriel’s instruction, he left every light in the room burning and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the latch before making his way to the elevators. The lobby was a sea of delegates. As he headed toward the door, he saw Yossi, newly minted reporter for the nonexistent Energy Times, interviewing one of the tieless Iranians. Outside a gritty snow was blowing like a sandstorm across the expanse of King’s New Square. A black Mercedes S-Class sedan waited curbside. Standing next to the open rear door was an eight-foot Russian. If his name wasn’t Igor, it should have been.
“Where are we going?” Mikhail asked as the car shot forward with a lurch.
“Dinner,” grunted Igor the driver.
“Well,” said Mikhail quietly, “I’m glad we cleared that up.”