The Russian driver did not hear Mikhail’s remark, but Gabriel did. He was behind the wheel of an Audi sedan, parked on a side street around the corner from the hotel’s entrance. Keller was beside him, a tablet computer on his knees. On the screen was a map of Copenhagen, with Mikhail’s position depicted as a blinking blue light. At that instant, the light was moving rapidly away from King’s New Square, headed toward a section of Copenhagen not known for its restaurants. Gabriel turned the key with no sense of urgency. Then he looked at the blue light and followed carefully after it.
It soon became apparent that Mikhail and Gennady Lazarev would not be dining in Copenhagen that evening. Because within minutes of leaving the hotel, the big black Mercedes was headed out of town at speeds that suggested Igor was accustomed to driving in snowy weather. Gabriel had no need to match the car’s reckless pace. The blue light on Keller’s computer screen told him everything he needed to know.
After clearing Copenhagen’s southern districts, the light moved onto the E20 motorway and headed southward, into the region of Denmark known as Zealand. And when the highway turned inland toward the ancient market town of Ringsted, the light detached itself and floated toward the coastline. Gabriel and Keller did the same and soon found themselves on a narrow two-lane road, with the black waters of K?ge Bay on their left and fields of snow on their right. They followed the road for several miles until they came upon a settlement of summer cottages huddled along a rocky, windswept beach, and it was there the blinking light finally stopped moving. Gabriel eased to the side of the road and increased the volume on his earpiece. He heard a car door opening, footfalls over snowy paving stones, and the pile-driver beating of Mikhail’s restive heart.
The cottage was among the finest of the lot. It had a small U-shaped drive, an open-sided carport with a red tile roof, and a terraced front garden framed by manicured hedges and stout little brick walls. Twelve steps rose to a veranda with a white balustrade; two potted trees stood like sentries on either side of the paned-glass door. As Mikhail approached, the door swung open and Gennady Lazarev stepped onto the veranda to greet him. He was wearing a roll-neck pullover and a thick Nordic-style cardigan. “Nicholas!” he called, as though to a deaf relation. “Come inside before you catch your death of cold. I’m sorry to drag you all the way down here, but I’ve never felt comfortable doing serious business in restaurants and hotels.”
He offered Mikhail his hand and pulled him across the threshold, as though he were dragging a drowning man from the sea. Then, after closing the door too quickly, he relieved Mikhail of his coat and spent a moment carefully regarding his captured prize. Despite his power and riches, Lazarev still looked like a government scientist. With his round spectacles and furrowed brow, he had the air of a man who was forever struggling to solve a mathematical equation.
“Did you have any trouble getting away from Viktor?” he asked.
“None,” replied Mikhail. “In fact, I think he was happy to be rid of me for a few hours.”
“It seems you two get along quite well.”
“We do.”
“But you came in any case,” Lazarev pointed out.
“I felt that I had to.”
“Why?”
“Because when a man like Gennady Lazarev asks for a meeting, it’s usually a good idea to take the meeting.”
Mikhail’s words were obviously pleasing to Lazarev. Clearly, the Russian was not immune to flattery.
“And you didn’t tell him where you were going?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Very good.” Lazarev clamped his delicate hand on Mikhail’s shoulder. “Come and have a drink. Meet the others.”
Lazarev escorted Mikhail into a great room with windows looking onto the sea. Two men waited there in the sort of uncomfortable silence that usually follows a quarrel. One was pouring a drink at the trolley; the other was warming himself in front of the fire. The one at the trolley had the shadow of a heavy beard and dark thinning hair combed close to his scalp. Mikhail couldn’t see much of the man at the fire because his back was turned to the room.
“This is Dmitry Bershov,” Lazarev said, indicating the man at the trolley. “I’m sure you’ve heard the name. Dmitry is my number two.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mikhail, accepting the outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” intoned Bershov.