he gave no sign of it. Indeed, all those who listened in on Mikhail’s
performance that evening would describe it as one of the finest they had ever
heard. He was the Nicholas Avedon whom they had all fallen in love with from
afar. The witty Nicholas. The edgy Nicholas. The smarter than everyone else in
the room Nicholas—save for Gennady Lazarev, who was perhaps smarter than anyone
else in the world. As the evening wore on, he spoke less English and more
Russian, until he stopped speaking English altogether. He was one of them now.
He was Nicolai Avdonin. A Volgatek man. A man of Russia’s future. A man of
Russia’s past.
The transformation was made complete shortly after
ten o’clock when he did a spot-on imitation of Viktor Orlov, along with the
twitching left eye, which brought down the house. Only Pavel Zhirov seemed not
to find it amusing. Nor did he join in the ovation that followed Gennady
Lazarev’s benedictory remarks. Afterward, the party spilled onto the pavement,
where a line of Volgatek limousines waited at the curb. Lazarev offhandedly
asked Mikhail to stop by the office on his way out of town in the morning to tie
up a few loose ends on the deal memo. Then he guided him toward the open rear
door of a waiting Mercedes. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said through his
mathematician’s smile, “I’m going to have Pavel run you back to the hotel. He
has a few questions he’d like to ask you on the way.”
Mikhail heard himself say “No problem, Gennady.”
Then, without an instant’s hesitation, he slid into the waiting car. Pavel
Zhirov, the night’s only loser, sat opposite, staring inconsolably out his
window. He said nothing as the car pulled into the street. Mikhail tapped his
finger against the armrest. Then he forced himself to stop.
“Gennady said you had a few questions for me.”
“Actually,” replied Zhirov in his underpowered
voice, “I only have one.”
“What is it?”
Zhirov turned and looked at Mikhail for the first
time. “Who the fuck are you?”
Sounds
like Pavel just moved the goalposts,” Navot said.
Shamron frowned; he considered the use of sports
metaphors to be inappropriate for a business as vital as espionage. He looked up
at one of the video panels and saw lights moving quickly across a map of central
Moscow. The light depicting Mikhail’s position flashed red. Four blue lights
moved along with it, two in front, two behind.
“Looks like we’ve got him boxed in,” said
Shamron.
“Quite nicely, actually. The question is, does
Pavel have backup of his own, or is he flying solo?”
“I’m not sure it matters much at this point.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Kick the ball,” said Shamron, lighting a fresh
cigarette. “Quickly.”
They
shot past Tverskaya Street in a blur and continued on along the Boulevard
Ring.
“My hotel is that way,” said Mikhail, jerking his
thumb over his shoulder.
“You seem to know Moscow well,” replied Zhirov.
Clearly, it was not meant as a compliment.
“Habit of mine,” said Mikhail.
“What’s that?”
“Getting to know my way around foreign cities. Hate
having to ask for directions. Don’t like doing the tourist thing.”
“You like to blend in?”
“Listen, Pavel, I don’t like the sound of where
this is—”
“Or maybe you’ve been to Moscow before,” Zhirov
suggested.
“Never.”
“Not recently?”
“No.”
“Not as a child?”
“Never means never, Pavel. Now if you don’t mind,
I’d like to go back to my hotel.”
Zhirov was looking out his window again. Or was he
peering into the driver’s sideview mirror? Mikhail couldn’t be sure.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Zhirov
said finally.
“I haven’t answered it because it doesn’t deserve
one,” Mikhail shot back.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Nicholas Avedon,” Mikhail said calmly. “I’m an
employee of Viktor Orlov Investments in London. And thanks to this little
display of yours, I’m going to remain one.”
Zhirov was obviously unconvinced. “Who are you?” he
asked again.
“I’m Nicholas. I grew up in England. I went to
Cambridge and Harvard. I worked in the oil biz in Aberdeen for a time. And then
I came to Viktor.”
“Why?”
“Why did I grow up in England? Why did I go to
Harvard?”
“Why did you go to work for a known enemy of the
Kremlin like Viktor Orlov?”
“Because he was looking for someone to take over
his oil portfolio. And at this moment, I’m sorry I betrayed him.”
“Did you know about his politics when you went to
work for him?”
“I don’t care about his politics. In fact, I don’t
care about anyone’s politics.”
“You’re a freethinker?”
“No, Pavel, I’m a businessman.”
“You are a spy.”
“A spy? Are you off your meds, Pavel?”
“Who are you working for?”
“Take me back to my hotel.”
“The British?”
“My hotel, Pavel.”