Volgatek, Orlov resumed, was to have no role in domestic Russian oil production, which had already leveled off. Instead, its sole purpose was to expand Russia’s oil and gas interests internationally, thus increasing the Kremlin’s global power and influence. Backed by Kremlin money, Volgatek went on a shopping spree in Europe, purchasing a chain of oil refineries in Poland, Lithuania, and Hungary. Then, over the objections of the Americans, it signed a lucrative drilling agreement with the Islamic Republic of Iran. It also signed development deals with Cuba, Venezuela, and Syria.
“Do you see a pattern here?” asked Orlov.
“The deals Volgatek struck were all in the lands of the old Soviet empire or in countries hostile to the United States.”
“Correct,” said Orlov.
But Volgatek wasn’t content to stop there, he added. It expanded its operations into Western Europe, signing distribution and refinery deals in Greece, Denmark, and the Netherlands. Then it set its sights on the North Sea, where it wanted to drill in two newly discovered fields off the Western Isles of Scotland. Volgatek’s geologists estimated that production would eventually reach one hundred thousand barrels a day, with a large portion of profits flowing directly into the coffers of the Kremlin. The company applied to Britain’s Department of Energy and Climate Change for a license. And then the secretary of state for energy asked Viktor Orlov to pop over to his office for a chat.
“And what do you think I told him?”
“That Volgatek was a wholly owned subsidiary of the Kremlin, run by a former member of the KGB.”
“And what do you think the secretary of state for energy did with Volgatek’s application to drill in territorial waters of Britain?”
“He dropped it into his shredder.”
“Right before my eyes,” added Orlov, smiling. “It was a most satisfying sound.”
“Did the Kremlin know that you were the one who sabotaged the deal?”
“Not to my knowledge,” replied Orlov. “But I’m sure Lazarev and the Russian president suspected I was somehow involved. They’re always willing to believe the worst about me.”
“What happened next?”
“Volgatek waited a year. Then it filed a second application for the drilling license. But this time, things were different. They had a friend inside Downing Street, a man who they’d spent a year cultivating.”
“Who?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Fine,” responded Gabriel. “Then I’ll say it for you. Volgatek’s man inside Downing Street was Jeremy Fallon, the most powerful chief of staff in British history.”
Orlov smiled. “Perhaps we should have a bottle of Pétrus after all.”
They had sailed into dangerous waters. Gabriel knew it, and Orlov surely knew it, too, for his left eye was beating a furious rhythm. 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.
For now, the eye was staring into a goblet of dark-red Pomerol wine. Orlov had yet to drink from it. Nor had he answered the rather straightforward question that Gabriel had posed a moment earlier. Why Jeremy Fallon?
“Why not Fallon?” the Russian said at last. “Fallon was Lancaster’s brain. Fallon was the puppet master. Fallon pulled a string, and Lancaster waved his hand. And better yet, he was vulnerable to an approach.”
“How so?”
“He didn’t have a pot to piss in. He was poor as a church mouse.”
“Who suggested targeting him?”
“I’m told it came from the SVR rezidentura here in London.”
Rezidentura was the word used by the SVR to describe its operations inside local embassies. The rezident was the station chief, the rezidentura the station itself. It was a holdover from the days of the KGB. Most things about the SVR were.
“How did they go about it?”
“Lazarev and Fallon started bumping into each other in all the wrong places: parties, restaurants, conferences, holidays. Rumor has it Fallon spent a long weekend at Lazarev’s place in Gstaad and cruised the Greek islands on Lazarev’s yacht. I’m told they got along famously, but that’s not surprising. Gennady can be a charming bastard when he wants to be.”
“But there was more than just a charm offensive, wasn’t there, Viktor?”
“Much more.”
“How much?”
“Five million euros in a numbered Swiss bank account, courtesy of the Kremlin. Very clean. Completely untraceable. The SVR handled all the arrangements.”
“Says who?”
“Says I’d rather not say.”
“Come on, Viktor.”
“You obviously have your sources, Mr. Allon, and I have mine.”
“At least tell me the direction your information comes from.”
“It comes from the East,” said Orlov, meaning it came from one of his many sources in Moscow.
“Go on,” said Gabriel.