Orlov partook of the wine first. Then he explained how Volgatek filed a second application for a license to drill in the North Sea, this time with the backing of the second most powerful man in Whitehall. But the prime minister was still ambivalent at best, and the secretary of state for energy remained absolutely opposed. Fallon prevailed upon the secretary not to reject the application outright. It was technically alive, but just barely.
“And then,” said Orlov, raising one arm toward the ceiling, “the secretary of state suddenly approves the license, Jonathan Lancaster jets off to Moscow for champagne toasts in the Kremlin, and the man who accepted five million euros in Russian money is about to become the next chancellor of the exchequer.”
“I need to know your source for the five million.”
“Asked and answered,” replied the Russian curtly.
Gabriel changed the subject. “What’s the state of relations between Volgatek and your business here in London?”
“As you might expect, we are in a state of war. It’s rather like the Cold War—undeclared but vicious.”
“How so?”
“Lazarev has outbid me on a number of acquisitions. It’s easy for him,” Orlov added resentfully. “He’s not playing with his own money. He also takes great pleasure in hiring away my best people. He throws a pile of money at them—Kremlin money, of course—and they bolt for greener pastures.”
“Are you on speaking terms?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Orlov said. “When we encounter one another in public, we nod politely and exchange frozen smiles. Our war is conducted entirely in the shadows. I must admit Gennady’s gotten the better of me lately. And now he’s going to be drilling for oil in the waters of a country I’ve come to love. It makes me sick to my stomach.”
“Then maybe you should do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“Help me blow up the deal.”
Orlov stopped twirling his eyeglasses and stared directly at Gabriel for a moment without speaking. “What is your interest in this matter?” he asked finally.
“It’s strictly personal.”
“Why would someone like you care whether a Russian energy company gets access to North Sea oil?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Coming from you, I would expect nothing less.”
Gabriel smiled in spite of himself. Then, quietly, he said, “I believe the Kremlin blackmailed Jonathan Lancaster into giving Volgatek those drilling rights.”
“How?”
Gabriel was silent.
“I gave up a company worth sixteen billion dollars in order to get you and your wife out of Russia,” Orlov said. “I believe that entitles me to an answer. How did they do it?”
“By kidnapping Lancaster’s mistress from the island of Corsica.”
Orlov didn’t bat an eye. “Well,” he said again. “I’m glad someone finally noticed.”
They talked until the windows in Viktor Orlov’s magnificent office turned to black, and then they talked a little longer. By the end of their conversation, Gabriel felt confident he understood how the game on the hillside had been played, but precisely how the players had sided themselves remained just beyond his grasp. He was certain of one thing, though; it was time to have a quiet word with Graham Seymour. He called him from a public phone in Sloane Square and confessed that he had once again entered the country without first signing the guestbook. Then he requested a meeting. Seymour recited a time and a place and rang off without another word. Gabriel replaced the receiver and started walking, with Christopher Keller running countersurveillance a hundred yards behind.
38
HAMPSTEAD HEATH, LONDON
They walked to Hyde Park corner, boarded a Piccadilly Line train to Leicester Square, and then took the long slow ride on the Northern Line up to Hampstead. Keller entered a small café in the High Street and waited there while Gabriel made his way alone up South End Road. He entered the heath at the Pryors Field, skirted the banks of the Hampstead Ponds, and then climbed the gentle slope of Parliament Hill. In the distance, veiled by low cloud and mist, glowed the lights of the City of London. Graham Seymour was admiring the view from a wooden park bench. He was alone except for a pair of raincoated security men who stood with the stillness of chess pieces along the footpath at his back. They averted their eyes as Gabriel slipped wordlessly past them and sat down at Seymour’s side. The MI5 man gave no sign he was aware of Gabriel’s presence. Once again, he was smoking.
“You’ve really got to stop that,” said Gabriel.
“And you really should have told me you were coming back into the country,” replied Seymour. “I would have arranged a reception committee.”
“I didn’t want a reception committee, Graham.”
“Obviously.” Seymour was still contemplating the lights of central London. “How long have you been in town?”
“I came in yesterday afternoon.”
“Why?”
“Unfinished business.”
“Why?” asked Seymour again.
“Madeline,” said Gabriel. “I’m here because of Madeline.”
Seymour turned his head and looked at Gabriel for the first time. “Madeline is dead,” he said slowly.
“Yes, Graham, I know that. I was there.”
“I’m sorry,” Seymour said after a moment. “I shouldn’t have—”