Five anxious days later, the lords of oil began flowing into Copenhagen from the four corners of the earth: Saudis and Emiratis, Azeris and Kazakhs, Brazilians and Venezuelans, Americans and Canadians. The global warming activists were predictably appalled by the gathering, with one group issuing the hysterical claim that the carbon emitted by the conference itself would eventually cause the oceans to swallow a village in Bangladesh. The delegates seemed not to notice. They arrived in Copenhagen aboard private jets and roared through its quaint streets in armored limousines powered by internal combustion engines. Perhaps one day the oil would run out and the planet would grow too hot to sustain human life. But for now at least, the extractors of fossil fuels still reigned supreme.
The competition for resources in Copenhagen was intense. Dinner reservations were impossible to come by, and the Hotel d’Angleterre, a white luxury liner of a building overlooking the sprawling King’s New Square, was filled to capacity. Viktor Orlov and Mikhail arrived at its graceful entrance in a blinding snowstorm and were escorted by management to a pair of neighboring suites on an upper floor. Mikhail’s contained a platter of Danish treats and a bottle of Dom Pérignon, which was chilling in an ice bucket. The last time he had stayed in a hotel on Office business, he had used the complimentary champagne to inflict an injury on his knee for the sake of his cover. Surely, he thought, his cover for this operation demanded that he partake of a glass or two. As he was removing the cork he heard a discreet knock at the door—curious, because he had hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the latch before generously tipping the bellman. He opened the door slowly and peered over the security bar at the man of medium height and build standing in the corridor. He wore a mid-length woolen coat with a German-style collar and a Tyrolean felt hat. His hair was lush and silver; his eyes brown and bespectacled. A soft-sided leather briefcase, scuffed and weathered, dangled from his right hand.
“How can I help you?” asked Mikhail.
“By opening the door,” replied Gabriel softly.
Mikhail disengaged the security bar, stepped to one side so Gabriel could enter, and then closed the door again quickly. Turning, he saw Gabriel moving slowly about the hotel room with his BlackBerry extended in his right hand. After a moment he nodded at Mikhail to indicate that the room was free of listening devices. Mikhail walked over to the champagne bucket and poured himself a glass of the Dom Pérignon.
“You?” he asked, waving the bottle in Gabriel’s direction.
“It gives me a headache.”
“Me, too.”
Mikhail lowered his lanky frame onto the couch and propped his feet upon the coffee table, a busy executive weary from a long day of travel and meetings. Gabriel looked around at the lavishly appointed suite and shook his head.
“I’m glad Viktor is footing the bill for this place,” he said. “Uzi’s already on my back over expenses.”
“Tell Uzi that I need to be maintained in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”
“It’s good to know all this success hasn’t gone to your head.”
Mikhail drank some of the champagne but said nothing.
“You need to shave.”
“I shaved this morning,” Mikhail said, rubbing his chin.
“Not there,” replied Gabriel.
Mikhail ran a palm over his glistening pate. “You know,” he said, “I’m actually getting used to it. In fact, I’m thinking about adopting it as my look when this operation is over.”
“You look like an alien, Mikhail.”
“Better an alien than a character from The Sound of Music.” Mikhail snatched a small shrimp sandwich from the platter and devoured it whole.
“Since when do you eat shellfish?”
“Since I became an Englishman of Russian descent who works for an investment company owned by an oligarch named Viktor Orlov.”
“With a bit of luck,” said Gabriel, “it’s only a stepping stone to bigger and better things.”
“Inshallah,” said Mikhail, raising his champagne glass in a mock toast. “Have my future employers arrived yet?”
Gabriel delved into his battered briefcase and withdrew a manila file folder. Inside were three freshly printed color photographs, which he arrayed on the coffee table before Mikhail in the order they had been snapped. They depicted three men descending the airstair of a small private jet and climbing into the back of a waiting limousine. They had been taken from a considerable distance, by a camera fitted with a long lens. Snowfall blurred the image.
“Who got the pictures?” asked Mikhail.
“Yossi.”
“How did he get onto the tarmac?”
“He has a press pass for the forum,” replied Gabriel. “So does Rimona.”
“Who are they working for?”
“An industry newsletter called the Energy Times.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It’s new.”
Smiling, Mikhail picked up the first photo, the one showing the three figures moving in single file down the airstair. Leading the way, looking nothing at all like the bookish mathematician he had once been, was Gennady Lazarev. A step behind was Dmitry Bershov, Volgatek’s deputy CEO, and behind Bershov was a short, compact man whose face was obscured by the brim of a fedora.
“Who is he?” asked Mikhail.
“We haven’t been able to figure that out.”
Mikhail picked up the second photograph, then the third. In neither was the man’s face visible.
“He’s rather good, isn’t he?” asked Mikhail.
“You noticed that, too.”