The Defector

that he’s rebuilding his old networks.”
    “You don’t say.”
    “Have you heard similar things?”
    “To be honest, I try not to think about Ivan. I have a blog. It’s quite popular here in Britain as well as Moscow. The FSB has launched repeated cyberattacks against it.” She gave a fleeting smile. “It gives me inordinate pleasure to know I can annoy the Kremlin, even from a cottage in Cowley.”
    “Perhaps it would be wiser for you to—”
    “To what?” she interrupted. “To keep quiet? The people of Russia have been silent for too long. The regime has used that silence as justification for crushing any semblance of democracy and imposing a form of soft totalitarianism. Someone has to speak up. If it has to be me, then so be it. I’ve done it before.”
    They had reached the other side of Magdalen Bridge: the side of spires and limestone and great thoughts. Olga stopped in the High Street and pretended to read the notice board.
    “I must confess I wasn’t surprised when Graham Seymour called last night to tell me you were coming. I assume this concerns Grigori. He’s missing, isn’t he?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “I was afraid of that when he didn’t return my call. He’s never done that before.” She paused, then asked, “How did you travel from London to Oxford?”
    “The train from Paddington.”
    “Did the British follow you?”
    “No.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “As sure as one can be.”
    “And what about Russians? Were you followed by Russians?”
    “Thus far, they seem unaware of my presence here.”
    “I doubt they will be for long.” She looked across the street toward the entrance of the Oxford Botanic Gardens. “Let’s talk there, shall we? I’ve always enjoyed gardens in winter.”

17
    OXFORD
    MY GOD,”she whispered. “When will it end? When will it ever end?”
    “Is it possible, Olga? Is there any way Grigori would go home on his own?”
    She brushed away tears and looked around the gardens. “Have you been here before?”
    It seemed an odd question, given what he had just told her. But he knew Olga well enough to understand it was not without purpose.
    “This is my first visit.”
    “A hundred and fifty years ago, a mathematician from Christ Church used to come here with a young girl and her two sisters. The mathematician was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. The girl was Alice Liddell. Their visits served as the inspiration for a book Dodgson would write under the pen name Lewis Carroll— Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland , of course. Fitting, don’t you think?”
    “How so?”
    “Because the British theory about Grigori is a tale worthy of Lewis Carroll. His hatred of the regime and his old service was real. The idea he would willingly return to Russia is absurd.”
    They sat on a wooden bench in the center of the garden next to a fountain. Gabriel did not tell Olga he had reached the same conclusion or that he had photographic evidence to support it.
    “You were working with him on his book.”
    “I was.”
    “You spent time with him?”
    “More than the British probably realized.”
    “How often did you see him?”
    Olga searched the sky for an answer. “Every couple of weeks.”
    “Where did you meet?”
    “Usually, here in Oxford. I went to London two or three times when I needed a change of scenery.”
    “How did you arrange the meetings?”
    “By telephone.”
    “You spoke openly on the phone?”
    “We used a rather crude code. Grigori said the eavesdropping capability of the Russian services wasn’t what it once was but still good enough to warrant reasonable precautions.”
    “How did Grigori travel here?”
    “Like you. The train from Paddington.”
    “He was careful?”
    “So he said.”
    “Did he come to your house?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “And others?”
    “We would meet for lunch in the city center. Or for coffee.” She pointed toward the spire of Magdalen College. “There’s a lovely coffeehouse across the street called the Queen’s Lane. Grigori was quite fond of it.”
    Gabriel knew it. The Queen’s Lane was the oldest coffeehouse in Oxford. For the moment, though, his thoughts were elsewhere. Two women of late middle age had just entered the garden. One was wrestling with a brochure in the wind; the other was tying a scarf beneath her chin. Gabriel scrutinized them for a moment, then resumed his questioning.
    “And in London?”
    “A dreadful little sandwich shop near the Notting Hill Gate tube stop. He liked it because