The Defector

believed such men bore much of the blame for the death of freedom and democracy in her country. Orlov’s greed had helped to create the unique set of circumstances that had allowed the Kremlin to return the country to the authoritarianism of the past. Indeed, were it not for men like Viktor Orlov, the Russian president might still be a low-level functionary in the St. Petersburg city government. Instead, he ruled the world’s largest country with an iron fist and was thought to be one of Europe’s richest men. Richer, even, than Orlov himself.
    The tea arrived. They sat on opposite ends of the long brocade couch, facing a window hung with rich floor-to-ceiling drapery. It might have been possible to see Chelsea Embankment and the Thames had the curtains not been tightly drawn as a precaution against snipers—ironic, since Orlov had spent several million pounds acquiring one of London’s best views. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a shirt with stripes the color of cranberries. One arm was flung along the back of the couch toward Olga, revealing a diamond-and-gold wristwatch of inestimable worth. The other lay along the armrest. He was twirling his spectacles restlessly. Veteran Orlov watchers would have recognized the tic. Orlov was perpetually in motion, even when he was sitting still.
    “Please, Olga. Remind me when it was we last met.”
    Orlov watchers would have recognized this, too. Viktor was not the sort to blurt “I never forget a face.” He actually made a habit of pretending to forget people. It was a negotiating tactic. It said to opponents they were unmemorable. Insignificant. Without merit or consequence. Olga cared little about what Orlov thought of her, so she answered the question honestly. They had met just once, she reminded him. The encounter had taken place in Moscow, shortly before he fled to London.
    “Ah, yes, I remember it now! If I recall, I became very angry at you because you were not interested in some valuable information I had for you.”
    “If I had written the story you wanted me to write, I would have been killed.”
    “The fearless Olga Sukhova was afraid? That never stopped you before. From what I hear, you’re lucky to be alive. The Kremlin never said what happened in that stairwell last summer, but I know the truth. You were investigating Ivan Kharkov, and Ivan tried to silence you. Permanently.”
    Olga made no reply.
    “So you don’t deny that’s what happened?”
    “Your sources have always been impeccable, Viktor.”
    He acknowledged the compliment with a twirl of his eye-wear. “It’s a shame we haven’t had the opportunity to meet again until now. As you might expect, I followed your case with great interest. I tried to find some way of making contact with you after your defection was made public, but you were quite difficult to locate. I asked my friends in British intelligence to pass a message to you, but they refused.”
    “Why didn’t you just ask Grigori where I was?”
    The spectacles went still, just for a few seconds. “I did, but he refused to tell me. I know you two are friends. I suppose he doesn’t want to share you.”
    Olga took note of the tense: I know you two are friends . . . He didn’t seem to know about Grigori’s absence—unless he was lying, which was a distinct possibility. Viktor Orlov was genetically incapable of telling the truth.
    “The old Viktor wouldn’t have bothered to ask Grigori where I was hiding. He would have just had him followed.”
    “Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind.”
    “But you never did?”
    “Follow Grigori?” He shook his head. “The British give my bodyguards a good deal of latitude, but they would never tolerate private surveillance operations. Remember, I am still a Russian citizen. I am also the target of a formal extradition request. I try not to do anything to make my British hosts too angry.”
    “Other than criticize the Kremlin whenever you feel like it.”
    “They can’t expect me to remain mute. When I see injustice, I am compelled to speak. It’s my nature. That’s why Grigori and I get along so well.” He paused, then asked, “How is he, by the way?”
    “Grigori?” She sipped her tea, and said she hadn’t spoken to him for several weeks. “You?”
    “Actually, I had one of my assistants put a call to him the other day. We never heard back. I assume he’s very busy on his book.” Orlov gave her a conspiratorial glance. “Some of my people have been working