The English Girl: A Novel

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.”
    “Hard to miss, actually. He knew where the cameras were, and he made certain no one got a good shot of him.” Mikhail dropped the photos onto the coffee table. “Why do you suppose he did that?”
    “The same reason you and I do it.”
    “He works for the Office?”
    “He’s a professional, Mikhail. The real thing. Maybe he’s retired SVR and does it out of habit. But it looks to me as though he’s still on active duty.”
    “Where is he now?”
    “The Hotel Imperial, along with the rest of them. Gennady is rather disappointed with his accommodations.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Because Mordecai and Oded paid a visit to his room an hour before the Volgatek plane landed, and they left a little something under the night table.”
    “How did you know which room was Lazarev’s?”
    “The Unit hacked into the Imperial’s reservation system.”
    “And the door?”
    “Mordecai has a new magic card key. The door practically opened itself.” Gabriel returned the photographs to the file folder and the folder to the briefcase. “You should know that Gennady has been talking about more than just the quality of his room,” he said after a moment. “He’s obviously looking forward to meeting you.”
    “Any idea when he might make his move?”
    “No,” said Gabriel, shaking his head. “But you should expect it to be subtle.”
    “Do I know him?”
    “You know his name,” said Gabriel, “but not his face.”
    “And if he makes a pass at me?”
    “I’ve always found it best to play hard to get.”
    “And look where it’s gotten you.” Mikhail poured another inch of champagne into his glass but said nothing more.
    “Is there something you wish to say to me, Mikhail?”
    “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
    “For what?”
    “Come on, Gabriel. Don’t make me say it out loud.”
    “Say what?”
    “People talk, Gabriel, especially spies. And the talk around King Saul Boulevard is that you’re going to be the next chief.”
    “I haven’t agreed to anything.”
    “That’s not what I hear,” Mikhail said. “I hear it’s a done deal.”
    “It’s not.”
    “Whatever you say, boss.”
    Gabriel exhaled heavily. “How much does Uzi know?”
    “Uzi knew from the minute he took the job that he was everyone’s second choice.”
    “It’s not something I sought.”
    “I know. And I suspect Uzi knows it, too,” Mikhail added. “But that’s not going to make it any easier when the prime minister tells him he won’t be serving a second term as chief.”
    Mikhail raised his glass to the light and watched the bubbles rising to the surface of his champagne.
    “What are you thinking about?” asked Gabriel.
    “The time we were in Zurich, at that little café near the Paradeplatz. It was when we were trying to get Chiara back