The English Girl: A Novel

from Ivan. Do you remember that place, Gabriel? Do you remember what you said to me that afternoon?”
    “I believe I might have told you to marry Sarah Bancroft and leave the Office.”
    “You have a good memory.”
    “What’s your point?”
    “I was just wondering whether you still thought I should leave the Office.”
    Gabriel hesitated before answering. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said at last.
    “Why not?”
    “Because if I become the next chief, you have a bright future, Mikhail. Very bright.”
    Mikhail rubbed his scalp. “I need to shave,” he said.
    “Yes, you do.”
    “Are you sure you won’t have some of this champagne?”
    “It gives me a headache.”
    “Me, too,” said Mikhail as he poured another glass.
    B efore leaving the hotel suite, Gabriel installed a piece of Office software on Mikhail’s mobile phone that turned it into a full-time transmitter and automatically forwarded all his calls, e-mails, and text messages to the team’s computers. Then he headed down to the lobby and spent a few minutes searching for familiar faces amid the crowd of well-lubricated oilmen. Outside the afternoon blizzard had ended, but a few thick flakes were falling lazily through the lamplight. Gabriel headed westward across the city, along a winding pedestrian shopping street known as the Strøget, until he came to the Rådhuspladsen. The bells in the clock tower were tolling six o’clock. He was tempted to pay a visit to the Hotel Imperial, which was located not far from the square, on the fringes of the Tivoli Gardens. Instead, he walked to a despondent-looking apartment building on a street with a name only a Dane could pronounce. As he entered the small flat on the second floor, he found Keller and Eli Lavon hunched over a notebook computer. From its speakers came the sound of three men conversing quietly in Russian.
    “Have you been able to figure out who he is?” asked Gabriel.
    Lavon shook his head. “It’s funny,” he said, “but these Volgatek boys aren’t big on names.”
    “You don’t say.”
    Lavon was about to reply but was stopped by the sound of one of the voices. He was speaking in a low murmur, as though he were standing over an open grave.
    “That’s our boy,” Lavon said. “He always talks like that. Like he assumes someone is listening.”
    “Someone is listening.”
    Lavon smiled. “I sent a sample of his voice to King Saul Boulevard and told them to run it through the computers.”
    “And?”
    “No match.”
    “Forward the sample to Adrian Carter at Langley.”
    “And if Carter asks for an explanation?”
    “Lie to him.”
    Just then, the three Russian oil executives collapsed in uproarious laughter. As Lavon leaned forward to listen, Gabriel moved slowly to the window and peered into the street. It was empty except for a young woman walking along the snowy pavement. She had Madeline’s alabaster skin and Madeline’s cheekbones. Indeed, the resemblance was so startling that for an instant Gabriel felt compelled to run after her. The Russians were still laughing. Surely, thought Gabriel, they were laughing at him. He drew a deep breath to slow the clamorous beating of his heart and watched Madeline’s wraith pass beneath his feet. Then the darkness reclaimed her and she was gone.

43
    COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
    T hey held the forum in the Bella Center, a hideous glass-and-steel convention hall that looked like a giant greenhouse dropped from outer space. A pack of reporters stood shivering outside the entrance, behind a cordon of yellow tape. Most of the arriving executives had the good sense to ignore their shouted taunts, but not Orlov. He paused to answer a question about the sudden spike in global oil prices, from which he profited wildly, and soon found himself holding forth on subjects ranging from the British election to the Kremlin’s crackdown on Russia’s pro-democracy movement. Gabriel and the team heard every word of it, for Mikhail was standing at Orlov’s side in plain sight of the cameras, his mobile phone in his hand. In fact, it was Mikhail who finally put an end to Orlov’s impromptu news conference by taking hold of his coat sleeve and tugging him toward the center’s open door. Later, a British reporter would remark that it was the first time she had ever seen anyone—“And I mean anyone !”—dare to lay so much as a finger on Viktor Orlov.
    Once inside, Orlov was a whirlwind. He attended every panel discussion the