The English Girl: A Novel

morning had to offer, visited every booth on the exhibition floor, and accepted every hand that was extended his way, even those that were attached to men who loathed him. “This is Nicholas Avedon,” he would say to anyone within earshot. “Nicholas is my right hand and my left. Nicholas is my north star.”
    Lunch was a vertical affair—Orlov-speak for a buffet meal with no assigned seating—and there was no alcohol or pork in deference to the many delegates from the Muslim world. Orlov and Mikhail sailed through it without a bite and then settled in for the afternoon’s first panel, a somber discussion of the lessons learned from BP’s disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. Gennady Lazarev was in attendance as well, seated two rows behind Orlov’s right shoulder. “Like an assassin,” Orlov murmured to Mikhail. “He’s circling for the kill. It’s only a matter of time before he draws his gun.”
    The remark was clearly audible in the little flat on the street with an unpronounceable name, and the sentiments expressed were shared by Gabriel and the rest of his team. In fact, thanks to the camera hanging around Yossi’s neck, they had the photographs to prove it. During the morning session of the forum, Lazarev had kept a safe distance. But now, as the afternoon wore on, he was moving ever closer to his target. “He’s like a jetliner in a holding pattern,” said Eli Lavon. “He’s just waiting for the tower to give him clearance to land.”
    “I’m not sure the weather conditions on the ground will allow it,” replied Gabriel.
    “When do you expect a window to open?”
    “Here,” said Gabriel, tapping his forefinger on the final entry of the first-day schedule. “This is when we’ll set him down.”
    Which meant that Gabriel and the team were forced to endure two more hours of what Christopher Keller described as “oil babble.” There was a deeply boring speech by an Indian government minister about the future energy needs of the world’s second most populous nation. Then it was a chiding lecture by France’s new president about taxation, profit, and social responsibility. And finally there was a remarkably honest panel discussion about the environmental dangers posed by the extraction technique known as hydraulic fracturing. Not surprisingly, Gennady Lazarev was not in attendance. As a rule, Russian oil companies regarded the environment as something to be exploited, not protected.
    With that, the delegates filed onto the escalators and headed to the center’s upper gallery for a cocktail reception. Gennady Lazarev had arrived early and was talking to a couple of tieless Iranian oil executives in the far corner of the room. Orlov and Mikhail each snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and settled among a group of festive Brazilians. Orlov had turned his back to Lazarev, but Mikhail had a clear view of him. Therefore, it was Mikhail who saw the Russian separate himself from the Iranians and begin a slow journey across the room.
    “Now might be a good time for you to take a walk, Viktor.”
    “Where?”
    “Finland.”
    A skilled cocktail party actor, Orlov drew his mobile phone from his suit pocket and raised it to his ear. Then, frowning as though he could not hear, he moved swiftly away in search of a quiet place to talk. In Orlov’s absence, Mikhail turned his back to the room and fell into a serious discussion with one of the Brazilians about investment opportunities in Latin America. But two minutes into the conversation, he became aware of the fact that a man was standing behind him. He knew this because the smell of the man’s rich cologne had overwhelmed all other scents within its zone of influence. He knew it, too, because he could see it in the wandering eye of the Brazilian. Turning, he found himself staring directly into the face that had adorned the wall of the Grayswood safe house. Training and experience allowed him to react with nothing more than a blank stare.
    “Forgive me for interrupting,” the face said in Russian-accented English, “but I wanted to introduce myself before Viktor returns. My name is Gennady Lazarev. I’m from Volgatek Oil and Gas.”
    “I’m Nicholas,” said Mikhail, accepting the outstretched hand. “Nicholas Avedon.”
    “I know who you are,” said Lazarev, smiling. “In fact, I know everything there is to know about you.”
    T he conversation that came next was one minute and twenty-seven seconds in length. The quality of