The English Girl: A Novel

their right. They followed the road for several miles until they came upon a settlement of summer cottages huddled along a rocky, windswept beach, and it was there the blinking light finally stopped moving. Gabriel eased to the side of the road and increased the volume on his earpiece. He heard a car door opening, footfalls over snowy paving stones, and the pile-driver beating of Mikhail’s restive heart.
    T he cottage was among the finest of the lot. It had a small U-shaped drive, an open-sided carport with a red tile roof, and a terraced front garden framed by manicured hedges and stout little brick walls. Twelve steps rose to a veranda with a white balustrade; two potted trees stood like sentries on either side of the paned-glass door. As Mikhail approached, the door swung open and Gennady Lazarev stepped onto the veranda to greet him. He was wearing a roll-neck pullover and a thick Nordic-style cardigan. “Nicholas!” he called, as though to a deaf relation. “Come inside before you catch your death of cold. I’m sorry to drag you all the way down here, but I’ve never felt comfortable doing serious business in restaurants and hotels.”
    He offered Mikhail his hand and pulled him across the threshold, as though he were dragging a drowning man from the sea. Then, after closing the door too quickly, he relieved Mikhail of his coat and spent a moment carefully regarding his captured prize. Despite his power and riches, Lazarev still looked like a government scientist. With his round spectacles and furrowed brow, he had the air of a man who was forever struggling to solve a mathematical equation.
    “Did you have any trouble getting away from Viktor?” he asked.
    “None,” replied Mikhail. “In fact, I think he was happy to be rid of me for a few hours.”
    “It seems you two get along quite well.”
    “We do.”
    “But you came in any case,” Lazarev pointed out.
    “I felt that I had to.”
    “Why?”
    “Because when a man like Gennady Lazarev asks for a meeting, it’s usually a good idea to take the meeting.”
    Mikhail’s words were obviously pleasing to Lazarev. Clearly, the Russian was not immune to flattery.
    “And you didn’t tell him where you were going?” he asked.
    “Of course not.”
    “Very good.” Lazarev clamped his delicate hand on Mikhail’s shoulder. “Come and have a drink. Meet the others.”
    Lazarev escorted Mikhail into a great room with windows looking onto the sea. Two men waited there in the sort of uncomfortable silence that usually follows a quarrel. One was pouring a drink at the trolley; the other was warming himself in front of the fire. The one at the trolley had the shadow of a heavy beard and dark thinning hair combed close to his scalp. Mikhail couldn’t see much of the man at the fire because his back was turned to the room.
    “This is Dmitry Bershov,” Lazarev said, indicating the man at the trolley. “I’m sure you’ve heard the name. Dmitry is my number two.”
    “Yes, of course,” said Mikhail, accepting the outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    “Likewise,” intoned Bershov.
    “And that man over there,” said Lazarev, pointing toward the figure at the fire, “is Pavel Zhirov. Pavel handles corporate security and any other dirty deed that needs to be done. Isn’t that right, Pavel?”
    The man at the fire rotated slowly around, until he was staring directly into Mikhail’s face. He wore a black woolen sweater and charcoal-gray trousers. His gray-blond hair was cut short; his face was angular and dominated by a small, rather cruel-looking mouth. Mikhail realized instantly he had seen the face before. It was in a photograph of a luncheon that had occurred on the island of Corsica, a few hours before Madeline Hart’s disappearance. Now the face came toward him out of the firelight, with the small mouth formed into something like a smile.
    “Have we ever met?” Zhirov asked, grasping Mikhail’s hand.
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    “You look familiar to me.”
    “I get that a lot.”
    The smile faded, the eyes narrowed. “Did you bring a phone?” Zhirov asked.
    “I shower with my phone.”
    “Would you mind switching it off, please?”
    “Is that really necessary?”
    “It is,” he said. “And take out the battery as well. One can never be too careful these days.”
    T hirty seconds later the blue light on the tablet computer was extinguished. Gabriel removed his earpiece and frowned.
    “What just