The English Girl: A Novel

name?”
    “The family name was Avdonin, which he eventually changed to Avedon.”
    “So your real name is Nikita Avdonin,” Lazarev pointed out.
    “Nicolai,” Mikhail corrected him.
    “May I call you Nicolai?”
    “If you wish,” answered Mikhail.
    When Lazarev spoke next, it was in Russian. “Have you ever been to Moscow?” he asked.
    “No,” replied Mikhail in the same language.
    “Why not?”
    “I’ve never had a reason to.”
    “You’re not curious to see where you come from?”
    “England is my home,” Mikhail said. “Russia is the land my family fled.”
    “Were you an opponent of the Soviet Union?”
    “I was too young to be an opponent.”
    “And our current government?”
    “What about it?”
    “Do you share Viktor Orlov’s opinion that our president is an authoritarian kleptocrat?”
    “This might surprise you, Mr. Lazarev, but Viktor and I don’t talk about politics.”
    “That does surprise me.”
    Mikhail said nothing more. Lazarev let it drop. His gaze moved from Bershov to Zhirov before settling once again on Mikhail. When he spoke next, it was in English again.
    “I assume you’ve read about the licensing deal we reached with the British government that will allow us to conduct drilling operations in the North Sea.”
    “Two newly discovered fields off the Western Isles,” Mikhail said as though reading from a prospectus. “Projected output at maturity of one hundred thousand barrels a day.”
    “Very impressive.”
    “It’s my business, Mr. Lazarev.”
    “Actually, it’s my business.” Lazarev paused, then added, “But I’d like you to run it for me.”
    “The Western Isles project?”
    Lazarev nodded.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Lazarev,” Mikhail said deferentially, “but I’m not a project manager.”
    “You did similar work in the North Sea for KBS Oil Services.”
    “Which is why I don’t want to do it again. Besides, I’m already under contract with Viktor.” Mikhail rose to his feet. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stay for dinner, Mr. Lazarev, but I really should be getting back.”
    “But you haven’t heard the rest of my offer yet.”
    “If it’s anything like the first part,” Mikhail said tersely, “I’m not interested.”
    Lazarev seemed not to hear. “As you know, Nicolai, Volgatek is expanding its operations in Europe and elsewhere. If we are to succeed in this venture, we need talented people like you. People who understand the West and Russia.”
    “Was that supposed to be an offer?”
    Lazarev took a step forward and placed his hands proprietarily on Mikhail’s shoulders. “The Western Isles are only the beginning,” he said, as though there was no one else in the room. “I want you to help me build an oil company with truly global reach. I’m going to make you rich, Nicolai Avdonin. Rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
    “I’m doing quite nicely already.”
    “If I know Viktor, he’s giving you a bit of loose change from his pockets.” Lazarev smiled and squeezed Mikhail’s shoulders. “Come to Volgatek, Nicolai. Come home.”
    T he southern end of Køge Bay is not the sort of place where two men can sit for long in a parked car without being noticed, so Gabriel and Keller drove to the nearest town and took a table in a small, warm restaurant that served an unappetizing mix of Italian and Chinese food. Keller ate enough for the both of them, but Gabriel had only black tea. In his earpiece there was silence, and in his thoughts there were images of Mikhail being marched to his death through a snow-covered forest of birch trees. Twice Gabriel started to rise to his feet out of fear and frustration, and twice Keller told him to sit down and wait it out. “You’ve done your job,” Keller said calmly, a false operational smile affixed to his suntanned face. “Let it play out.”
    Finally, one hour and thirty-three minutes after Mikhail entered the house by the sea, Gabriel heard a sharp electronic crackle in his ear, followed by the roaring of the wind—the same wind that rattled the panes of the frosted window a few inches from his face. Then, much to his relief, he heard the sound of Mikhail’s voice, thin with cold.
    “I’ll think about it, Gennady. Truly, I will.”
    “Don’t think too long, Nicolai, because my offer has a deadline.”
    “How long do I have?”
    “I’d like an answer in a week. Otherwise, I’m going to have to go in another direction.”
    “And if I say yes?”
    “We’ll bring you