The English Girl: A Novel

of Viktor Orlov, along with the twitching left eye, which brought down the house. Only Pavel Zhirov seemed not to find it amusing. Nor did he join in the ovation that followed Gennady Lazarev’s benedictory remarks. Afterward, the party spilled onto the pavement, where a line of Volgatek limousines waited at the curb. Lazarev offhandedly asked Mikhail to stop by the office on his way out of town in the morning to tie up a few loose ends on the deal memo. Then he guided him toward the open rear door of a waiting Mercedes. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said through his mathematician’s smile, “I’m going to have Pavel run you back to the hotel. He has a few questions he’d like to ask you on the way.”
    Mikhail heard himself say “No problem, Gennady.” Then, without an instant’s hesitation, he slid into the waiting car. Pavel Zhirov, the night’s only loser, sat opposite, staring inconsolably out his window. He said nothing as the car pulled into the street. Mikhail tapped his finger against the armrest. Then he forced himself to stop.
    “Gennady said you had a few questions for me.”
    “Actually,” replied Zhirov in his underpowered voice, “I only have one.”
    “What is it?”
    Zhirov turned and looked at Mikhail for the first time. “Who the fuck are you?”
    S ounds like Pavel just moved the goalposts,” Navot said.
    Shamron frowned; he considered the use of sports metaphors to be inappropriate for a business as vital as espionage. He looked up at one of the video panels and saw lights moving quickly across a map of central Moscow. The light depicting Mikhail’s position flashed red. Four blue lights moved along with it, two in front, two behind.
    “Looks like we’ve got him boxed in,” said Shamron.
    “Quite nicely, actually. The question is, does Pavel have backup of his own, or is he flying solo?”
    “I’m not sure it matters much at this point.”
    “Any suggestions?”
    “Kick the ball,” said Shamron, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Quickly.”
    T hey shot past Tverskaya Street in a blur and continued on along the Boulevard Ring.
    “My hotel is that way,” said Mikhail, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
    “You seem to know Moscow well,” replied Zhirov. Clearly, it was not meant as a compliment.
    “Habit of mine,” said Mikhail.
    “What’s that?”
    “Getting to know my way around foreign cities. Hate having to ask for directions. Don’t like doing the tourist thing.”
    “You like to blend in?”
    “Listen, Pavel, I don’t like the sound of where this is—”
    “Or maybe you’ve been to Moscow before,” Zhirov suggested.
    “Never.”
    “Not recently?”
    “No.”
    “Not as a child?”
    “Never means never, Pavel. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to my hotel.”
    Zhirov was looking out his window again. Or was he peering into the driver’s sideview mirror? Mikhail couldn’t be sure.
    “You still haven’t answered my question,” Zhirov said finally.
    “I haven’t answered it because it doesn’t deserve one,” Mikhail shot back.
    “Who are you?”
    “I’m Nicholas Avedon,” Mikhail said calmly. “I’m an employee of Viktor Orlov Investments in London. And thanks to this little display of yours, I’m going to remain one.”
    Zhirov was obviously unconvinced. “Who are you?” he asked again.
    “I’m Nicholas. I grew up in England. I went to Cambridge and Harvard. I worked in the oil biz in Aberdeen for a time. And then I came to Viktor.”
    “Why?”
    “Why did I grow up in England? Why did I go to Harvard?”
    “Why did you go to work for a known enemy of the Kremlin like Viktor Orlov?”
    “Because he was looking for someone to take over his oil portfolio. And at this moment, I’m sorry I betrayed him.”
    “Did you know about his politics when you went to work for him?”
    “I don’t care about his politics. In fact, I don’t care about anyone’s politics.”
    “You’re a freethinker?”
    “No, Pavel, I’m a businessman.”
    “You are a spy.”
    “A spy? Are you off your meds, Pavel?”
    “Who are you working for?”
    “Take me back to my hotel.”
    “The British?”
    “My hotel, Pavel.”
    “The Americans?”
    “You were the ones who approached me , remember, Pavel? It happened in Copenhagen, at the oil forum. We met at the house in the middle of nowhere. I’m sure you were there.”
    “Who are you working for?” Zhirov asked again, a teacher to a dull pupil.
    “Stop the car. Let me