The English Girl: A Novel

contemporaries at the KGB. He dropped a leather-bound notebook on Lazarev’s glass coffee table and sat down.
    “What was going on at eleven last night?”
    “We were having a party at Café Pushkin to celebrate an important new hire at the firm. By the way,” Lazarev added, “the new hire is missing, too. So is the driver.”
    “You might have mentioned that at the outset.”
    “I was getting to it.”
    “What’s the new hire’s name?”
    Lazarev answered the question.
    “Russian?” asked Milchenko.
    “Not really.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means he’s of Russian ancestry but carries a British passport.”
    “So he is, in fact, British.”
    “He is.”
    “Anything else I should know about him?”
    “He’s currently employed by Viktor Orlov in London.”
    Milchenko exchanged a long look with Strelkin before staring wordlessly at his notebook. He had yet to write anything in it, which was probably wise. A missing former KGB officer and a missing associate of the Kremlin’s most vocal opponent. Milchenko was beginning to think he should have called in sick that morning.
    “I take it they left Café Pushkin together,” he said finally.
    Lazarev nodded.
    “Why?”
    “Pavel wanted to ask him a few questions.”
    “Why am I not surprised?”
    Lazarev said nothing.
    “What kind of questions?” Milchenko asked.
    “Pavel had suspicions about him.”
    “Meaning?”
    “He thought he might be connected to a foreign intelligence service.”
    “Any service in particular?”
    “For obvious reasons,” Lazarev said carefully, “his suspicions centered on the British.”
    “So he was planning to give him a good going-over.”
    “He was going to ask him a few questions,” Lazarev said deliberately.
    “And if he didn’t like the answers?”
    “Then he was going to give him a good going-over.”
    “I’m glad we cleared that up.”
    The phone at Lazarev’s elbow emitted a soothing purr. He lifted the receiver to his ear, listened in silence, then said, “Right away,” before replacing the receiver.
    “What is it?” asked Milchenko.
    “The president would like a word.”
    “You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
    “Actually,” said Lazarev, “you’re the one he wants to see.”

55
    ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA
    A t that same moment, the man responsible for Colonel Milchenko’s summons to the Kremlin was walking along Admiralty Prospekt in St. Petersburg. He could no longer feel the cold, only the place on his arm where her hand had alighted briefly before they parted. His heart was banging against his breastbone. Surely they had been watching her. Surely he was about to be arrested. To calm his fears, he told himself lies. He was not in Russia, he thought. He was in Venice and Rome and Florence and Paris, all at the same time. He was safe. And so was she.
    St. Isaac’s Cathedral, the colossal marble church that the Soviets had turned into a museum of atheism, appeared before him. He entered it from the square and made his way up the narrow winding staircase, to the cupola surrounding the single golden dome. As expected, the platform was abandoned. The fairy-tale city stirred beneath his feet, traffic moving sluggishly along the big prospekts . On one a woman walked alone, a hat covering her pale hair, a scarf concealing the lower half of her face. A few moments later he heard her footfalls in the stairwell. And then she was standing before him. There were no lights in the cupola. She was barely visible in the darkness.
    “How did you find me?”
    The sound of her voice was almost unreal. It was the English accent. Then Gabriel realized it was the only accent she had.
    “It’s not important how I found you,” he replied.
    “How?” she asked again, but this time Gabriel said nothing. He took a step closer to her so she could see his face clearly.
    “Do you remember me now, Madeline? I’m the one who risked everything to try to save your life. It never occurred to me at the time that you were in on it from the beginning. You fooled me, Madeline. You fooled us all.”
    “I was never in on it,” she shot back. “I was just doing what I was ordered to do.”
    “I know,” he said after a moment. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Actually,” said Gabriel, “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
    “I’m Madeline,” she said. “Madeline Hart of Basildon, England. I followed all the rules. Did well at school and university. Got a job at Party