The English Girl: A Novel

rights and downstream assets outside Russia. And we were KGB from top to bottom. In fact, a substantial percentage of our profits now flow directly into the accounts at Yasenevo.”
    “Where does the rest of it go?”
    “Use your imagination.”
    “Into the pockets of the Russian president?”
    “He didn’t get to be Europe’s richest man by wisely investing his KGB pension . . .”
    Shamron smiled. “Now that’s what I call an ace in the hole,” he said.
    “Plus a pair of kings.”
    “What time does the next El Al flight leave for St. Petersburg?”
    Navot tapped a few keys on the computer in front of him. “Flight six two five departs Ben Gurion at one ten a.m. and lands in St. Petersburg at eight in the morning. The crew spends the day resting at a downtown hotel. Then they bring the plane back to Tel Aviv that night.”
    “Call the head of El Al,” Shamron said. “Tell him we need to borrow that airplane.”
    Navot reached for the phone. Shamron watched the video monitor.
    “Say it for the cameras, Pavel. Admit that you killed Madeline.”
    “I killed Madeline Hart.”
    “How?”
    “By placing her in the back of a Citroën with a gasoline bomb.”
    “Why? Why did you kill her?”
    “She had to die. There was no way she could be allowed to return to England . . .”

56
    LUBYANKA SQUARE, MOSCOW
    I t was at times like these, thought Colonel Leonid Milchenko, that Russia’s immense size was more of a curse than a blessing. He was standing before a map in his Lubyanka Square office, Vadim Strelkin at his side. They had just returned from the Kremlin where the federal president, the tsar himself, had ordered them to spare no effort to find the three missing men. The tsar had not been disposed to explain why it was so important, only that it concerned the vital interests of the federation and its relations with the United Kingdom. It was Strelkin, during the drive back to Lubyanka, who reminded Milchenko that Volgatek had just secured lucrative rights to drill for oil in the North Sea.
    “You think Volgatek pulled a fast one to get that license?” Milchenko asked now, his eyes still on the map.
    “I wouldn’t want to prejudge the situation without knowing all the facts,” Strelkin replied cautiously.
    “We work for the FSB, Vadim. We never worry about the facts.”
    “You know what they call Volgatek, don’t you, boss.”
    “KGB Oil and Gas.”
    Strelkin said nothing.
    “So let’s assume Volgatek didn’t play it straight when they secured that license,” Milchenko said.
    “They rarely do. At least that’s what one hears on the street.”
    “Let’s assume they bribed someone.”
    “Or worse.”
    “And let’s assume British intelligence responded by trying to insert an agent into the company.”
    “Let’s,” Strelkin said, nodding.
    “Let us also assume the British were listening when Zhirov pulled their man into his car and started pounding him with questions.”
    “They probably were.”
    “And that the British assumed their man was in danger.”
    “He was.”
    “And that the British responded by pulling their man out.”
    “With extreme prejudice.”
    “And that they took Zhirov and his driver with him.”
    “They probably had no choice.”
    Milchenko lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “So where’s Zhirov now?” he asked finally.
    “He’ll turn up eventually.”
    “Dead or alive?”
    “The British don’t like mokriye dela .”
    “Wherever did you hear a thing like that?” Milchenko took a step closer to the map. “If you were the British,” he said, “what would you be trying to do right now?”
    “I’d be trying to get my man out of the country as quickly as possible.”
    “How would you do it?”
    “I suppose I could drive him to one of the western border crossings, but the quickest way out is Sheremetyevo.”
    “He’ll be carrying a different passport.”
    “And wearing a new face,” added Strelkin.
    “Get over to the Ritz,” Milchenko said. “Get some pictures of him from hotel security. And then get those pictures into the hands of every passport control officer and militiaman at Sheremetyevo.”
    Strelkin started toward the door.
    “One more thing, Vadim.”
    Strelkin stopped.
    “Do the same thing in St. Petersburg,” Milchenko said. “Just to be on the safe side.”
    T he man in question was at that moment resting comfortably in an isolated dacha in Tver Oblast, along with the other members of the Israeli team. Shortly after 5:00