The English Girl: A Novel

driven him to succeed. Viktor Orlov wanted to beat everyone. And it was all because of the twitch in his left eye.
    For now, the eye was staring into a goblet of dark-red Pomerol wine. Orlov had yet to drink from it. Nor had he answered the rather straightforward question that Gabriel had posed a moment earlier. Why Jeremy Fallon?
    “Why not Fallon?” the Russian said at last. “Fallon was Lancaster’s brain. Fallon was the puppet master. Fallon pulled a string, and Lancaster waved his hand. And better yet, he was vulnerable to an approach.”
    “How so?”
    “He didn’t have a pot to piss in. He was poor as a church mouse.”
    “Who suggested targeting him?”
    “I’m told it came from the SVR rezidentura here in London.”
    Rezidentura was the word used by the SVR to describe its operations inside local embassies. The rezident was the station chief, the rezidentura the station itself. It was a holdover from the days of the KGB. Most things about the SVR were.
    “How did they go about it?”
    “Lazarev and Fallon started bumping into each other in all the wrong places: parties, restaurants, conferences, holidays. Rumor has it Fallon spent a long weekend at Lazarev’s place in Gstaad and cruised the Greek islands on Lazarev’s yacht. I’m told they got along famously, but that’s not surprising. Gennady can be a charming bastard when he wants to be.”
    “But there was more than just a charm offensive, wasn’t there, Viktor?”
    “Much more.”
    “How much?”
    “Five million euros in a numbered Swiss bank account, courtesy of the Kremlin. Very clean. Completely untraceable. The SVR handled all the arrangements.”
    “Says who?”
    “Says I’d rather not say.”
    “Come on, Viktor.”
    “You obviously have your sources, Mr. Allon, and I have mine.”
    “At least tell me the direction your information comes from.”
    “It comes from the East,” said Orlov, meaning it came from one of his many sources in Moscow.
    “Go on,” said Gabriel.
    Orlov partook of the wine first. Then he explained how Volgatek filed a second application for a license to drill in the North Sea, this time with the backing of the second most powerful man in Whitehall. But the prime minister was still ambivalent at best, and the secretary of state for energy remained absolutely opposed. Fallon prevailed upon the secretary not to reject the application outright. It was technically alive, but just barely.
    “And then,” said Orlov, raising one arm toward the ceiling, “the secretary of state suddenly approves the license, Jonathan Lancaster jets off to Moscow for champagne toasts in the Kremlin, and the man who accepted five million euros in Russian money is about to become the next chancellor of the exchequer.”
    “I need to know your source for the five million.”
    “Asked and answered,” replied the Russian curtly.
    Gabriel changed the subject. “What’s the state of relations between Volgatek and your business here in London?”
    “As you might expect, we are in a state of war. It’s rather like the Cold War—undeclared but vicious.”
    “How so?”
    “Lazarev has outbid me on a number of acquisitions. It’s easy for him,” Orlov added resentfully. “He’s not playing with his own money. He also takes great pleasure in hiring away my best people. He throws a pile of money at them—Kremlin money, of course—and they bolt for greener pastures.”
    “Are you on speaking terms?”
    “I wouldn’t go that far,” Orlov said. “When we encounter one another in public, we nod politely and exchange frozen smiles. Our war is conducted entirely in the shadows. I must admit Gennady’s gotten the better of me lately. And now he’s going to be drilling for oil in the waters of a country I’ve come to love. It makes me sick to my stomach.”
    “Then maybe you should do something about it.”
    “Like what?”
    “Help me blow up the deal.”
    Orlov stopped twirling his eyeglasses and stared directly at Gabriel for a moment without speaking. “What is your interest in this matter?” he asked finally.
    “It’s strictly personal.”
    “Why would someone like you care whether a Russian energy company gets access to North Sea oil?”
    “It’s complicated.”
    “Coming from you, I would expect nothing less.”
    Gabriel smiled in spite of himself. Then, quietly, he said, “I believe the Kremlin blackmailed Jonathan Lancaster into giving Volgatek those drilling rights.”
    “How?”
    Gabriel was