The English Girl: A Novel

Cuba as well. None of those managers fared any better than the one from Gdansk. To a man, they were all marginalized, ignored, and cut out of the loop.
    “They’re walking coffee cups,” said Lavon.
    “Which means they have no access to the kind of closely held information we’re looking for,” Gabriel pointed out.
    “That’s true,” replied Lavon. “But if the local hire also happened to be Russian by birth or ancestry, Volgatek central command might look more kindly upon him, especially if he happened to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. If that were the case, they might be tempted to give him actual responsibilities. Who knows? They might even let him into the inner sanctum in Moscow.”
    “It’s brilliant, Eli.”
    “Yes, it is,” Lavon conceded. “But it has one serious problem.”
    “What’s that?”
    “How do we get Volgatek to take notice of him in the first place?”
    “That’s easy.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes,” said Gabriel, smiling. “Really.”
    G abriel did not take part in the family meal that night. Instead, he drove to Cheyne Walk in Chelsea, where he dined alone with Viktor Orlov. His nascent plan met no resistance from the Russian; in fact, Orlov offered several key suggestions that made it better. At the conclusion of the meal, Gabriel handed Orlov the boilerplate document given to all non-Office individuals who participate in Office operations. It barred Orlov from ever disclosing his role in the affair and left him no legal recourse if he or his businesses were harmed in any way. Orlov refused to sign it. Gabriel had expected nothing less.
    After leaving Orlov’s mansion, Gabriel drove up to Hampstead and then made his way on foot to Parliament Hill. Graham Seymour was waiting on the bench, flanked by his two bodyguards. They moved out of earshot as Gabriel spoke about the operation he was about to undertake and what he required in the way of unofficial British assistance. Listening, Seymour couldn’t help but smile. It was unorthodox, but then most Office operations were, especially when conceived by Gabriel and his team.
    “You know,” Seymour said, “it might actually work.”
    “It is going to work, Graham. The question is,” he added, “do you want me to go forward with it?”
    Seymour was silent for a moment. Then he rose to his feet and turned his back on the lights of London. “Bring me proof the Russians were behind Madeline’s kidnapping and murder,” he said calmly, “and I’ll make sure those bastards in the Kremlin never see a drop of our oil.”
    “Let me do it for you, Graham. That way, you won’t—”
    “This is something only I can do,” Seymour said. “Besides, a very wise man once told me a career without scandal is not a proper career at all.”
    “Type my name into a Google box, and then tell me whether you think I’m so wise.”
    Seymour smiled. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
    “None,” replied Gabriel.
    “Good lad,” said Seymour. “But do keep one thing in mind.”
    “What’s that?”
    “It might be easy for you to get Mikhail into Volgatek, but getting him out again might be quite another thing entirely.”
    With that, Seymour returned to the company of his bodyguards and melted into the darkness. Gabriel remained on the bench for another five minutes. Then he walked to his car and headed back to the house at the edge of the Knobby Copse.

40
    GRAYSWOOD, SURREY
    T he education of Mikhail Abramov, future employee of the state-owned Russian energy company known as Volgatek Oil & Gas, commenced at nine o’clock the following morning. His first tutor was none other than Viktor Orlov. Despite Gabriel’s objections, Orlov insisted on traveling to Surrey in his Mercedes Maybach limousine, trailed by a Land Rover filled with bodyguards. The small motorcade caused something of a commotion in Grayswood, and for much of the day a rumor floated about the village that the occupant of the car had been the prime minister himself. But Jonathan Lancaster was nowhere near Surrey; he was campaigning that morning in Sheffield. The latest polls gave him a commanding lead over the opposition candidate. Britain’s most famous political analyst was now predicting a landslide of historic proportions.
    Orlov returned to the safe house the following morning, and the morning after that as well. His lectures were a reflection of his unique personality: brilliant, arrogant, opinionated, condescending. He spoke mainly in