Stanley Dexter waved Malko over to the big leather sofa next to the coffee table, then sat down himself.
“Is Dan still in London?” asked Malko.
“No, but by tracking his plane ticket, we know where he went. He left London the day after Berezovsky’s funeral. MI5 helped arrange his departure from Heathrow. He took a direct El Al flight to Tel Aviv.”
“And after that?”
“We knew Dan used to work for the Mossad, so the Tel Aviv station asked for their help. It was easy for them. He’d kept a little apartment in Tel Aviv, and they gave us the address.”
“What about a phone number?”
“No dice. They wouldn’t take cooperation that far,” said Dexter. “And they made us promise not to mention it.”
“Does Dan know we’re interested in him?”
“Not unless the Mossad tipped him off.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“The weather’s a lot nicer in Tel Aviv than here,” said the CIA station chief with a smile. “I think it would be an excellent idea for you to go ask him some questions. The local station can provide support.”
“And you’re sure there’s nothing else for me to do here in London?”
“There probably is, but talking to Dan is a priority. He might disappear from one moment to the next. It would be best if you left tomorrow.”
The station chief was making more than a suggestion, Malko realized. Aside from the police, the Israeli bodyguard was the only person to have seen Boris Berezovsky’s body, and therefore the only person to describe it in detail. Malko thought of Gwyneth. He absolutely had to see her before he left to find out if she’d learned anything about Arkady Lianin. That trail could also greatly advance his investigation.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll catch an early flight to Tel Aviv tomorrow.”
Malko was getting to his feet when Dexter stopped him.
“Hold on a minute, Malko. Before you go, I’d like you to talk to an NCS man who made a special trip to London for this case. His name’s Ryan Young.”
“What is he here for?” asked Malko, wondering why the National Clandestine Service would be called in.
“He specializes in dirty tricks and black bag jobs,” said Dexter. “He’s done quite a few for the Agency. We asked him to study the Berezovsky suicide, assume it was actually a murder in disguise, and tell us how he would’ve done it. Are you okay with seeing him?”
“Of course!”
The station chief stepped out and returned with a heavyset man with black hair, chubby cheeks, and slightly prominent blue eyes. The NCS specialist looked like a retired factory foreman.
Dexter made the introductions.
“Ryan here is a very sneaky guy,” he said. “He may be able to enlighten us.”
Young asked Malko where he wanted him to start.
“With the bathroom,” he said. “I’m going to interview the bodyguard, so I’m interested in your thoughts about the death scene.”
Young opened a folder where he had noted some points of interest.
“I haven’t been on site, so I don’t have any details beyond what the police released,” he began. “But I’ve considered a number of things. First, the fact that the bathroom door was locked from the inside suggests that Berezovsky locked himself in. That actually doesn’t mean squat one way or the other. We have B and E guys who pick locks using special tools that only leave microscopic scratches. I assume the Russians have people who are as good as ours. So the door could easily have been locked from outside the bathroom.”
“What about the hanging itself?” asked Malko.
Young made a face.
“Two main things about it struck me as strange,” he said. “When you hang yourself, you usually stand on something, but there’s been no mention of a chair or a stool. Also, to hang himself, the shower pipe and the cord had to be strong enough to support Berezovsky’s weight. Then there’s this: the police reported that he was found lying on the floor with a broken rib. The rib supposedly broke when he fell, and he fell because the rope broke. That scenario doesn’t make any sense. If the rope broke, it’s more than likely that Berezovsky was still alive when he hit the floor. Breaking a rib hurts like hell. So why didn’t he react to the pain, if he was still alive? The only explanation is that he was already dead when he fell or was thrown to the floor. He didn’t die of strangulation, but from something else. If we assume this was murder, I’d bet it was poison.”
The age-old Russian method, thought Malko. Poisonings had been used to settle scores in Russia and the Soviet Union for ages, with Alexander Litvinenko just one of the most recent victims.
“Tell me something, Ryan,” Malko said. “If you’d been asked to do this job, would you take it on?
“Sure, no problem,” said Young promptly. “All you need is careful preparation and a good team. Especially since the bodyguard was away for several hours, leaving his boss alone at the estate.”
“What about the security cameras?”
Young snorted with laughter.
“I’ve spent my life neutralizing cameras and alarm systems,” he said. “For a while, my job was breaking into foreign embassies in Washington. There were plenty of cameras and alarms, and they never gave us any problems.”
Very edifying, thought Malko.
“So speaking as a professional, you think it’s likely that Berezovsky was murdered?”
“Affirmative.”
“Thanks very much for your time, Ryan,” said Malko. “I appreciate your coming to London.”
But the NCS specialist stopped him.
“Just one more thing, sir. I went through the case file pretty carefully, and there’s something I’d like to mention. It might help your investigation.”
“What’s that?”
From his briefcase, Young took a file containing newspaper clippings, some of them highlighted in yellow.
“We know that on the evening before his death, Berezovsky saw a journalist from Forbes Russia, Ilya Sokolov, who made a special trip from Moscow to interview him at the Four Seasons. People thought that odd, because Forbes wasn’t on very good terms with Berezovsky. What did you make of it, sir?”
“I figured Sokolov was probably supporting the plot against him,” answered Malko. “Soon after Berezovsky’s death, word spread that he was bankrupt and feeling discouraged and suicidal. That looks like Russian disinformation, to lend credence to the suicide thesis. Same thing with the letter he supposedly wrote to Putin, asking permission to come home because he was washed up. The Russians are old hands at that kind of stage setting.”
“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” said Young, “especially since nobody knows what Berezovsky and Sokolov talked about.
“But something about that meeting intrigued me. So I had the Agency translate the Forbes article from Russian, and I read it very carefully. Guess what? There’s nothing in the article that would justify asking for a last-minute interview. There were no revelations, aside from the comments on Mr. Berezovsky’s state of mind, and they only became significant after he died. Yet Sokolov is considered a first-rate journalist in Russia. He doesn’t waste his time publishing bullshit.”
“So what do you conclude from this?” asked Malko.
“When you’re preparing a wet job like this one, the first thing you’ve got to do is localize your target with absolute certainty.”
“What do you mean?”
Young explained:
“The Russian kill team had to know for sure where Berezovsky would be spending that night. It could have been lots of places. He had two girlfriends in town, he had friends, he might stay at a hotel or go home, which is what he eventually did. But the elimination team had to be positive. Best way to do that would be to follow him when he left the Four Seasons and see where he went. For a well-trained team, it’s a piece of cake. And it lets them strike with certainty.”
Malko’s mind was now racing.
“Are you saying that the only purpose of the interview was to take charge of Berezovsky, to determine where he would be in the coming hours?”
“If it were my gig, that’s what I would’ve done,” said Young.
“So Sokolov could have played a much more active role in this case than we suspected?”
“That’s what I think.”
The NCS man’s suggestion made perfect sense, thought Malko, and it fit what he knew of the Russians’ modus operandi. If someone had asked Sokolov to go to England to interview Berezovsky, he would certainly do it.
“Thanks very much for this,” he said. “I’ll take it into account in my investigation. Unfortunately, Sokolov has gone back to Russia and probably isn’t easy to reach there.”
“That’s too bad,” said Young. “But I hope I’ve been helpful. Good luck!”
After the NCS specialist left the office, Dexter said:
“I’m starting to think maybe you should go to Moscow!”
Malko smiled.
“I’m going to Tel Aviv first. If I show up in Moscow, the Russians will immediately suspect we’re investigating Berezovsky’s death.”
“They know that already, and the attempt to poison you proves it,” said Dexter. “But all right, we’ll do things in order. Meanwhile, I’ll ask the Moscow station what they can find out about Sokolov.” He went to his desk and rang his secretary.
“Mary, Mr. Linge is leaving. Do you have what he needs?”
Moments later the secretary brought an envelope and handed it to Malko, saying:
“This has your ticket for Tel Aviv, a reservation at the Dan Hotel, and a list of useful phone numbers.”
Dexter said:
“Someone from the station will meet you at Ben Gurion. Enjoy the sunshine.”
Leaving the embassy “bunker,” Malko hailed a cab on Upper Grosvenor Street and called Gwyneth Robertson.
“I’m in a meeting,” she said. “Any new developments?”
“I’m leaving London tomorrow morning. I’d like to see you this evening.”
She thought for a few seconds, then said:
“All right, but it won’t be before nine thirty. At the Caprice on Arlington Street near Piccadilly. Catch you later!”
The Caprice turned out to be a kind of British brasserie that was so noisy, it felt like being at a cattle auction. Everyone was shouting. An Asian maître d’ informed Malko that Miss Robertson’s table wasn’t ready and parked him at the bar.
Gwyneth breezed in at ten to ten, loaded down with file folders. She plunked them on a bar stool next to Malko and sighed.
“If it weren’t you, I would’ve gone straight home to bed! I’m beat.”
To the bartender she said:
“A double vodka martini, please, and something to eat. I’m starving.”
She was wearing her office combat uniform: a Chanel suit with a fuchsia-colored blouse stretched taut over her large breasts. She surreptitiously parted the blouse to give Malko a glimpse of her bra.
“See? It matches! The panties, too.”
With Gwyneth, eroticism was always just below the surface.
A few moments later they were led to a small table in the back that had just been cleared.
She looked at Malko with a sarcastic grin.
“I know your desire to see me isn’t completely disinterested, but I love you anyway. Where are you off to tomorrow?”
“The bodyguard?”
Gwyneth didn’t miss a trick.
“That’s right. The Agency tracked him down, but I don’t know if he’ll talk to me. What’s happening at your end?”
She sipped her martini and smiled.
“I’m sacrificing what little virtue I have left to try to locate Arkady Lianin.”
“Are you getting anywhere?”
She scowled at him playfully.
“You want a play-by-play on exactly how James is doing? Now that he’s gotten to home plate, he’s gone crazy. Won’t leave me alone. I hope he doesn’t talk about this at work. People might start to wonder.”
“Have you gotten anything from him?” Malko asked cautiously.
“For the time being, he’s the one who’s getting something from me. We’re in the approach phase. The sting will come later, maybe when you come back, if you stay long enough.”
“I’m really sorry for what I’m putting you through,” said Malko.
“Don’t sweat it. He’s a very good lover, so it isn’t exactly a chore. I saw a gorgeous brooch in a magazine, and he rushed off to Harrods to buy it for me. He’s spending his retirement savings.”
Though the former CIA case officer was being pleasantly cynical, she did wonder if she was hurting Malko’s feelings. Putting her hand on his, she said, almost tenderly:
“I’ll still enjoy making love with you when you come back. James is just on probation. If he has the necessary information, we’ll locate Lianin.”
A waiter brought them some curried shrimp and rice, and Gwyneth tore into it, eating like a truck driver. A clergyman to their right ogled her chest as he ate.
By the time Gwyneth reached her lemon meringue pie, she had relaxed a bit.
“I’m going to gently start raising the pressure on James,” she said. “He’s too much in love to bail out now. Provided he has the information, of course.”
The restaurant was emptying. When they left, it was nearly midnight.
“I’ll drop you off,” she said.
A valet had already brought the Bentley, which smelled of her perfume. The moment he was seated, Malko couldn’t help putting his hand on the young woman’s thigh.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she said with a giggle. “I’m coming from the office, and I’m wearing pantyhose!”
Rem Tolkachev opened the envelope that had just come from the FSB on Bolshaya Lubyanka Street. The note from the London rezidentura informed him that Malko Linge had taken a flight for Tel Aviv two hours earlier.
He put the note down and started to think. He knew perfectly well why Linge was going to Israel, and he was furious.
What was the point of neutering the damned English if the CIA was going to come down on him? Especially with a man like Linge!
The spymaster now had to weigh the risks of possible countermeasures. Plus, he had suffered another reversal. The steps he had ordered be carried out to eliminate Linge in London apparently hadn’t worked. He had to wind down that operation at any cost, or face another failure.