Malko started when his room phone rang. Repressing a twinge of apprehension, he picked up the handset.
“I’m downstairs,” said Gwyneth Robertson brightly.
“Aren’t you coming up?” he asked. “We can have a room service breakfast.”
“Don’t tempt me! I haven’t much time, and I know how easily I melt. I’ll be waiting in the lounge.”
Malko didn’t insist. Downstairs, he found the young American in one of the small rooms off the bar. She had already ordered them breakfast. In her silk suit, nude stockings, and high heels, Gwyneth was as sexy as ever. Sensing Malko’s eyes on her, she looked up and smiled.
“So, did you find any beautiful Israeli women in Tel Aviv?”
“I didn’t find much of anything at all,” said Malko irritably.
When he told her what happened with Berezovsky’s bodyguard, she nodded soberly.
“I’m not surprised. We’ve stumbled into an international political and economic deal. I’m reminded of it every day.”
“By your friend James?”
“Yeah, but he’s stonewalling me. In a normal situation, I’d have gotten him to spill the beans a long time ago. Problem is, this Arkady Lianin guy is up to his neck in the Berezovsky affair. James hinted that if word got out that he was helping me find him, he’d be risking his career, and maybe more.”
A waiter brought orange juice, tea, coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs. When he left, Malko said:
“Listen, Gwyn, why don’t you just drop it? I’m sorry I asked you to do this. You aren’t going to be able to pull it off.”
The former CIA case officer gave him an almost sadistic smile.
“Oh, yes I will! James is completely hooked, so now I’ll put him on half rations until he gives in. He’s nuts about me. Calls me all day long, constantly texts, even talks about getting divorced. If I pull back a little now, he’ll go out of his mind.”
Malko gazed at her thoughtfully. Gwyneth was prostituting herself for him, and doing it out of affection and complicity. In his mind’s eye, Malko imagined her having sex with the young MI5 officer. It wasn’t an especially pleasant thought.
“It may take a little longer, but he’s going to give me something,” she said. “Either that, or I’m losing my touch.”
“That is definitely not the case,” Malko assured her.
Straightening up in her chair, she crossed her legs very high, revealing expanses of her stockinged thighs. Gwyneth always seemed ready to fuck or be fucked. As she buttered her toast, she gave him some advice.
“There’s no point in your waiting here in London,” she said. “You’re certainly under surveillance, and if the Russians see you hanging around, they’ll wonder why. Go back to Liezen! I’ll contact you as soon as I get what I want.”
“I’m planning to leave London all right, but I’m not going home.”
“Really? Where are you off to?”
“Moscow.”
“You’re nuts!” she snapped, putting her toast down. “Do you have a death wish, or what? The FSB hates your guts. They’ve already tried to kill you a couple of times. They even tried here not that long ago, as I recall. What the hell are you going to do in Moscow, anyway?”
“Pull the lion’s tail,” said Malko with a smile. “Everything started with Moscow, and I have some contacts there. My showing up might rattle the FSB and cause them to make a mistake.”
“You’re the one making the mistake,” she said. “You could disappear without a trace.”
“I can’t stand sitting around doing nothing. And I really want to crack this case, find out exactly how the FSB managed to kill Berezovsky. Anyway, I didn’t learn anything in Tel Aviv. The same thing might happen in Moscow.”
“Except that in Tel Aviv you weren’t in danger of being killed. Just quit the damn project!”
“I won’t,” said Malko, shaking his head. “Anyway, you know I like to play Russian roulette.”
“Yeah, but in this case, it’s Belgian roulette,” she said sarcastically. “You know, with six bullets in the barrel.”
They gazed at each other for a moment. Then Gwyneth took out her cell and made a brief call. Malko could hear her say: “I’ll be late.”
She put away the phone and gave him a mysterious smile.
“I’ve got half an hour free for you. Come on!”
She was already on her feet and heading for the elevator. In the car she gave Malko a long look and said:
“I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. I want something to remember you by.”
Gwyneth had taken off just her suit jacket and panties. Heavy breasts swinging inside her blouse, she was kneeling on the bed, giving Malko one of her patented blow jobs. When she felt he was ready, she slumped back onto the bed, flung out her arms, and said:
“Okay, let me have it.”
Malko lay down on top of her, and she spread her thighs wide to ease him inside. The lack of foreplay made them both a little tense, but Malko’s reluctance vanished when he felt Gwyneth’s hips begin to sway. The sex wasn’t a formality, either. It was a loving gesture, an emotional connection.
They made love for a long time. Panting slightly, Gwyneth gripped his shoulders at the end, and when Malko came inside her, she arched her back and gave a muffled sigh. They stayed that way for a while, at peace.
Finally she spoke.
“I hope my hunch is wrong,” she said quietly. “I’d be very sad if you disappeared forever.”
For Malko, the rest of the morning seemed to drag by. He had booked a flight to Vienna and was waiting to get the green light from Stanley Dexter. Finally, at two o’clock, the CIA station chief sent him a text:
Come to Grosvenor Square.
He couldn’t help but feel tense when he entered the station chief’s office. Dexter looked up at him with a serious expression on his face.
“I just got Langley’s answer,” he said. “They’ve approved your request to go to Moscow in spite of my negative recommendation. The Moscow station will alert the FSB that you’re in town to investigate the Snowden affair. Vienna will submit your visa request. That’s the best we can do, but it isn’t much. You realize you’re walking into the lion’s den, don’t you?”
“I know, but I think the game is worth the candle. Irina Lopukin could be helpful, and she’s very well connected.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear, Malko. You know how vicious those Russians are. They’d be delighted to get rid of you, quite aside from the Berezovsky business.”
“I’ll take that chance. And I’ll be careful.”
To Malko’s surprise, when he returned to Austria, his fiancée, Alexandra, wasn’t at her estate. When he finally reached her by phone, he learned she was spending a few days in Croatia with friends.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, “otherwise I wouldn’t have gone. I’ll be back in two days.”
“I will have left by then.”
“Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you. But I won’t be away long.”
After a short pause, Alexandra said, in a more serious tone:
“I hope you won’t be taking any stupid chances.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to a civilized country!”
Served by his butler, Elko Krisantem, Malko ate alone in the big dining room, then went to bed. Liezen Castle felt empty, and he didn’t feel like lingering.
He got up early the next day and drove to the American embassy in Vienna. After lunch at the Hotel Sacher’s Rote Bar, surrounded by gray-haired Viennese, he picked up his passport with its new Russian visa. The station chief’s request had gone through smoothly. Relations between Russia and the United States might be at a low ebb, but the diplomatic niceties were still being observed. Just the same, Malko was aware that the FSB now knew he was coming to Moscow.
An impassive immigration officer at Sheremetyevo Airport stamped Malko’s passport, and he walked though the busy new terminal. Outside, the usual scrum of taxis awaited. Malko was bargaining with five cab drivers who were competing to drive him into town for an outrageous price when he spotted a young man holding a sign with his name on it.
Malko went over and identified himself.
“Good morning sir, I’m Foster Steele from the embassy. We reserved a room for you at the Ritz-Carlton. Will that suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
The two men walked to the parking lot and drove out onto interminable Leningradsky Prospekt. The landscape hadn’t changed since his last visit to Moscow, thought Malko, wondering if they were being followed. He hoped his arrival would feel like a thorn in the FSB’s side.
It took them half an hour to get to the hotel, which was as flashy and lively as always.
A couple of Orthodox priests were chatting in a corner while ogling the long legs of some young call girls perched on sofas near the elevator. One of the girls on the prowl had especially attractive eyes: very pale green, underscored with a dash of black eyeliner.
In his room, Malko checked his address book for Irina Lopukin’s number and then dialed.
It was a long shot, he realized. Irina might well not be in Moscow, or might not feel like talking to him. After all, they hadn’t seen each other in seven years, and a lot could have happened in the interval. The phone rang for a long time, but was eventually answered.
“Who’s calling?” asked a woman in Russian. It was a voice Malko immediately recognized.
“Hello, Irina, it’s Linge, Malko Linge. Do you remember me?”
There was a brief silence, then she said:
“Malko! What a surprise! Where are you?”
“In Moscow. I just arrived, and you’re the first person I called. I have a very fond memory of our meeting in London, even though it happened under sad circumstances.”
“I do too,” said the young woman. “You’re lucky to catch me. I just came back from a long trip in the East. I was in Vladivostok researching real-estate investments.”
“I’m happy you’re back. Can I take you out to dinner?”
Another silence followed.
“There must be some new restaurants in Moscow,” he persisted.
“Thanks, but I’d rather eat at home. I’m quite tired, and my housekeeper is a very good cook. Why don’t you come for tea instead, around six o’clock? Do you still have the address?”
“Yes, I do.”
“The apartment is number 1276. The doorman will show you the way.”
When Malko hung up, he felt considerably deflated. Was he going to draw a blank with Irina Lopukin the way he had with Uri Dan? Maybe he had traveled to Moscow for nothing.