When the limo stopped in front of the Vysokta, Irina Lopukin turned to Malko and said:
“So, there you have it. I hope I’ve been of some help.”
“You’ve been incredibly helpful,” he said. “But I don’t want us to say good-bye like this. Can I come up for a drink?”
After the briefest of hesitations, the young woman nodded and got out of the Mercedes. Malko followed, leaving the driver to find a parking place and wait.
In the apartment, Irina tossed her purse onto the coffee table and walked over to the bar. She came back with two glasses and a bottle of Tsarskaya vodka, and they drank a toast.
Glancing at Irina’s purse, Malko said:
“You know the piece of paper you showed me earlier? The people watching us saw it, so you should destroy it. Unless you need it, that is.”
“No, I don’t.”
She took out the paper and burned it in the ashtray with her lighter. It was gone in a few seconds, and Malko felt better. From now on, he would be the one taking the risks.
Irina poured herself a second vodka and downed it. Then, in a perfectly natural movement, she let her head rest on Malko’s shoulder. It was the first intimate gesture she had allowed herself since their initial encounter. Turning her head, her lips brushed Malko’s, then parted in a passionate kiss.
Within moments, he was rediscovering the curves of a body he had briefly explored seven years earlier. When he touched Irina’s full breasts, she stirred and drove her tongue deeper into his mouth. He almost felt she was going to devour his lips.
Then she pulled off her velvet top, keeping on only a black bra. Without removing her skirt, she stretched out on the long mauve sofa and laid her head on a pillow. When she raised one leg, the skirt’s long slit parted, exposing her thigh.
Malko’s hand moved slowly up her leg to the top of a stay-up stocking. Encountering a black string panty a little farther up, he snagged it with his fingers and slid it down.
Irina submitted, her eyes closed in an almost dreamlike trance. Then she gradually began to move, arching her back under his caresses, breathing faster.
She unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts.
“Lick my tits,” she said hoarsely. “I love that.”
The vodka had done its work.
When his lips touched one strawberry-like nipple, it immediately stiffened under his tongue. Irina had gone directly from coldness to passion.
Her hips rose higher and higher. Then she pushed Malko’s fingers away and instead, in an unmistakable gesture, pulled his head down to her crotch.
When Malko put his mouth on her, Irina heaved a long, easy sigh. It became a spasm and a cry of pleasure when his tongue reached her clit. Thighs spread wide, she held Malko’s head in both hands, against the unlikely possibility that he would pull away from her.
Suddenly she gave a scream of joy and fell back stunned, as waves of pleasure rolled over her.
While Malko was catching his breath, his cock, which was as stiff as a poker, now had just one goal: Irina’s cunt. But before it could put its plan into effect, the young woman took it in her mouth as hungrily as a starving predator. Sucking Malko’s cock with the fervor of a vestal virgin, Irina brought him to orgasm, and he collapsed on the sofa, spent.
After a long moment, Irina slowly slipped on her panties and hooked her bra.
“You really made me come,” she said with a pleasant yawn. “I’m happy to have seen you again, even if it was thanks to those FSB morons. When are you leaving town?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ll be staying much longer.”
In fact, Malko was now eager to get back to London with the invaluable information Irina had given him. He looked at the little pile of ashes in the ashtray and touched a tiny scrap of paper.
Irina led him to the front door and offered him her lips with a somewhat vague smile.
“Watch out for yourself!”
She stumbled off to her bedroom, her legs wobbly, and let herself fall onto her bed. The next time she saw the FSB people, she would have something to tell them.
Malko was crossing the Ritz-Carlton lobby when two men appeared beside him. Siloviki, from the looks of them.
One flashed an ID card with a tricolor stripe and politely said:
“Gospodin Linge, we have instructions to take you to Bolshaya Lubyanka.”
Malko stiffened.
“Why?”
“Just a routine check, sir. It won’t take long.”
It was never long with the FSB, just a century or two. But what was the point of resisting? The notepad where Malko had written the poison and its formula was in his pocket, but it was too late to get rid of it.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll just phone my embassy.”
One of the officers shook his head.
“Don’t bother, gospodin. This will take an hour at most. Come with us, please.”
They led him outside to a black Audi. Light bar flashing, the car drove silently down Tverskaya Ulitsa, then turned left toward Lubyanka Square. Nothing was said until they reached FSB headquarters. As polite as ever, the two agents took Malko up to the third floor in an elevator and ushered him into an office with neon lights.
“Empty your pockets,” said one indifferently.
Malko did so. They put his things into a plastic bag and went out, leaving him alone.
He heard a key turn in the door, locking him in.
Malko’s effects had been spread out on a table, and FSB agents were carefully photographing them under the direction of the duty sergeant. Malko’s notepad got special treatment. A number of close-ups were taken of a line of writing a few words long: sodium fluoride, 2.5–10 mg, followed by a formula. When they were finished, the agents put everything in a clear plastic envelope, and the sergeant went to another office to screen the photographs.
Noticing the mysterious phrase, he immediately called the captain who was coordinating the Linge surveillance. An hour had already passed since Malko’s arrest.
“What should we do with the suspect, sir?” asked the sergeant. “Take him down to the Lubyanka?”
It wasn’t a decision the captain couldn’t make on his own authority. It was already past midnight, and his superiors were sound asleep.
“Bring him some tea,” he ordered. “He can lie down if he likes.” Meanwhile, the captain had to find someone in charge to decide Malko’s fate. At this hour, it wasn’t clear who that would be. It took another hour before he got a sleepy superior to order him to release the suspect.
Malko had already drunk two cups of tea when the agents who had detained him at the Ritz-Carlton reappeared, carrying his affairs.
“Sorry to make you wait,” one of them said blandly. “We had to check a few things, and that took time. Everything is in order. We’ll bring you back to your hotel now.”
Not a word about why he’d been arrested.
Malko took his possessions without looking at them. The FSB had its faults, but they weren’t thieves. The inevitable black Audi was waiting in the courtyard, and ten minutes later he was back at the Ritz-Carlton.
The moment he got to his room, Malko went through all his things and checked his notepad. Everything was there, but the Russians had surely noted the name of the poison Irina gave him.
First thing in the morning, he would go to the CIA station, which would assign him bodyguards. Then he had to get out of Russia as soon as possible—if he could.
He had trouble falling asleep.
As he did every morning, Rem Tolkachev reached his office at eight. He had bought himself a strong cup of tea while waiting for the daily delivery of documents from the FSB. They arrived twenty minutes later. On top of the stack, he noticed a thick file stamped “Secret” and immediately started reading it.
An FSB captain reported that while following the CIA agent Malko Linge, the subject had been seen writing down some words communicated to him by Irina Lopukin. In an effort of efficiency, he had the agent detained and brought to Service headquarters. This had resulted in the discovery of some writing whose meaning he did not know.
Tolkachev peered at a close-up photo that showed the details of the text in question.
And nearly had a heart attack.
The spymaster was looking at one of Russia’s most closely held secrets! The text was no mystery to him. He had personally ordered the poison from one of the secret laboratories that worked for the FSB, and the substance had moved through his office to England, where it ended Boris Berezovsky’s life.
Baffled, Tolkachev examined the words written on the notepad. How could Malko Linge have come into possession of the secret, which was known to only a handful of people?
It no longer had any practical importance, since Berezovsky was dead and buried, and even an autopsy wouldn’t reveal anything. So there were no immediate consequences, except that now somebody knew. It couldn’t be Irina Lopukin. So who had told her the secret?
Tolkachev was boiling with impotent rage. He couldn’t let such an affront go unpunished.
Even if the damage was already done, the two people who were in the know had to die.
Irina Lopukin was one thing, but Malko Linge was more complicated. Tolkachev had plenty of ways to hit him without it looking like murder, but that might make waves. He decided to take his time.
He sat down and typed a highly confidential note to the head of FSB special operations.
“Your life is in grave danger,” said the Moscow CIA station chief, on hearing Malko describe the previous night’s events.
“You’re in possession of top secret information, and they’ll do everything they can to kill you,” he said. “I’m immediately assigning you some special ops ‘babysitters.’ That’s better than nothing, but you have to get out of Moscow as soon as possible. And not on a Russian plane. I’ll put you on the next British Airways flight.”
Garden asked his secretary to book a single ticket for London. When she came back a few minutes later, she looked apologetic.
“The BA flight is full,” she said. “I tried two others; same thing. Yet this isn’t the busy travel season.”
Malko smiled sourly.
“It’s their usual procedure. Keep me from flying out while they plan what to do next. Of course, I could always catch a train.”
“I’ll ask Langley for instructions,” said the station chief. “In the meantime you’re not leaving the embassy; they won’t come after you here. And let’s have lunch together.”
Tolkachev was fuming. The Berezovsky operation had gone off without a hitch, yet now there was a fly in the ointment. The image of the Kremlin he was sworn to protect was at risk.
A quick investigation revealed how the information could have leaked. Irina Lopukin had paid a visit to Lavrenty Pavlovich, the vice chair of the National Security Council. He would know about the poison, but why would he tell Lopukin? There was no way to ask him directly. Pavlovich was seriously ill and had just been hospitalized. Given his rank, he could hardly be dragged down to FSB headquarters for questioning.
Tolkachev decided he would deal with that problem later. For now, he had to settle the fate of the two people who had learned the secret, even if it had no immediate impact on Berezovsky’s killing.
Having the name of the poison was only dangerous in connection with certain other information that Linge had no way of knowing. Still, Tolkachev wanted to wrap up the case for the president, and that meant eliminating two people who knew something they shouldn’t.
He typed a note for the head of the FSB, giving him precise instructions.
Sitting in an office reserved for visiting CIA operatives, Malko felt grumpy and restless. After a bite at the embassy snack bar, he’d communicated with Langley and the London station, giving them the name of the poison used to kill Berezovsky. Langley’s answer arrived an hour later. The substance was known to have been used in other killings. It was made in a certain secret Russian laboratory; the CIA knew its location.
Unfortunately, that information didn’t advance Malko’s investigation right now.
His trip to Moscow was turning out to be only marginally more successful than the one to Israel. He now knew more about the arrangements of the killing and the role of the Forbes Russia journalist, but only enough to flesh out a report, not lead him to the killers.
The answer he sought was still in London, he knew. He had to find the person Sokolov had given the poison to, and the journalist himself certainly wouldn’t tell him.
But to return to London, Malko had to get out of the country, and the Russians were up to their usual tricks to keep him here.
It would give them time to figure out a way to attack him between the time he left the embassy and was safely aboard a British Airways plane. FSB agents were endlessly creative, and they had sophisticated technical means at their disposal. They might try poison, a car accident, a mugging gone wrong—anything.
Malko felt he was living on borrowed time. Even surrounded by a squad of special ops men, his life would be in danger the moment he stepped outside the embassy.
As he leafed through the day’s New York Times, he reflected that Gwyneth Robertson was now the key to his investigation. She was the only person who could lead him to the man who had organized Berezovsky’s phony suicide and had tried to kill Malko himself.
Arkady Lianin.
If he was still in London, that is.
Roy Garden opened the door, a serious expression on his face.
“I’ve just been told that two FSB cars are parked across from the embassy. I’m sure they’re for you.”
The trap was beginning to close.
“We just have to wait,” Malko said with a shrug. “When a seat on my flight suddenly becomes available, then we’ll know they’re ready to kill me.”