The defector

distinct Russian accent.

“Who is there, please?”

“It’s Natan Golani. We sat next to one another at dinner last summer at the Israeli ambassador’s residence. We chatted briefly on the terrace when you went out for a cigarette. You told me that Russians cannot live as normal people and never will.”

Gabriel heard the rattle of a chain and watched the door swing slowly open. The woman standing in the tiny entranceway was clutching a Siamese cat with luminous blue eyes that matched hers to perfection. She wore a tight-fitting black sweater, charcoal-gray trousers, and smart black boots. Her hair, once long and flaxen, was now short and dark. Her face, however, was unchanged. It was one of the most beautiful Gabriel had ever seen: heroic, vulnerable, virtuous. The face of a Russian icon come to life. The face of Russia itself.

Until six months ago, Olga Sukhova had been a practitioner of one of the world’s most dangerous trades: Russian journalism. From her post at Moskovskaya Gazeta, a crusading weekly, she had exposed the atrocities of the Red Army in Chechnya, unearthed corruption at the highest levels of the Kremlin, and been an unflinching critic of the Russian president’s assault on democracy. Her reporting had left her with a dim view of her country and its future, though nothing could have prepared her for the most important discovery of her career: a Russian oligarch and arms dealer named Ivan Kharkov was preparing to sell some of Russia’s most sophisticated weapons to al-Qaeda terrorists. Though never published by the Gazeta, the story resulted in the murder of two of Olga’s colleagues. The first, Aleksandr Lubin, was stabbed to death in a hotel room in the French ski resort of Courchevel. The second, an editor named Boris Ostrovsky, died in Gabriel’s arms on the floor of St. Peter’s Basilica, the victim of a poisoning. Were it not for Gabriel and Grigori Bulganov, Olga Sukhova would surely have been murdered as well.

The dangerous nature of Olga’s work and the constant threats against her life had left her with the finely tuned tradecraft of a seasoned spy. Like Gabriel, she assumed all rooms, even the rooms of her own home, were bugged. Important conversations were best conducted in public places. Which explained why five minutes after Gabriel’s arrival, they were walking along the windswept pavements of St. Clement’s Street. Gabriel listened to the clatter of her boots against the pavement and thought of a cloudy afternoon in Moscow when they had walked among the dead in Novodevichy Cemetery, shadowed by rotating teams of Russian watchers. Perhaps you should kiss me now, Mr. Golani. It is better if the FSB is under the impression we intend to become lovers.

“Do you miss it?” he asked.

“Moscow?” She smiled sadly. “I miss it terribly. The noise. The smells. The horrendous traffic. Sometimes I even find myself missing the snow. January is nearly over, and not a single flake. The woman on the BBC called this a cold snap. In Moscow, we call it springtime.” She looked at him. “Does it ever snow in Oxford?”

“If it does, it won’t be anything like home.”

“Nothing is like home. Oxford is a lovely city, but I must confess I find it rather dull. Moscow has many problems, but at least it is never dull. You might find this hard to understand, but I desperately miss being a Russian journalist.”

“A very wise and beautiful woman once told me there is no journalism in Russia-not real journalism, at least.”

“It’s true. The regime has managed to silence its critics in the press, not by overt censorship but with murder, intimidation, and forced changes of ownership. The Gazeta is now nothing but a tabloid scandal sheet, filled with stories about pop stars, men from outer space, and werewolves living in the forests outside Moscow. You’ll be happy to know circulation is higher than ever.”

“At least no one is getting killed.”

“That’s true. Poor Boris was the last to die.”

She gave Gabriel’s arm a melancholy squeeze. “I did notice a story about Ivan on the Gazeta’s website last month. He was attending the opening-night party for a new restaurant in Moscow. His new wife, Yekaterina, was ravishing as usual. Ivan looked quite well himself. In fact, he was sporting a suntan.” She furrowed her brow into an affected frown. “Where do you suppose Ivan was able to get a suntan in Russia in the middle of winter? In one of those tanning beds? No, I don’t think so. Ivan’s not the sort to radiate his skin with lights. Ivan used to get his tan in Saint-Tropez. Perhaps he slipped into Courchevel with a false passport for a bit of skiing at Christmastime. Or perhaps he paid a visit to one of his old haunts in Africa.”

“We’ve been picking up reports that he’s rebuilding his old networks.”

“You don’t say.”

“Have you heard similar things?”

“To be honest, I try not to think about Ivan. I have a blog. It’s quite popular here in Britain as well as Moscow. The FSB has launched repeated cyberattacks against it.” She gave a fleeting smile. “It gives me inordinate pleasure to know I can annoy the Kremlin, even from a cottage in Cowley.”

“Perhaps it would be wiser for you to-”

“To what?” she interrupted. “To keep quiet? The people of Russia have been silent for too long. The regime has used that silence as justification for crushing any semblance of democracy and imposing a form of soft totalitarianism. Someone has to speak up. If it has to be me, then so be it. I’ve done it before.”

They had reached the other side of Magdalen Bridge: the side of spires and limestone and great thoughts. Olga stopped in the High Street and pretended to read the notice board.

“I must confess I wasn’t surprised when Graham Seymour called last night to tell me you were coming. I assume this concerns Grigori. He’s missing, isn’t he?”

Gabriel nodded.

“I was afraid of that when he didn’t return my call. He’s never done that before.” She paused, then asked, “How did you travel from London to Oxford?”

“The train from Paddington.”

“Did the British follow you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“As sure as one can be.”

“And what about Russians? Were you followed by Russians?”

“Thus far, they seem unaware of my presence here.”

“I doubt they will be for long.” She looked across the street toward the entrance of the Oxford Botanic Gardens. “Let’s talk there, shall we? I’ve always enjoyed gardens in winter.”

17

OXFORD

MY GOD,”she whispered. “When will it end? When will it ever end?”

“Is it possible, Olga? Is there any way Grigori would go home on his own?”

She brushed away tears and looked around the gardens. “Have you been here before?”

It seemed an odd question, given what he had just told her. But he knew Olga well enough to understand it was not without purpose.

“This is my first visit.”

“A hundred and fifty years ago, a mathematician from Christ Church used to come here with a young girl and her two sisters. The mathematician was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. The girl was Alice Liddell. Their visits served as the inspiration for a book Dodgson would write under the pen name Lewis Carroll-Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, of course. Fitting, don’t you think?”

“How so?”

“Because the British theory about Grigori is a tale worthy of Lewis Carroll. His hatred of the regime and his old service was real. The idea he would willingly return to Russia is absurd.”

They sat on a wooden bench in the center of the garden next to a fountain. Gabriel did not tell Olga he had reached the same conclusion or that he had photographic evidence to support it.