prints on him from a file. He taught school in Boston while he did his MBA, and the school system printed him,” she added. “He had a UK passport, and a Russian passport,” she said. “I had looked at Curtis before, but it was only when Valentina died, and when you came here, Artie, that I really focused on him. This Russian stuff really is like one of those mythical many-headed monsters, you look at something, it disappears, then shows up again. For a time, on the surface, he was pretty much what he claimed. I don’t know where the marriage license was filed, but I couldn’t find it. Perhaps someone made it disappear.”
“Yeah, what doesn’t show up is that he’s a murderous bastard. Thanks about the prints,” I added.
We sat on the steps of the museum. I knew Fiona was killing time while she thought about something.
“I met Grigory Curtis a second time, after I saw him at Larry Sverdloff’s, quite a bit later,” she said.
“Where?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Recently?”
“Quite.”
“You’re not comfortable with telling me?”
“I’m telling you what matters. I’m sorry it took this long. I’m telling you now, if you want the truth, because I think you can help me. Before I tell you, I’d like to know that you will share whatever you find with me, and that isn’t only about your friend’s daughter.”
“Go on.”
“Is that a yes?” The chilly formality, the way Fiona’s expression changed, the adjustment of her posture reminded me this was her real business with me.
“Sure.”
“I think Curtis did errands for the KGB,” said Fiona. “The FSB as it’s now called.”
“I know what the FSB is, for chrissake.”
“Curtis told me, and yes, quite recently, that he thought that it was not Putin’s people who killed Litvinenko, that it was the British, that we did it as a provocation, and that in any case Litvinenko was a traitor,” said Fiona, who went on to tell me that she understood from what he had said that Curtis worked for the Kremlin or the FSB- the same things, she said-and they had seen in him an opportunity. “A young man taken up with a zealous Russian patriotism, and who had two passports? Quite a coup, don’t you think?”
“And an American wife. You knew they were married?”
“Only when I met the mother yesterday,” said Fiona. “It’s when I realized I was right about him. It gave Curtis, and anyone he serviced, access to the US. I think that was the real ambition.”
“He used Val?”
“Hard to say. They were certainly in love when I saw them, I can’t know if he used her from the beginning or if he saw an opportunity he could retail, or if his masters exploited it. I haven’t got the whole answer.”
“And Val turned on him when she discovered what he was up to.”
“Or when she simply discovered he was a zealot who was in love with the whole ‘Russia first’, thing. Bloody fascists.”
“What about Larry Sverdloff?”
“I think he’s on our side. I think he understands all of it, and that we can trust him. Up to a point. He wants to change Russia, but he wants the money, like all of them. He’s scared. He should be scared. There have been plenty of death threats. I told him to leave England for a few days. I think you should go, too.”
“He went?”
“I don’t know.” Fiona got up. “It’s clear Curtis beat up Elena Gagarin. I can have him picked up if we can find him.”
What I didn’t say, though I was sure Fiona knew, was I wasn’t going anywhere until I had Curtis in my sights, until I had a way to get him for Valentina’s death.
“Your bosses want to know all about me?”
“They think you’re here working for Roy Pettus,” Fiona said.
“And you let them think it?”
“I told you, I like you. And I really want these people, I’ve worked nearly two years on this. I want them, I want to put a lid on Russian terrorism before it explodes here, and I think Curtis might lead me to them, because for now there’s just a wall of Russians in London, and nobody is quite what he seems, and it’s very hard to break through it. I want them, Artie, I want the people who bring their poison into my country. Or spread its myth and make people terrified, the fear of fear is something your country suffers from, and we’ve caught it. I want all this badly enough to accommodate anyone, including you. Please be careful. I’ll pick you up tonight, if you like, I’ll take you to meet someone who will help you. Say, it’s my boss. Just wait for me.”
“A real spy?”
She smiled. “Ah, but there are no real spies anymore,” she said. “Only people like me.”
“How come you’re doing all this?”
“I don’t know. Because it’s the right thing to do. And I like you,” she said and blushed. “I’ll find you later.”
“Where?”
“I’ll find you. Artie?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Sunday. I was wondering if you’d like to come round for lunch.”
“When it’s all over, I’d like that. Lunch. Even dinner.”
“Thanks.”
“Wait for me.”
“Of course,” I said. “Thank you.”
Fiona put out her hand and I shook it, and then she walked away, along the river, shrouded in the strange mist that had settled on everything.
CHAPTER FORTY
Taking the gun with me that night was a bad idea, but I didn’t care. I took it when I left Tolya’s around ten. It was three days since I had been to the agency on Moscow Road where Masha Panchuk got her job. When I had called during business hours, a machine picked up. Something about the place had been bugging me since I first saw it. And I was furious, crazy with anger.
The fury had built up over the time I’d been in London. And dread. I was scared of what I’d do if I was right about Grisha Curtis, if I found him and I was right. Dread of being wrong.
I ran along the sidewalk. A car splashed water on me. I yelled at the driver to go fuck himself.
On Moscow Road, the Greek grocery was shut, metal gates pulled down. Outside the church a homeless guy was stretched out, wet newspaper for a blanket.
In the building where the agency was, the windows were dark, except on the top floor. As I watched, the light there went off. The shade came down. Somebody had seen me looking.
What did I expect to find here late at night? The agency would be shut. I was operating on instinct and adrenalin and the fury.
I was surprised that the front door wasn’t locked. I pushed it, then went into the vestibule. The inner door was easy. I jimmied it with my pocketknife, and went up the first flight.
Shoulder tight against the wall, I edged my way up quiet as I could, feeling the peeling paint with one hand, the other on the gun. A stink of cigarettes was everywhere. Overhead bulbs were out. From inside a couple of the doors, I could hear voices, a TV.
The agency was on the third floor. I tapped very lightly on the frosted glass with the name on it. I waited. Listened for noise. The door was padlocked and I used the butt of my gun to break it.
The room was the same as it had been, desk, a couple of chairs, a framed poster, well-watered plants along the windowsill.
But Ilana was gone, her computer was covered with a plastic sheet, and I wondered if she had been covering for someone. Was it really an agency for maids and chauffeurs? Was it a front? Both? Impossible to tell, but I
