Eternal Empire (2 page)

JULY 27–AUGUST
8, 2011

As for the theory of escape—it is very simple. You do it any way you can. If you get away—that shows you know your theory. If you're caught—you haven't yet mastered it. The elementary principles are as follows. . . .

—Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn,
The Gulag Archipelago

A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. . . . Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.

—Vladimir Nabokov,
Speak, Memory

E
ven before the teleph
one rang, Maddy knew what was coming. As usual, she was the first to arrive at the gallery, and after disarming the security system, turning on the lights, and filling the kettle for tea, she sank down at her desk. The light on the phone was flashing, indicating that she had a message, and although she had tried to prepare for this moment, the sight still filled her with dread.

Before she could listen to her voicemail or check her latest round of email alerts, the phone rang, the display listing a number with a local area code. Maddy regarded it for a second, then snatched up the receiver, answering in her best gallerina's voice: “Beardsley Gallery. How may I help you?”

“Good morning,” a woman said smoothly on the other end, giving a name that Maddy forgot at once. “I'm a reporter at the
Guardian
here in London. May I please speak with Maddy Shaw?”

Maddy's rational mind told her to hang up, but part of her wanted to know how bad it was. “Speaking.”

“Oh, very good,” the reporter said, pausing as if to transfer the phone to the crook of her shoulder. “I'm calling in regard to the incident yesterday at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I don't know if you've seen the news—”

“I've heard something about it,” Maddy said carefully. “A man was shot, wasn't he?”

“Yes, but only after defacing a painting by Eugène Delacroix. Apparently the damage is quite severe. I was wondering if you cared to comment.”

Maddy closed her eyes. “And why would I have anything to say about this?”

The reporter pounced on this at once, as if she had been expecting this sort of evasion. “Well, I apologize in advance if my information is incorrect, but I was told that you were the Maddy Blume who broke into an installation three years ago at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.”

“And what makes you say that?” As Maddy spoke, feeling as if she were trapped in the kind of conversation that one has in a nightmare, she saw the gallery door open and another employee, the registrar and shipping handler, enter with a look on his face that implied that he already knew everything.

With an effort, she returned her attention to what the reporter was saying. “I'm sure you're aware, of course, that this recent incident has been widely reported, and many stories have referred to the events in Philadelphia. As it happens, your picture appeared in a few places online, and it was recognized.”

“It was recognized,” Maddy said flatly. “Which means you got a call. Let me guess. Was it someone from another gallery?”

The reporter dodged the question. “I understand that you want to move on. I really do. But people will be asking about this anyway. If you agree to talk to me, we can set the tone for the conversation—”

Maddy was about to reply when she realized that her hand, seemingly of its own volition, had hung up the phone. She also became aware that the registrar was staring at her from his desk. “What have you heard?”

“Everything,” the registrar said simply. “It's all over the city. So is it true?”

Before Maddy could respond, the phone rang again. According to the display, it was the same number as before. “It depends on what they're saying. In any case, I don't want to talk about it now.”

Something in her tone of voice told him that she meant it. The registrar turned away, switching on his computer, although she could feel the curiosity radiating off him in waves. Her phone rang three more times, then stopped. She waited for the length of a voicemail, then picked up the receiver and deleted all messages without bothering to play them back.

When she was done, she sat there for a moment, weighing the tempting prospect of giving in to despair. Then she saw clearly what she had to do. A glance at the clock told her that there wasn't much time. Ignoring the registrar, who was casting pointed looks in her direction, she opened the topmost drawer of her desk, fished out a flash drive, and inserted it into her computer.

She was copying a set of files when the door opened again and Alvin Beardsley appeared. The gallery owner gave Maddy a nod as he entered, then went without a word to his private office. Maddy remained at her desk for another minute, then put the flash drive in her purse and rose to meet her fate.

The gallery was located in Mayfair, and like most of its fellows, it was a featureless white cube with track lighting and a concrete floor. In his office, Beardsley was pouring himself a cup of tea. He was a small, round man with a bald head that picked up the colors of the walls around it, mingling them with a peculiar shine of its own. As she entered, his eyes ran lightly across her body, as usual, then settled on her face. “Hello, Madeline. Please, have a seat.”

Maddy sat down, seeing herself, as she had on their first meeting, through the gallerist's eyes. Compared to the file photo that had appeared online in recent days, she knew that she looked well, if somewhat too thin, and was no longer able to pretend that she was still in her early thirties.

Beardsley finished pouring the tea and eased into his own chair. Without looking at Maddy, he picked up the phone and instructed the registrar to hold all calls. Hanging up, he turned to regard her in silence. A personnel folder with her name on it was lying on his desk.

Maddy saw no point in trying to postpone the inevitable. “I assume you know.”

“Of course I know,” Beardsley said. “A reporter from the
Guardian
rang me at home, but I've been hearing about it all morning. I have no choice but to tell you how this looks. When we met, I could tell you were smart, efficient, and willing to work hard, especially for . . .”

He trailed off. Maddy supplied the missing phrase. “For fifteen thousand a year.”

“Yes.” Turning to the file on his desk, the gallerist flipped it open. “And given your experience with archival work, I was lucky to get you. But it turns out that your résumé neglects to say anything about the most interesting part of your career. Or the fact that you were working under an assumed name.”

“It isn't assumed,” Maddy said. “It's my mother's. I had it legally changed.”

“I imagine that all the attention must have been rather much. Is that why you came to London?”

Maddy already knew where this was going. “The New York art world is a small one. I hoped I could start over here, as an art adviser, but the market wasn't great. My sense of timing has never been good.”

“Evidently not. And I'm afraid that the timing here is poor as well.” Beardsley closed the file. “If you aren't Gerhard Richter, the market is hurting. Which means that we can't afford this kind of distraction.”

The gallerist smiled sadly. “You see, people will talk. And as time goes on, the details of this sort of thing become less clear. They remember that you broke into an installation in Philadelphia and that it had something to do with a scandal at your old firm. Even if you weren't directly involved, it looks especially bad for the archivist at a respectable gallery. You understand?”

Maddy only looked back. Throughout his speech, she had wanted to protest, but she knew that everything he said was true. People didn't remember the details. And saying that she hadn't been in her right mind at the time would only raise more questions. “So you're firing me.”

“It isn't as bad as all that,” Beardsley said generously. “You're more than welcome to remain until you find another position, which I'm sure will happen soon. There are always opportunities for a girl like you.”

His eyes brushed her neckline again. Maddy sat there for another moment, as if she was weighing the reasonableness of his argument, then fixed him with a gaze of her own.

“Actually, that won't be necessary,” Maddy said. “Here's what will happen. I leave today. I get two weeks of severance and a letter of recommendation if I ask for it. And if I require proof of employment to maintain my visa, you'll back me up until I don't need it anymore.”

Beardsley laughed uneasily at this. “That's quite a list of demands. And if I decline?”

“I'll return that reporter's call,” Maddy replied. “I'll give her the profile she wants. And I'll also explain how this gallery has been helping its clients avoid sales tax on purchases for the last ten years. I'm sure she'll find it interesting, especially the part about the empty crates we send to New Hampshire while the real paintings go to New York. But I'd prefer to part as friends. What do you say?”

They stared at each other in silence. Beardsley opened his mouth, then closed it again.

A quarter of an hour later, Maddy was walking alone up Albemarle Street, carrying a cardboard box. After writing her a check, Beardsley had kept a careful eye on her as she packed up her things and left without looking back.

As she headed for the station at Piccadilly, it occurred to her, with an almost abstract clarity, that her life was a shambles. There was no single moment to blame, only a series of individual choices, all of which had made sense at the time. But it all really came back, she thought, to two decisions. One, in Philadelphia, would always haunt her, while the other—

Maddy was still thinking about this when a voice came from over her shoulder. Although she hadn't heard it in years, and it had spoken only her name, she recognized it at once.

She turned. Across the street, a man was leaning on a cane. As she watched, he took a step forward, moving gingerly, although his glasses and high forehead were the same as she remembered, and his eyes were still very bright.

Maddy shifted the cardboard box in her hands. “Hello, Alan. Coming to stare?”

Alan Powell smiled. “Not exactly. In fact, I thought we might have a bit of talk. I have a proposal for you. . . .”

O
n
the breastplate of the man on horseback, there was the emblem of a flower with four white petals. The rider, whose head was encircled by a halo, was wearing a helmet and a short blue cloak. At the feet of his horse lay something dark and sinuous. Looking more closely, Rachel Wolfe saw a serpent, tongue hissing, transfixed by the spear in the rider's hand.

She had been studying the framed image for a few seconds when a voice came from behind her. “You know what it means?”

Wolfe replied without looking away from the wall. “An icon of St. George, isn't it?”

Vitaly Rogozin chuckled. “That's what most people would say. At least, those who have no sense of history. Some call him a saint, but he's actually far older than my poor broken church.”

They were standing outside the study of Rogozin's town house in Bloomsbury. Wolfe turned as the writer fished something from the pocket of his tweed jacket. It was an amulet, the size of a silver dollar, with the image of a horseman and serpent embossed on one side. “You see, here is the rider again, an emblem that goes back to the third century. And on the reverse—”

He turned the medallion over, revealing a woman's hideous face, her head covered in snakes. “The gorgon. No one knows why these two symbols are conjoined, or what the man on the horse really represents. He has gone by many names, of course. But when I look at him, I see the rider of Europe and the serpent of Asia, fighting for the soul of Russia.”

Wolfe accepted the amulet from the writer's outstretched hand. “He's also on the Russian coat of arms, below an eagle with two heads, one facing east, the other west.” She gave it back. “And under the name of St. George, he's the patron saint of state security.”

Rogozin slipped the medallion back into his pocket, the deep lines crinkling around his eyes. “Very true. Although you speak of the history of my country as if you read it in a book. Coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you,” Wolfe said, although like many a lapsed Mormon before her, she had begun to drink coffee more regularly. Rogozin motioned her into the study, closing the door behind them. An entire bookshelf near the window was reserved for Rogozin's own work, beginning with his early fictional games and rigorous translations, then evolving into the passionate criticisms of the Putin regime that had made him celebrated around the world.

As they sat down, Wolfe studied Rogozin in silence. He was in his sixties, but he had always seemed older than his years, which had only recently caught up with his famous face. It looked much in life as it did on his dust jackets, creased, cleanly shaven, with piercing hazel eyes and a hairline that had long since disappeared behind the dome of that massive head.

Stationing himself behind his cluttered desk, Rogozin took a sip of cooling coffee and glanced at his computer, which displayed a story about the recent incident of vandalism in New York. “It is always tragic when a great work of art is destroyed,” Rogozin said. “As it happens, the rider on that amulet is often linked with the Scythians, who ruled the steppes for a thousand years with their horses and arrows. Does it remind you of your friend?”

Wolfe's answer was one she had given many times before. “A lot of nonsense has been written about that. Ilya Severin isn't my friend. I haven't seen him in a long time, given his upcoming trial. But he was a useful contact.”

“He was a thief and murderer.” Rogozin closed the window on his computer screen. “A late change of heart doesn't excuse him.”

“I've never said it should. But without him, we never would have found out the truth about last year's attack. And I learned long ago to welcome any source of insight, even from those who would otherwise be my enemies.”

A smile appeared on Rogozin's face. “I imagine that this is what brings you here today. It's my pleasure, of course. It isn't often that one in my position is asked to give advice to a genuine heroine.”

“I'm surprised. Your piece in the
Times
wasn't as flattering to me, or my agency. If I recall correctly, you called me an American cowgirl.”

Rogozin gave an indulgent wave of the hand. “I'm a storyteller in search of characters, and you have something of the cowgirl in your face. And while you're far more charming in person, I've made no secret of my disapproval of this country's handling of the Karvonen affair. You dispatch the assassin behind one attack but miss the larger picture—”

“Personally, I have no regrets,” Wolfe replied. “Lasse Karvonen was an illegal agent of Russian military intelligence who had been operating undercover for years in London. He murdered five people to obtain a neurological weapon that he used to sabotage the plane of an opposition leader. Eight passengers died in the crash, and one of my own colleagues was severely injured. Karvonen killed two law enforcement officers while making his escape. He would have killed me as well. So don't ask me to apologize for what I did.”

“I'm not asking you to apologize,” Rogozin said. “Only that you consider the overall situation. In the bad old days, you see, there were two competing sides to the security services, military and civilian, and they kept each other in line. Thanks to you, the military side has been gutted. And one security service, as it happens, is far more dangerous than two.”

Wolfe knew that this was perfectly correct. Last year, after Karvonen's death, it had been discovered that his attack was an attempt by the military arm of Russian intelligence to implicate its rivals on the civilian side, as part of a secret war over global energy resources. She would never forget Karvonen's final moments, as he choked on his blood in a tunnel beneath Helsinki, but if she had believed that this would be the end of the story, she had been very wrong. “What makes you say that?”

“I have eyes. I refuse to return to my home country as long as Putin and his kind are in power, but even I can see the signs. If the Serious Organised Crime Agency were good at its job, it would have seen them as well.”

“As a matter of fact, we have. After the plot was exposed, military intelligence networks fell apart. They're cleaning house in Moscow, and overseas, illegals have been stranded without resources. Which is very interesting to us. Abandoned agents are notoriously vulnerable to switching sides, if we can find them. And I know you have your connections—”

Rogozin smiled. “If you need my help, things must be even worse than I suspected. Is it true that your agency is being shut down?”

Wolfe sensed him searching for a sore spot. “It isn't clear. The police reform bill has been in the works for a long time. As a liaison officer from the FBI, I'm likely to be reassigned. But that's why I need your insights now.”

Rogozin clasped the arms of his chair and rose. “I'll give it the consideration it deserves. Which reminds me that I have a gift for you.”

He went around the desk to the nearest shelf, where he pulled down a plain paperbound volume. “Proofs of my latest collection. Uncorrected, of course, but I make few changes these days—”

Rogozin handed her the book. Taking it, Wolfe noticed that he was missing two of the fingers on his left hand. As a reluctant recruit in the Soviet army, about to march into Prague, he had deliberately blown off his own fingers rather than fight against a country whose culture he secretly admired. She handed the book back. “Thank you, but I already have a copy. I'm very interested in your work.”

The writer slid the book back on the shelf, then led her to the closed door of his study. “I'm glad to hear it, especially from such an intelligent person as yourself. You must tell me what you think.”

“I will,” Wolfe said, keeping her eyes on Rogozin's face as he opened the door at last.

Outside, in the hallway, stood two constables. They had been there for the last several minutes, waiting in silence throughout the conversation. Rogozin turned to Wolfe. “What is this?”

Wolfe nodded to the officers, who came forward. “Vitaly Rogozin, I am placing you under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence—”

As the officers took him by the arms, Rogozin reddened, his wrinkled face deepening to the color of a bruise. “And the charge?”

“Conspiring to carry out a terror attack as an agent of Russian military intelligence,” Wolfe said. “In particular, providing criminal resources and assistance to the man known as Lasse Karvonen.”

Rogozin stared. “You must be joking. You think I was working with Karvonen?”

“Strange, isn't it?” Wolfe replied. “But as you said before, the signs were there.”

She stood aside, watching from the corner as the officers took Rogozin into custody, dressing him, with some trouble, in a white forensic suit and placing him in handcuffs. Rogozin had lapsed into a disbelieving silence, but he continued to glower at her. Wolfe looked back, her face without expression, and moved only when the officers led Rogozin downstairs.

Maya Asthana was waiting outside on the sidewalk, standing before a row of Georgian town houses, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Wolfe gave her partner a nod as Rogozin was brought to the hired car idling at the curb. When the officers opened the rear passenger door, she caught a glimpse of the backseat, which was covered in brown paper to avoid contamination of evidence.

As passersby halted to stare, Rogozin was ushered into the rear of the car. The last thing Wolfe saw, just before the door closed, was the writer's face, florid above the fabric of the forensic suit. Throughout all that had taken place, his eyes had never left hers.

A moment later, after instructing the second officer to wait upstairs, Wolfe watched as the car pulled away. Now that the arrest was finally over, she felt a wave of bitter satisfaction, with a grain of fear at the core.

At her side, Asthana had a troubled look on her lovely face. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

Wolfe only turned and headed up to Rogozin's office, where the real work was about to begin. “Yes. I hope so, too.”