Eternal Empire (3 page)

“I
n
retrospect, I left at just the right time,” Alan Powell said, leaning lightly on his walking stick. “The agency is on the verge of a painful restructuring. Not to mention the mess with Rogozin. I don't know if you've heard about this—”

“It's all over the papers,” Maddy said. “I recognized the name of the officer involved. She was your partner, wasn't she?”

Powell smiled. “Yes, although she went her own way a long time ago. She's brilliant, of course, but this time, I fear that she's taken on more than she can handle. Rogozin is a famous writer and dissident. To accuse him of being a spy, especially after he criticized the agency so publicly, invites all kinds of unfortunate interpretations. Which is exactly why I left.”

They were walking through Green Park, where she had arrived that morning to find Powell standing next to a spindly young man who introduced himself in an American accent as Adam Hill, an associate at the Cheshire Group. As they headed down the footpath, Maddy noticed that Adam kept one eye on the faces around them, as if to make sure that they weren't being watched.

Powell looked out at the gray ranks of lime trees. “You see, my role at Cheshire allows me to pursue the same sort of work I did when we first met, but more discreetly. It's a small group, just Adam and myself, with a very specific focus. How much do you know about the firm?”

“Just what I've been able to find online,” Maddy said. “It's an activist investment and private equity fund. And it's had some trouble in Russia. But you still have stakes in other countries.”

Adam nodded. “These days, we're making a serious push into India and other emerging markets. But Russia remains an important region. It's hard for us to invest there directly, given our problems with the current regime, so we've begun to move into advisory work. For a fee, of course.”

“And my personal mandate is to investigate illegal activity,” Powell said. “Anyone who does business in Russia needs to be concerned about corruption. Our role is to play devil's advocate. And one particular transaction has been taking up most of our time. Have you heard of Vasily Tarkovsky?”

Maddy felt a faint chill, one that was only partially due to the dampness of the day. “He's an oligarch.”

Powell seemed to sense her apprehension. “Yes. And I know that you have reason to be wary of such men. But please hear us out. Adam?”

Adam easily took up the thread. “Russia is the world's largest oil producer, and Tarkovsky is the owner of Polyneft, one of the last major oil and gas concerns still in private hands. It holds a valuable portfolio of assets and drilling concessions, including a license to explore offshore in the Black Sea.”

“The Tuapse Block,” Powell said. “It's worth billions, but because of its considerable depth, it requires advanced technology to exploit, so Tarkovsky needs a Western partner. This will also allow him to avoid working with the Russian state, which would love to funnel the profits into its own pockets. He has been negotiating with several companies, including Argo Petroleum in London. Two American firms are also in contention. And we've been hired to advise the British side.”

Maddy saw where this was going. “But you have concerns about the deal.”

Powell headed for a bench at the edge of the path, his cane leaving soft pocks on the ground. “We have our reservations. Mind you, all these oligarchs have dirty hands. But I fear that Tarkovsky's involvement goes beyond what he has done in the past. He claims to be in favor of corporate transparency, but there are aspects to his financial dealings that make us wonder—”

He paused. Maddy sensed the reticence there, but she also knew what he was trying to say. “If he's connected to organized crime.”

“That's one way of putting it,” Adam said. “But to find out, we need information outside the public record. And no matter which offer Tarkovsky accepts, the deal is expected to close in less than two weeks.”

Maddy saw that Powell was gazing off at the trees. “So what do you want me to do?”

Powell spoke quietly. He still would not meet her eyes. “We want you to go work for him.”

Without a word, Maddy rose and walked away. Behind her, she heard a set of steps. From the sound, she could tell that they were not Powell's, and against her better judgment, she halted. “I can't believe this.”

“I understand,” Adam said from over her shoulder. “I know how hard this must be.”

Maddy turned to face him. He was standing a few feet away, little more than an overgrown boy, with a lot of brains but not much wisdom. “What exactly do you think you know about me?”

“As much as anyone else,” Adam said. “You're a gifted art analyst, but you've had a run of bad luck. You worked for a fund manager who conspired with Alexey Lermontov, your former employer, to funnel profits from stolen art to Russian intelligence. Lermontov murdered a colleague of yours who got too close to the truth, then silenced the oligarch Anzor Archvadze before he could expose the plot, using the same poison that led to your breakdown in Philadelphia. And you've been dealing with the consequences ever since.”

Adam related this calmly, as if telling a story that had nothing to do with either of them. He struck her as a familiar type, Ivy League, just out of college, who thought little of sacrificing the best years of his life on the altar of finance. “So what did you think I would say?”

“I told Powell that you would probably refuse,” Adam said. “But I thought we should try anyway. You may not believe this, but I've wanted to meet you for a long time. If I'd been in your place, I couldn't have made it this far. I also hoped that you'd hear us out. Please don't prove me wrong.”

Maddy glanced over at Powell, who was still waiting, apparently unperturbed. At last, she went back. “You have five minutes. What's the deal?”

“It's very simple,” Powell said calmly, speaking as if nothing had happened. “In addition to his energy interests, Tarkovsky controls a foundation with offices in London. Its mission is to promote civil society in Russia and cultural exchange with the West, but in practice, we just don't know where the money goes.”

Although part of her still wanted to pull away, Maddy sat down again. “So what?”

“In recent years, Tarkovsky has also taken an interest in the repatriation of Russian art from overseas,” Adam said, seating himself beside her. “We've recently learned that he's looking to hire a consultant, preferably an American, to advise on one particular transaction.”

“And your background makes you an attractive candidate,” Powell said. “Tarkovsky is familiar with your case. If nothing else, he'll want to meet you. As I see it, it's the one job in the world—”

“—where my story actually helps,” Maddy finished. Turning aside, she laughed, finally understanding why Powell had wanted to see her so badly. “So how is this supposed to work?”

“Nobody at Cheshire will know,” Adam said. “We can arrange for the interview, but the rest is up to you. Once you're there, we won't ask for much. We're looking for documentation of cash flows, names of subsidiaries, a sense of how the funds are deployed. A foundation is an ideal vehicle for concealing illegal activity, but there are always records.”

“And what if Tarkovsky finds out?” Maddy asked. “I like my head and hands. I don't want to end up without them.”

Neither man responded. At last, Powell spoke in a low voice. “Adam, I think we're almost done. I'll see you at the office.”

Adam gave a surprised nod. Rising from the bench, he smiled awkwardly and headed alone down the path. Powell watched him go. “Adam's a bright one. He's young, with a sense of history, and he knows what is really at stake. Because this is about more than money.”

Maddy studied Adam's retreating back. “I don't see how it's about anything else.”

“I can understand why you'd say that. And you wouldn't be the first.” Powell glanced down at his hands, on which the scars of old burns were visible. “I've spent my life trying to protect a few basic values. If this deal goes through, Tarkovsky will become one of the largest shareholders in Argo. And I don't want to see a British company in the hands of a possible criminal.”

Maddy found herself resisting his tone, with its assumption of their shared concerns. “And why should this matter to me?”

“Tarkovsky has friends in the art world. Once you've obtained the materials we need, you're free to do as you like. If you want to get back in the game, this is the best chance you'll ever have.”

Maddy felt a drop of water. As it began to rain, they rose and headed toward the edge of the park. Opening an umbrella, Maddy glanced down at her companion's ruined legs. She knew the story. Powell had been on the plane that Lasse Karvonen had brought down. He had survived, but he had spent months in the hospital, and as she considered this now, she wondered how else it had changed him.

As if reading her thoughts, Powell said, “I hear they've managed to restore the installation in Philadelphia. Of course, it isn't so easy to restore a man's body. Or a reputation. I did you a favor before. Let me do it again. The firm is more than willing to compensate you for your time—”

Maddy walked at his side in silence, slowing her pace to match his steps. She knew that Powell had deliberately chosen to approach her when she was at her most vulnerable, but he was also right. There was nothing left for her in this city, and she was running out of second chances. When they reached the end of the path, she spoke at last. “What does Tarkovsky want to repatriate?”

“It's a Fabergé egg. I'll send you the details. I think you'll find it interesting.” Powell paused at the gate, where he turned to face her. “I'll leave you here. Give me a call when you're ready.”

With a nod, he headed away. Maddy stood there in the rain, watching as Powell continued down the street. She gradually became aware that her hand had crept into her coat pocket, closing around the object inside, which she had brought from home on an impulse that she didn't fully understand.

A moment later, Powell rounded the corner and was gone. Once she was alone, Maddy withdrew her hand, glancing down at the small conical shape she was holding. It was a chess pawn.

Maddy found herself thinking of Alexey Lermontov, who had fled to London after his intelligence role had been exposed, only to be killed six months later. As she thought back to that day, her memories turned, inevitably, to another man, one she hadn't seen or heard from in years. And as she tightened her fingers around the pawn and slid it into her pocket again, she reflected that there were secrets about her past that even Powell would never know.

O
wen Dancy, who resembled an oversized baby in a Savile Row suit, lowered his bulk into a plastic chair. Folding his hands on the table, he leaned toward the man he had come to see. “Tell me about Rachel Wolfe.”

The prisoner did not reply at once. Studying the plump knot of Dancy's club tie, he found himself wondering why his solicitor was asking this now. “I'm not sure I know what you mean.”

Dancy smiled. “In my role as your advocate, it's essential that I understand the nature of your relationship with Wolfe. So far, you've been reluctant to speak of this, however useful you've been in other respects. But recent events have made it imperative that we discuss this now.”

Ilya Severin, who had been known long ago as the Scythian, said nothing. They were seated in the interview room at Belmarsh Prison, eight feet square, with windows on all four walls.

As he looked out at the guards, Ilya felt his gaze shift slightly to take in his own reflection. He was dressed in a striped blue shirt that hung loosely on his lean frame. As a remand prisoner, he was entitled to keep his own clothes, but it had seemed easier to go with the standard prison issue. In this regard, as in most other things, his instinct had been to blend in. “What recent events are these?”

Dancy pressed his fingers together. “Your friend is in a bit of a bind. I imagine you know Vitaly Rogozin. A dissident who saw himself as the new Solzhenitsyn, although he lacked the requisite beard. Wolfe believes that he was an agent of military intelligence, and that he was involved with the attack last year that so clumsily tried to implicate the civilian side of the intelligence services.”

Ilya took in this information. “So he would have been Karvonen's handler. Was he?”

“I'm curious about this as well. Unfortunately, even my sources have their limits. On the face of things, however, it does seem unlikely.”

“Unlikely,” Ilya repeated. “But not, at least to your knowledge, incorrect.”

Dancy only lifted his hands. “I've told you all I know. The media, not surprisingly, is calling it a politically motivated arrest, which complicates our position. For the upcoming trial, I had intended to use your cooperation with Wolfe as a mitigating factor while minimizing your interest in the intelligence services, which the Crown will use to establish motive. This is why we've made no effort to introduce Lermontov's background into evidence.”

Ilya knew that there were other reasons why Dancy's clients had chosen to pass over certain aspects of the career of Alexey Lermontov, the art dealer and paymaster he was accused of killing, but he kept this thought to himself. “And Wolfe's situation has changed things?”

“It presents a delicate problem. We had hoped that your work with Wolfe would be useful, but now it might even be a liability. To evaluate the situation, I need your opinion of her. And I need to know it now.”

Ilya waited another moment before responding, aware that all their interactions were built on an unspoken understanding. The year before, Dancy had offered to serve as his advocate, despite the fact that the solicitor's other, unseen clients had good reason to want Ilya dead. Ilya had accepted, perceiving that his enemies were willing to set old grievances aside for the sake of their present advantage. They evidently assumed that the same held true for Ilya himself. Which meant that they would continue to work together only as long as they found each other useful.

With this in mind, Ilya began to speak. “Wolfe is bright, but she lacks imagination. Like most of her kind, she thinks in personalities, not systems. She looks to punish the men who carried out the attack. But she lacks the political will to trace it back to its source. That said, she's not unintelligent. If she arrested Rogozin, she must have had a good reason. But we haven't spoken in a long time.”

“So I've gathered,” Dancy said. “Is it because she no longer found you useful?”

“No,” Ilya replied. “It's because I knew she had nothing left to tell me. Is Rogozin an intelligence agent?”

Dancy pretended not to hear him. “Thank you,” the solicitor said, rising ponderously from his chair. “I will take this information into account as I continue to prepare your defense.”

Gathering up his briefcase, he left the table. As the solicitor headed for the door, Ilya spoke again. “If the credibility of Wolfe's agency is being questioned, it seems to me that this presents a useful opening for cases on appeal.”

Dancy appeared to sense his unspoken point. “Yes. As it happens, Vasylenko's leave to appeal has been granted. We've argued that his sentence was excessive, given his age and lack of proven connection to violent crime in this country. And as you've said, recent events can only work in our favor.”

“A good thing you held off for so long,” Ilya said. “Vasylenko has been in prison for almost two years. Why wait until now?”

With a smile, Dancy knocked on the door with his heavy fist. “I suppose that the timing seemed right.”

A second later, the door was unlocked. Ilya watched as Dancy conferred briefly with one of the guards before disappearing down the hallway. Once he was gone, the guard motioned to Ilya. “Come on, then.”

Ilya rose and followed the guard out to the landing. Around him, the prison was quiet, with most of the spur on lockdown.

As Ilya went back to his cell, he reflected that not all of what he had said about Wolfe was true. She had her limitations, but she was not unaware of the larger picture. In the end, however, he had simply said what Dancy wanted to hear, and the solicitor, accidentally or not, had let something slip in response.

Over the last six months, he had felt as if the two of them were engaging in some undefined test, or a delicate, ongoing negotiation. Although its ultimate purpose remained unknown, it was clear that Dancy was acting on behalf of some other party. And it was not Grigory Vasylenko.

As he approached his cell, Ilya pictured the lined face of his former mentor, the aging
vor
who had once commanded the loyalty of the brotherhood of thieves. More than anyone else, Vasylenko had been responsible for transforming him into what he was today, using his anger over the death of his parents to turn him into a thief and killer devoted to undermining the state.

In the end, however, he had learned that Vasylenko had been working for civilian intelligence all along, and that he had taken away Ilya's family to make him a more perfect instrument. After learning of his betrayal, Ilya had devoted himself to tearing down these networks, starting with Lermontov, the civilian side's leading paymaster, and watching with satisfaction as their military rivals were brought down as well, even if his role in exposing the plot had cast him into prison again.

Vasylenko alone still survived. In recent months, while slowly earning Dancy's trust, Ilya had concluded that Vasylenko had grown weak. Even at the best of times, his influence was far less valuable inside than out, and in the absence of a drastic change of situation, the old man would die in prison. The upcoming appeal, in particular, had almost no chance of success.

Yet there were ways in which a
vor
might still be useful, as long as the will was there.

A moment later, they reached his cell, where Ilya waited on the landing as the guard unlocked the door. Ilya went in, and he was about to return to his usual studies when he realized that the door had not closed.

Ilya turned. As he watched, the guard tossed a pair of plastic bags to the floor. “Hurry up, then.”

He saw that each of the bags had been stamped with the prison seal. “What's this?”

“You mean the fat man didn't say?” The guard smirked. “You've been transferred. Effective immediately. Get your things.”

After a beat, Ilya scooped up the bags. As he gathered up his possessions, he remained outwardly calm, but his mind was racing. On his desk lay an open book, which he slid into the bag, his finger brushing its spine, before quickly packing his clothes and toiletries. “Where are we going?”

The guard motioned for him to come out. “Reception area. You need to be searched before we send you to Block Four.”

Ilya's face did not move, but as he carried his belongings out of the cell, he knew what the guard's words meant. The decision that he had been awaiting had already been made. He was being sent to Vasylenko.