Gabriel left the Vauxhall in a car park near the twelfth-century cathedral and led Sarah on an hour-long walking tour of the city’s ancient center. After performing a series of time-tested countersurveillance maneuvers, they made their way to Bishopsgate. A terrace of redbrick cottages overlooked the deserted sporting grounds of the Norwich Middle School. Gabriel thumbed the bell push of Number 34 and then turned his back to the camera mounted above the door.
A female voice addressed him in English over the intercom. The accent was vaguely Russian, the tone unwelcoming. “Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
“I’m not selling anything, Professor Crenshaw.”
“Who are you?”
“An old friend.”
“I don’t have any friends. They’re all dead.”
“Not all of them.”
“How are we acquainted, please?”
“We met in Moscow a long time ago. You took me to Novodevichy Cemetery. You said that to understand modern Russia, you had to know her past. And that to know her past, you had to walk among her bones.”
A long moment passed. “Turn around so I can have a look at you.”
Gabriel rotated slowly and lifted his eyes to the lens of the security camera. A buzzer groaned, the deadbolt thumped. He placed his hand on the latch. Sarah followed him inside.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“Not for a minute.”
“How long has it been?”
“A hundred years.”
“Is that all?”
They were seated at a wrought-iron table outside in the unkempt garden. Olga Sukhova was clutching an earthenware mug of tea to her breasts. Her hair, once long and flaxen, was short and dark and flecked with gray, and there were lines around her blue eyes. A plastic surgeon had softened her features. Even so, her face was still remarkably beautiful. Heroic, vulnerable, virtuous: the face of a Russian icon come to life. The face of Russia itself.
Gabriel had glimpsed it for the first time at a diplomatic reception at the Israeli Embassy in Moscow. He had been posing as Natan Golani, a midlevel functionary from the Ministry of Culture who specialized in building artistic bridges between Israel and the rest of the world. Olga was a prominent Russian investigative reporter who had recently come into possession of a most dangerous secret—a secret she shared with Gabriel over dinner the following evening at a Georgian restaurant near the Arbat. Afterward, in the darkened stairwell of her Moscow apartment building, they were targeted for assassination. The Russians mounted a second attempt on their lives a few months later in Oxford, where Olga was working as a Russian-language tutor named Marina Chesnikova. She was now known as Dr. Sonia Crenshaw, a Ukrainian-born professor of contemporary Russian studies at East Anglia University.
“What happened to Mr. Crenshaw?” asked Gabriel. “Did he run off with another woman?”
“Deceased, I’m afraid.”
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
“Yes,” Olga agreed. “I settled here in Norwich a few months after the funeral. It isn’t Oxford, mind you, but East Anglia is one of the better plateglass universities. Ishiguro studied creative writing here.”
“The Remains of the Day is one of my favorite novels.”
“I’ve read it ten times at least. Poor Stevens. Such a tragic figure.”
Gabriel wondered whether Olga, perhaps unconsciously, was referring to herself. She had paid a terrible price for her journalistic opposition to the kleptomaniacal cabal of former KGB officers who had seized control of Russia. Like thousands of other dissidents before her, she had chosen exile. Hers was harsher than most. She had no lover because a lover could not be trusted. She had no children because children could be targeted by her enemies. She was alone in the world.
She eyed Gabriel over the rim of her mug. “I read about your recent promotion in the newspapers. You’ve become quite the celebrity.”
“Fame has its drawbacks.”
“Especially for a spy.” Her gaze shifted to Sarah. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Bancroft?”
Sarah smiled but said nothing.
“Are you still working for the CIA?” asked Olga. “Or have you found honest work?”
“I’m managing an art gallery in St. James’s.”
“I suppose that answers my question.” Olga turned to Gabriel. “And your wife? She’s well, I hope.”
“Never better.”
“Children?”
“Two.”
Her expression brightened. “How old?”
“They’ll soon be five.”
“Twins no less! How lucky you are, Gabriel Allon.”
“Luck had very little to do with it. Chiara and I would never have made it out of Russia alive were it not for Viktor.”
“And now Viktor is dead.” She lowered her voice. “Which is why you came to see me again after all these years.”
Gabriel made no reply.
“The Metropolitan Police have been rather circumspect about the details of Viktor’s murder.”
“With good reason.”
“Have they identified the toxin?”
“Novichok. It was concealed in a parcel of documents.”
“And who gave these documents to Viktor?”
“A reporter from the Gazeta.”
“Was it Nina, by any chance?”
“How did you know?”
Olga smiled sadly. “Perhaps we should start from the beginning, Mr. Golani.”
“Yes, Professor Crenshaw. Perhaps we should.”
9
Bishopsgate, Norwich
On April 25, 2005, Russia’s president declared the collapse of the Soviet Union to be “the greatest geopolitical catastrophe” of the twentieth century. Olga worked late into the evening on the Gazeta’s editorial response, which accurately predicted the onset of a new cold war and the end of Russian democracy. Afterward, she and a few colleagues gathered at Bar NKVD, a neighborhood watering hole located around the corner from the Gazeta’s offices in the Sokol district of Moscow. As was often the case, they were watched over by a pair of leather-jacketed thugs from the FSB, who made little effort to conceal their presence.
The mood that night was funereal. One of Olga’s colleagues, a man named Aleksandr Lubin, became roaring drunk and unwisely picked a fight with the FSB officers. He was saved from a beating only by the intervention of a young freelance journalist who occasionally frequented Bar NKVD. The Gazeta’s editor in chief was so impressed by her bravery he offered her a job as a staff reporter.
“Perhaps you remember him,” said Olga. “His name was Boris Ostrovsky.”
Like many Russian journalists, Ostrovsky’s career had ended violently. Injected with a Russian poison while crossing St. Peter’s Square, he had collapsed in the basilica a few minutes later, at the foot of the Monument to Pope Pius XII. Gabriel’s face was the last he ever saw.
“And you’re sure it was Aleksandr who picked the fight with the FSB officers and not the other way around?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because if I wanted to penetrate a meddlesome news organization, I might have done it exactly the same way.”