“Did he tell you who it was?”
“He said it was better if I didn’t know the man’s name. Then he instructed me to deliver the next batch of documents to him without opening the parcel.”
Gabriel ceased his slow journey round the perimeter of the room. “How did he know there was going to be a next time?”
“He said the first set of documents were only the tip of the iceberg. He said there had to be more.”
“How did you react?”
“I told Viktor that Mr. Nobody was my source. Then I reminded him of the promise he made after acquiring the Gazeta.”
“What promise was that?”
“That he would never interfere in editorial matters or use the Gazeta to settle political scores with the Kremlin.”
“And you believed him?”
“Viktor asked me the exact same question.”
The next drop, she continued, took place in the second week of March, at a marina on the western shore of the Zürichsee. The third drop was in early April in the town of Winterthur; the fourth, in Zug. There was a lull in May, but June was a busy month, with drops in Basel, Thun, and Lucerne. Nina grudgingly delivered all the parcels to Viktor at Kloten Airport.
“And he always opened the packages in your presence?” asked Graham.
She nodded.
“Did he ever feel ill afterward? A sudden headache? Nausea?”
“Never.”
“What about you?”
“Not at all.”
“And the package you brought to London on Wednesday evening?” asked Graham. “Where did Mr. Nobody leave it?”
“A little village called Bargen near the German border. He said it would be his last drop. He said the material would be comprehensive and unambiguous.”
“Why didn’t Viktor collect the documents in Zurich?”
“He said he had a prior commitment.”
“What was it?”
“A woman, of course. With Viktor, it was always a woman.”
“Did he happen to mention her name?”
“Yes,” answered Nina. “Her name was Artemisia.”
Ordinarily, Viktor was tight-fisted when it came to travel expenses, but he allowed Nina to fly to London first class. She placed the documents in her carry-on bag, and the bag in the overhead bin. Her seatmate was a prosperous-looking English-speaker whose bespoke protective face mask matched his silken necktie. She engaged him in a few minutes of muffled small talk, if only to establish that he was not an officer of the FSB, the SVR, or any other division of Russian intelligence.
“Who was he?” asked Graham.
“A banker from the City. Lloyds, if I remember correctly.” She gave him a false smile. “But then, you already knew that, didn’t you, Mr. Seymour?”
She cleared passport control with no delay—which Mr. Seymour surely knew as well—and rode in a taxi to Cheyne Walk. Viktor had just removed the cork from a bottle of Château Pétrus. He didn’t offer Nina a glass.
“That’s not like Viktor,” said Graham. “I’ve always known him to be an extremely generous host.”
“He was expecting another visitor. I suppose it was Artemisia. Whoever she was, she saved my life. Viktor was in such a rush he didn’t open the package in my presence.”
“You left at six thirty-five p.m.”
“If you say so.”
“Is there some reason you walked to the hotel instead of taking a taxi?”
“I’ve always enjoyed walking in London.”
“But you had a suitcase.”
“It has wheels.”
“Did you notice anyone following you?”
“No. Did you?”
Graham ignored the question. “And when you arrived at the hotel?”
“I poured myself a vodka from the minibar. Viktor rang a few minutes later. The instant I heard his voice, I knew something was wrong.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Surely you’ve listened to the recording.”
“There isn’t one.”
She gave Graham a skeptical look before answering. “He said he had just vomited and was having trouble breathing. He was convinced he’d been poisoned.”
“Did he accuse you of trying to kill him?”
“Viktor?” She shook her head. “He asked if I was feeling sick, too. When I said that I was fine, he told me to leave Britain as quickly as possible.”
“He was afraid the Russians would try to kill you, too?”
“Or that they would try to implicate me in the plot against him,” she answered. “As you know, Mr. Seymour, the organs of Russian state security rarely murder someone without a plan to cast the blame on someone else.”
“Which is why you should have phoned the police. You implicated yourself when you fled the country.”
“Viktor told me not to call the police. He said he would do it himself. It wasn’t until my plane landed in Amsterdam that I learned he was dead. Obviously, I blame myself for what happened. If I had never collected that first parcel of documents from Mr. Nobody, Viktor would still be alive. Moscow Center has been plotting to kill him for years. And they used me to place the murder weapon in his hands.”
Graham was silent.
“Please, Mr. Seymour. You must believe me. I had nothing to do with Viktor’s death.”
“He does believe you,” said Gabriel from across the room. “But he’d like to see the emails from Mr. Nobody, including the one about the package he left in the Swiss village of Bargen. You did save them, didn’t you, Nina?”
“Of course. I only hope Moscow Center or the Spetssviaz hasn’t hacked into my account and deleted them.”
“When was the last time you checked?”
“The morning of Viktor’s murder.”
“That was three days ago.”
“I was afraid they would be able to pinpoint my location if I accessed the account.”
“You have nothing to fear here, Nina.” Gabriel looked at Graham. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Seymour?”
“I’ll withhold judgment until I see those emails.”
Nina looked around the dated room. “Is there a computer in this place?”
It was located in the converted barn, in Parish’s office. Company were strictly forbidden to lay hands upon it, as it was linked securely to Vauxhall Cross. The chief asked Parish to wait outside in the corridor with Nigel Whitcombe while the black-and-blue-haired woman checked her ProtonMail account, an indignity Parish suffered with poorly disguised outrage.
“But she’s a bloody Russian!” he said sotto voce.
“One of the good ones,” drawled Whitcombe in reply.
“I didn’t realize there were any.” From the opposite side of the door came a burst of firm, confident typing. “She’s a journalist, is she?”
“Not bad, Parish.”
When the typing ceased, a silence followed. It was a tense silence, thought Parish—like the silence that hangs ominously in a room after an accusation of infidelity or treachery. Finally, the door was flung open and the chief emerged, along with the black-and-blue-haired Russian woman and the gentleman from Israel. They all three clambered down the stairs, with Nigel Whitcombe in hot pursuit. Mr. Marlowe joined them in the courtyard. A few words were exchanged. Then Mr. Marlowe and the Israeli gentleman plunged headlong into the back of a service van, and the van raced hell-for-leather toward the gate.