“What in God’s name was she doing in Viktor’s house?”
“An art transaction,” explained Seymour.
“Are we sure that’s all?”
“Prime Minister?”
“She’s not working for Allon again, is she?”
Seymour assured Lancaster she was not.
“Where is she now?”
“St. Thomas’ Hospital.”
“Was she exposed?”
“We’ll know soon enough. In the meantime, it is imperative we keep her name out of the press.”
Because it was a domestic incident, Seymour’s rivals at MI5 assumed primary responsibility for the investigation. They focused their inquiry on the first of Orlov’s two female callers. With the help of London’s CCTV cameras, the Metropolitan Police had already determined that she presented herself at Orlov’s home by taxi at 6:19 p.m. Additional review of CCTV video established that she had boarded the same taxi forty minutes earlier at Heathrow’s Terminal 5, having arrived on a British Airways flight from Zurich. Border Force identified her as Nina Antonova, forty-two years old, a citizen of the Russian Federation residing in Switzerland.
Because the United Kingdom no longer required arriving passengers to fill out paper landing cards, her occupation was not readily apparent. A simple Internet search, however, revealed that a Nina Antonova worked as an investigative reporter for Moskovskaya Gazeta, the anti-Kremlin weekly owned by none other than Viktor Orlov. She had fled Russia in 2014 after surviving an attempt on her life. From her outpost in Zurich, she had exposed numerous examples of corruption involving members of the Russian president’s inner circle. A self-described dissident, she appeared regularly on Swiss television as a commentator on Russian affairs.
It was not the curriculum vitae of a typical Moscow Center assassin. Still, given the Kremlin’s track record, it was hardly out of the question. Certainly, an interview with police was warranted, the sooner the better. According to the CCTV cameras, she left Orlov’s residence at 6:35 p.m. and made her way on foot to the Cadogan Hotel in Sloane Street. Yes, confirmed the desk clerk, a Nina Antonova had checked in earlier that evening. No, she was not presently in her room. She left the hotel at seven fifteen, apparently for a dinner engagement, and had not yet returned.
Hotel security cameras had recorded her departure. Her expression grave, she had ducked into the back of a taxi, which had been summoned by a raincoated valet. The car delivered her not to a restaurant but to Heathrow Airport, where at 9:45 p.m. she boarded a British Airways flight to Amsterdam. A call to her mobile phone—the Met obtained a number from the hotel registration form—went unanswered. At which point, Nina Antonova became the primary suspect in the murder of the Russian-born financier and newspaper publisher Viktor Orlov.
In one final humiliation, it was Samantha Cooke of the rival Telegraph who broke the story of Orlov’s assassination, though her account contained few specifics. Prime Minister Lancaster, during an appearance before reporters outside Number Ten the following morning, confirmed that the billionaire had been killed with an as yet unidentified chemical toxin, almost certainly of Russian manufacture. He made no mention of the documents discovered on Orlov’s desk, or of the two women who had called on him the night of his murder. One appeared to have vanished without a trace. The other was resting comfortably in St. Thomas’ Hospital. For that, if nothing else, the prime minister was profoundly grateful.
She was soaked to the skin when she arrived, and shivering with cold. The critical care staff were not told her name or occupation, only her nationality and her approximate age. They removed her sodden clothing, placed it in a crimson biohazard bag, and gave her a gown and mask to wear. Her pupils were responsive, her nasal passages were clear. Her heart rate and respiration were both elevated. Was she nauseated? She wasn’t. Headache? A touch, she admitted, but it was probably the martini she’d drunk earlier that evening. She didn’t say where.
Her condition suggested she had survived exposure to the nerve agent unharmed. Nevertheless, in order to safeguard against the possibility of a delayed onset of symptoms, she was prescribed atropine and pralidoxime chloride, both of which were administered intravenously. The atropine dried her mouth and blurred her vision, but otherwise she had no serious side effects.
After four additional hours of observation, she was wheeled to a room on an upper floor with a view of the Thames. It was nearly four a.m. before she drifted off to sleep. Her thrashing gave the night nurses a scare—muscle twitches were a symptom of nerve agent poisoning—but it was only a nightmare, the poor lamb. Two uniformed Metropolitan Police officers kept watch outside her door, along with a man in a dark suit and a radio earpiece. Later, hospital administration would deny a contagion-like staff rumor that the officer was from the branch of the Met responsible for protecting the royal family and the prime minister.
It was nearly ten a.m. when the woman awoke. After taking a light breakfast of coffee and toast, she was subjected to yet another examination. Pupils responsive, nasal passages clear. Heart rate, respiration, and blood pressure all normal. It appeared, said the doctor, she was out of the proverbial woods.
“Does that mean I can leave?”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
“Late afternoon at the earliest.”
She was clearly disappointed, but she accepted her fate without so much as a word of protest. The nurses did their best to make her comfortable, though all attempts to engage her in conversation beyond the topic of her condition were deftly rebuffed. Oh, she was polite to a fault, but guarded and distant. She spent much of the day watching the television news coverage of the Russian billionaire’s assassination. Apparently, she was involved somehow, but it seemed that Downing Street was determined to keep her role a secret. The staff had been warned not to breathe a word about her to the press.
Shortly after five p.m. she received a call on her room phone. It was Number Ten on the line—the prime minister himself, according to one of the operators, who swore she heard his voice. A few minutes after the conversation ended, a boyish-looking man with the demeanor of a country parson appeared with a change of clothing and a bag of toiletries. He wrote something illegible in the visitors’ logbook and waited with the police officers in the corridor while the woman showered and dressed. After a final examination, which she passed with flying colors, the doctors consented to her release. The boyish-looking man promptly took possession of the form and instructed the senior nurse to delete the woman’s file from the computer system. A moment later, both file and woman were gone.
4
St. Thomas’ Hospital, Lambeth
A silver Bentley Continental waited outside the hospital’s main entrance, the driver leaning indifferently against the hood. He wore a Burberry Camden car coat atop a single-breasted suit by Richard Anderson of Savile Row. His hair was sun-bleached, his eyes were bright blue. Sarah lowered her mask and kissed his mouth, which seemed permanently fixed in an ironic smile.
“Do you really think this is wise?” asked Christopher.
“Very.” She dragged the tip of her forefinger across the notch in his sturdy chin. His skin was taut and dark. The years he had spent living in the mountains of Corsica had left him with the complexion of a Mediterranean. “You look good enough to eat.”