Page 15 of The Cellist

“Actually, the British are under the impression she works for the SVR. They think she’s back at Moscow Center waiting for the Tsar to hang a medal round her neck.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I’m more interested in your opinion.”

“Nina Antonova is no one’s spy. She’s an excellent reporter and a superb writer. I should know. Boris told me to take her under my wing.”

“She looked up to you?”

“She worshipped me.”

Olga reminded Gabriel that in the months following Boris Ostrovsky’s assassination, she had served as theGazeta’s editor in chief, a title she relinquished after fleeing Russia and settlingin Britain. The Kremlin engineered the sale of theGazetato an associate of the Russian president, and the once authoritative political weekly became a scandal sheet filled with stories about Russian pop stars, men from outer space, and werewolves inhabiting the forests outside Moscow. Nina was summarily fired by the new owner, along with several other members of the staff, but she returned to theGazetaafter it was acquired by Viktor Orlov. Her first story exposed a large construction project on the shore of the Black Sea, a billion-dollar presidential retreat financed with funds illegally diverted from Russia’s Federal Treasury.

“The minute that story appeared, Nina’s life was in danger. It was only a matter of time before the Tsar ordered the FSB to kill her.”

“Eighteen shots at close range outside the Ritz-Carlton on Tverskaya Street,” said Gabriel. “And yet she walked away without so much as a scratch.”

“You’re wondering whether the attack was staged?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“What about the three innocent bystanders who were killed?”

“Since when does Russian intelligence worry about innocent bystanders?” Receiving no answer, Gabriel asked, “Were you in contact with Nina after you came to Britain?”

“Yes.”

“And when she settled in Zurich?”

Olga nodded.

“Did you ever meet with her?”

“Only once. It was during Viktor’s seventieth birthday party at his estate in Somerset. All the beautiful people were there. Fifteen hundred of Viktor’s closest friends. I suspect half ofthem were Russian intelligence officers. It was a miracle he survived the night.”

“How often did you see him?”

“Not often. It was too dangerous. We communicated mainly by encrypted text messages and emails. Occasionally, we spoke on the telephone.”

“When was the last time?”

“I believe it was late April or perhaps early May. Viktor had come into possession of some interesting documents concerning a Swiss-based company known as Omega Holdings. Omega owns companies and other assets valued at several billion dollars, all carefully hidden beneath layer upon layer of shell corporations, many of them registered in countries such as Liechtenstein, Dubai, Panama, and the Cayman Islands. Viktor was convinced that Omega was being used by a prominent Russian for the purposes of laundering looted state assets and concealing them in the West.”

“And Viktor would know a thing or two about looting state assets.”

Olga gave a fleeting smile. “He was far from perfect, our Viktor. But he was committed to a free and democratic Russia, a decent Russia that was aligned with the West rather than at war with it.”

“Did he know the identity of the prominent Russian?”

“He said he didn’t.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Not quite.”

“Who could it be?”

“I could recite the names of a hundred possible candidates off the top of my head. They would run the gamut from seniorgovernment officials to Kremlin-connected businessmen and mobsters.”