Page 25 of The Cellist

“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.”