Page 26 of The Cellist

“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. Youdidsave 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 ofthe 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.

Parish returned to his office. The computer was aglow. On the screen was an open email. According to the time code, it had arrived in the woman’s in-box earlier that evening, as she was sitting down to Miss Coventry’s dinner. Parish quickly closed it, but not before his eyes passed involuntarily over the text. It was addressed to a Ms. Antonova and was three sentences in length. The language was English, the punctuation proper and businesslike. There were no needless exclamation points or ellipses in the place of a full stop. The subject matter was surprisingly mundane given the reaction it provoked, something about a package that had been left in the Old City of Bern. Indeed, the only thing Parish found remotely interesting was the name of the person who had sent it.

Mr. Nobody...

14

Bern

The drop site was located a few paces from the edge of a leafy footpath stretching along the bank of the river Aare. The possibility of Russian involvement required Gabriel to assume the worst, that the contents of the parcel, whatever they might be, were contaminated with the same nerve agent that had killed Viktor Orlov. If that were the case, it had to be removed immediately by a CBRN team, lest an innocent passerby or a curious child open it by mistake. Which left Gabriel no choice but to bring the Swiss into the picture.

Protocol and good manners dictated that he contact his counterpart at the NDB, Switzerland’s internal security and foreign intelligence service. Instead, he telephoned Christoph Bittel, who ran the domestic side. They had once crossed swords overan interrogation table. Now they were something like allies. Bittel nevertheless answered his phone warily. A call from Gabriel rarely brought good news, especially when it arrived after midnight.

“What is it now?”

“I need you to pick up a package for me.”

“Is there any chance it can wait until morning?”

“None.”

“Where is it?”

Gabriel explained.