Page 101 of The New Girl

Eaton Square, Belgravia

It was Konstantin Dragunov, friend and business associate of Russia’s president, who admitted Anna Yurasova into the grand house in Eaton Square. He wore an oligarch’s dark suit and a white dress shirt open to his breastbone. His sparse gray hair and beard were uniform in length. His prominent lower lip shone like the skin of a freshly polished apple. Anna recoiled at the thought of a traditional Russian kiss of greeting. Defensively, she offered her hand instead.

“Mr. Dragunov,” she said in English.

“Please call me Konstantin,” he replied in the same language. Then in Russian he said, “Don’t worry, a team from therezidenturagave the house a thorough sweep late last night. It’s clean.”

He helped Anna off with her coat. The look in his eye suggested he wanted to help her off with her dress and her undergarments as well. Konstantin Dragunov was regarded as one of the worst lechers in Russia, a noteworthy achievement given the stiff level of competition.

Anna glanced around the graceful entrance hall. Before leaving Moscow she had familiarized herself with the interior of the house by studying photographs and floor plans. They had not done it justice. It was remarkably beautiful.

She reclaimed her coat. “Perhaps you should show me around.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Dragunov led her down a hallway to a pair of double doors, each with a round window, like portholes on a ship. Beyond them lay a professional kitchen that was much larger than Anna’s flat in Moscow. It was obvious from Dragunov’s indifferent demeanor that he did not often venture into this room of his Belgravia mansion.

“I gave the rest of the staff the day off, just like the Englishwoman instructed. I doubt Abdullah will eat anything, but before the police cordon went up I took delivery of a couple trays of canapés from his favorite caterer. They’re in the refrigerator.”

There were two, actually, side by side. Both were Sub-Zeros.

“What will he drink?”

“That depends on his mood. Champagne, white wine, a whisky if he’s had a hard day. The wines are in the cooler under the counter. The distilled drinks are kept in the bar.” Dragunov pushed through the double doors like a headwaiter in a hurry. The bar was in an alcove to the right. “Abdullah prefers Johnnie Walker Black Label. I keep a bottle just for him.”

“How does he drink it?”

“Lots of ice. There’s an automatic maker under the sink.”

“What time are you expecting him?”

“Between four thirty and five. For obvious reasons he can’t stay long.”

“Where will you entertain him?”

“The drawing room.”

It was up a flight of stairs, on the first floor of the mansion. Like the rest of the house, there was nothing Russian about it. Anna imagined the scene that would take place there in a few hours’ time.

“It is essential you behave normally,” she said. “Just ask him what he wants to drink, and I’ll take care of the rest. Can you manage that, Konstantin?”

“I think so.” He took her by the arm. “There’s one other thing you should see.”

“What is it?”

“A surprise.”

He guided Anna into a small wood-paneled lift and pressed the call button for the uppermost floor. Dragunov’s enormous bedroom—the chamber of horrors—overlooked Eaton Square.

“Don’t worry, I brought you here only for the view.”

“Of what?”

He nudged her toward one of the three bay windows and pointed toward the southern side of the square. “Do you know who lives right over there at Number Fifty-Six?”

“Mick Jagger?”

“The chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. And you’re going to kill his prized asset right under his nose.”