Eternal Empire (24 page)

“I
know this is hard, but you need to think carefully,” Wolfe said. “Did Maya ever say anything to indicate where she might have gone?”

Devon's voice was flat and unemotional. “No. We hadn't spoken about anything but the wedding for weeks. Not even about that other business.” His expression hardened. “You really think she killed Rogozin?”

“I don't know. But it's possible. She was the only one who could have given him the poison, knowingly or not, and—” Wolfe hesitated. “And the more I look at it, the less it seems like an accident.”

They were seated in the kitchen of Asthana's house in Knightsbridge, the afternoon light streaming through the small panes. It was the first time that Devon had agreed to see Wolfe since the wedding. Even now, the situation still seemed unreal, although she felt it with every breath she took. She had cracked two ribs when Asthana slammed her into the wall, and it served as a reminder, as if she needed one, that she had no idea at all who her partner really was.

“We've been looking at the records of Rogozin's speaking engagements,” Wolfe continued. “He would have been to Cambridge at least twice when you were there. Did Maya ever mention seeing him?”

Devon glanced away. “I don't remember. It was a long time ago. But it wouldn't surprise me. She was reading Russian history. But I never heard his name until after his arrest.” When he turned to her again, she was startled by the despair in his eyes. “What is it, exactly, that you want from me?”

“I want the same thing you do,” Wolfe said. “I want to find her and bring her home.”

Devon struck the table with his fist. “That's not what I meant. You can't ask me to accept that this is the woman I knew. Because it means that everything I believed was a lie.”

“I know,” Wolfe said, sensing how inadequate these words really were. “I understand how it must feel.”

“I don't think you do. Maya was my fiancée. No, I'm sorry. She's my
wife
.” Devon laughed bitterly. “You were so clever to see through her mask. But I wish you had done it a few minutes earlier.”

Wolfe had no good answer to this. She touched his hand. “You may not believe it, but I loved Maya, too. And I hope there's some other explanation. But I won't know for sure until I can ask her myself. Will you help me?”

Devon pulled his hand away. A second later, he gave a short nod and rose from the table. Wolfe followed him upstairs, where he paused at a door on the landing. At last, with a sudden gesture, he opened it and went inside.

Wolfe had been here many times before, and as she looked around now, she recognized the familiar tokens of her friend, with their curious mix of the intellectual and frivolous. A stack of political journals in Russian sat on the desk, next to a set of bridal magazines. “Do you want to stay?”

“No,” Devon said. “I'll be downstairs. I ought to give Maya's mother a call.”

He left, closing the door behind him. Once she was alone, Wolfe put down her bag and went to the desk, where she switched on the computer. As she waited for it to boot up, she let her eyes wander across the pictures on the wall. There was a series of photos of Asthana and Devon on holiday at the seashore, a portrait from their engagement shoot, and, set unobtrusively among the rest, the image of a man riding a white horse against the sky.

As Wolfe looked at the figure of Kalki, she felt her anger rise again, remembering the painting in Rogozin's house. The symbol of the horse and rider, he had said, appeared in every culture, pointing in all its guises to the wait, endlessly prolonged, for a savior who would lead the world into the coming era. And as she regarded the picture now, Wolfe wondered if he had given Asthana the same speech.

When she studied the room around her, through her new eyes, its proofs of an ordinary life seemed like an elaborate set, or an illusion. If they were right about the timing, and Asthana had been recruited at university, it meant that she had maintained this front for at least ten years. She had gathered the necessary pieces, rising through the ranks, making friends and allies, furnishing the lie. And it had all been in plain sight the entire time.

Wolfe began rummaging through the desk drawers. At the agency, the situation was a closely held secret. As far as the public record was concerned, Asthana was just another missing person, although certain details had been quietly shared with Interpol. Cornwall was working with the Home Office to map out their strategy, but the betrayal had clearly shattered the deputy director as well.

The first few drawers contained nothing of interest. Wolfe smiled at the sight of a visitor's pass from last year's London Chess Classic, then felt an arrow of regret as she put it down again. When she tried the remaining drawer, she found that it was locked. Frowning, she was about to look around for the key, then noticed that the computer had finished booting up.

She began by checking the email account, only to be told that she needed a password. The browser history had been cleared. Examining the list of recently opened files, she found nothing but drafts of the wedding program, layouts for the table cards, a copy of the catering contract, and a spreadsheet of the seating arrangements, including a line with her own name.

As Wolfe continued to go through the files, she reflected that Asthana had always been among the agency's most methodical officers, and there was no reason to believe that she would be anything else here. Their only hope, she thought, was that her partner had left a trace of her true self behind without knowing it, in private, where all other disguises fell away.

Wolfe closed the last of the files and thought for a moment. Then she went to the web browser again. Clicking on the address bar, she entered a command to check the contents of the disk and memory caches, a directory of online files and objects saved on the hard drive, including web addresses and images.

To her relief, she saw that the files were still there. She began to scroll down the list, eagerly at first, then with mounting discouragement, as she saw that the links seemed to lead to nothing but wedding sites. After she had gone through several pages without success, she was about to resign herself to the fact that this was another dead end when one of the entries caught her eye.

It was a search engine request, dated from just over a week before, for
Maddy Blume
.

Wolfe's mouth fell open. An instant later, she was fumbling in her bag for her phone, remembering what she had told Asthana after the hearing. They had gone to a pub, and after drinking too much, she had let Maddy's name slip. At the time, it had seemed harmless, but now—

Feeling a new wave of dread, Wolfe dialed Powell, who answered at once. “Rachel?”

“I need to talk to Maddy,” Wolfe said, eyes still fixed on the link. Scrolling down, she saw that it was only the most recent of several searches, all from the day of the hearing. “Is she still on Tarkovsky's yacht?”

“As far as I know. They're almost at Sochi by now.” A note of concern appeared in Powell's voice. “Is something wrong?”

Wolfe checked her watch. It was close to two, and if the yacht was anywhere near its destination, they would be three hours ahead. “Give me her number. I'll explain later. But I have to call her right now.”

“All right, hold on.” After a short pause, Powell read off the number. “Got it?”

“Yes, thanks.” Wolfe jotted it down and hung up. When she dialed Maddy's phone, it rang four times before going to voicemail. She cursed to herself, then left a message, already hurrying for the office door. “Maddy, this is Rachel Wolfe from the Serious Organised Crime Agency. I don't know if you remember me, but I used to work with Alan Powell. You need to call me back as soon as you get this. I believe you're in great danger—”

Y
ears before, whenever she was about to step into a strange room, Maddy would imagine a camera before her eyes. When she first arrived in New York, she had often carried an old Nikon around her neck, sometimes not even loaded, but as a sort of license to explore places she couldn't otherwise have entered.

Tonight, however, as she drew closer to the sound of voices and music, this imaginary camera was nowhere to be found. Her hands were empty, leaving her with nothing between her and the salon, but as she hesitated at the entrance, she told herself that she could at least have a drink.

Maddy looked through the door that led to the party. She was wearing the outfit she had bought in Yalta, a black peplum dress with a sweetheart neck, and she had to admit that she looked good. And although it wasn't much, this slender thread of confidence was enough to carry her into the salon at last.

As she entered, Maddy saw that no one else was looking at her, and it occurred to her that this might be the last time she would ever know how this felt. The salon on the main deck was the largest public space on the yacht, its walls cool, white, and inlaid with marble, the lamps casting a soft light across a carpet of olive gray. In the corner stood a baby grand piano, where the pianist hired for the occasion was working his way through something by Prokofiev.

The guests had divided themselves into the usual groups. At the corner near the piano stood the members of Tarkovsky's foundation, chatting with the men from Polyneft. A few steps away, the executives' wives had formed a circle around the captain, a sturdy figure in his forties. For most of the voyage, he had kept to the crew, and Maddy had observed him only from a distance, but tonight, in his dress whites, he was holding court with ease.

She headed toward the center of the salon, where Elena was standing in a long black gown, her back turned, with the faction Maddy thought of as the leftovers. These were the passengers who weren't full guests but not quite crew, either, so they were inevitably all seated at the same table each night. Along with Maddy herself, they consisted of Elena, Nina's tutor, and Rahim, who invited her tipsily to join him and the rest of the design team on the beach deck downstairs.

Maddy declined with a smile and continued toward the bar. The stews were circulating among the guests with trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. They had changed before the party into formal uniforms and white service gloves, the women in culottes and vest blouses, the men in dress shirts and slacks. She also saw a few members of the oligarch's security team, who tended to hang at the edges of the room, but there was no sign of Orlov. Or, for that matter, of Tarkovsky.

She accepted a glass of champagne from a stewardess. Tarkovsky, she knew, had excused himself after dinner to meet privately with the executives from Argo, and they had been gone now for close to forty minutes. These meetings had been taking place on a daily basis, and Maddy often overheard the other guests speculating as to their meaning, with many wondering if there might be something more than the Black Sea deal to announce on their arrival.

Maddy took a sip of champagne and wandered over to the wet bar, where the bartender was mixing martinis for the guests. A display had been set up on the table beside it, with a pair of crystal vases bursting with white lilies. At the center, there was an ice sculpture that had evidently been kept in the yacht's freezer for this very moment. It was the image of a man on horseback.

As Maddy looked at the sculpture, which gleamed softly in the light of the lamps, she remembered, as if for the first time, the events that were being set in motion that night. Putting down her glass, she was reaching out to touch the horse's icy flank when a voice came from over her shoulder: “I wouldn't do that if I were you. My father got mad when I tried it.”

When Maddy turned around, she saw that Nina, Tarkovsky's daughter, was standing behind her in a white dress, her hands primly clasped. It was the first time either of them had spoken to the other. Maddy picked up her glass again, not sure what to say. “The image means a lot to him, doesn't it?”

“Obviously. I wish he'd try something new for a change. I don't know why he even pretends to care about art.” Nina's brown eyes darted down to take in Maddy's neckline, then looked up again. “Your name is Maddy, isn't it?”

“Yes. I work with your father.” Maddy was less than eager to have this conversation, so she turned away slightly, as if to join another group, hoping that the girl would lose interest.

Nina refused to take the hint. “I know who you are. He mentions you sometimes.”

Maddy glanced across the room, where Tarkovsky's wife was talking to the men from Polyneft. “Good things, I hope.”

Nina only shrugged. She was tall for her age and startlingly pretty, like her mother, with a hooked nose and a small red mouth. For a girl of twelve, she was very poised, the product of several excellent private schools and an ensuing succession of tutors. “Are you coming to live with us, then?”

The question took her by surprise. Maddy noticed that Elena was standing a few steps away, waiting at the bar for a drink, and appeared to be listening to their conversation. “What do you mean?”

“We're going to live on this ship,” Nina said lightly. “My father says so. I don't really mind. Of course, no one ever asked me for my opinion. So are you going to be living here or not?”

Maddy watched as Elena accepted her cocktail but continued to hover nearby. “I'd love to spend more time on board, but I'm going home after Sochi. Are you sure your father really wants to live here?”

Nina nodded. “Why wouldn't he? It's safer. There are people who want to kill him, you know. I suppose it's because he's rich, but it doesn't make sense to me. Just because you kill someone doesn't mean you get their money—”

Maddy didn't know how to respond to this. The conversation was long past the point of making her uncomfortable. “I suppose you're right.”

Nina glanced down again at Maddy's dress, a smile playing curiously across her delicate features. At last, she said, “I'm sorry you won't be staying with us. You're very pretty.”

With that, the girl turned and went away. Maddy watched, not without relief, as Nina rejoined her mother. Raising her champagne, she took a long swallow, suddenly afraid that she might be sick.

At some point, Elena had appeared silently at her side. “She's right, you know. Vasily will stay on the yacht when this is over. It's safer for him. Compared, at least, to the alternative.”

Maddy drained her champagne. “What about you? Are you going to live here, too?”

“For now.” The assistant seemed about to say something else, then paused, her eyes on the door of the salon. Following her gaze, Maddy saw Tarkovsky step into the room, along with his security chief and the executives from Argo. It was hard to read the looks on their faces, but as they joined the party, it seemed to her that they were keeping something to themselves.

Maddy watched as Orlov went up to one of the guards, speaking to him quietly, then left the salon. “I've heard that Tarkovsky is preparing for the end of the world. Or at least for the coming collapse.”

Elena smiled. “That's the least of his worries. He has enough on his mind as it is. It all comes down to power. Khodorkovsky was taken out because he was going into politics. And it could happen again. That's why he's always kept his family at arm's length.” The assistant paused. “He's a good man. If I've been hard on those who are close to him, it's because I care about what he's trying to accomplish, and I understand the risks. No one can take power from those who already have it. This is the moral of the Shambhala story.”

Maddy looked over at the assistant in surprise. “What do you know about that?”

“You aren't the only one Vasily tells about these things,” Elena said. “You know how the story of Gleb Boky ends?”

As Elena spoke, she kept an eye on Tarkovsky, who was giving his wife a kiss on the cheek. Maddy watched the assistant warily. “He died, didn't he?”

“He was arrested,” Elena said. “He was accused of being part of a secret society, with branches all over the world, that was trying to predict the future and undermine the state. Perhaps he had become too ambitious for his own good. In the end, they broke him. He confessed that he was going to blow up the Kremlin and assassinate Stalin. He was tried, executed, and cremated the next day. Barchenko was killed five months later. He, too, was charged with plotting against the government and founding a secret society. It was called Shambhala Dunkhor, I believe.”

Maddy did not reply. As the music continued to play, she saw Tarkovsky say a few words to his wife, then make his way across the room to the staircase. She watched as he went up the stairs, alone, heading for the bridge deck. Feeling a suffocating dread continue to spread through her body, she tried to take another sip of champagne but discovered that her glass was empty. The moment, she knew, was coming soon. Ilya was on the move.