At precisely 4:04, the pair of armored Mercedes limousines turned through the gates of Havermore and started up the long drive. The men in the hayloft saw them first, followed by Sir John, whose library window gave him a superb outpost from which to monitor their approach. Sarah, from her position in the entrance hall, could not see the cars but heard them a few seconds later as they came prowling into the gravel forecourt. Two powerful engines went silent; several doors opened and six young bodyguards with faces of chiseled marble emerged. The men in the hayloft knew their names. Three were Oleg, Yuri, and Gennady: Elena Kharkov’s permanent detail. The other three were Vadim, Vasily, and Viktor: “the three V’s,"” as they were known to Kharkov watchers the world over. Their presence at Havermore was curious, since they served almost exclusively as Ivan’s praetorian guard.
Having established a loose perimeter around the lead Mercedes, two of the guards opened the rear doors. Elena Kharkov emerged from the driver’s side, a radiant flash of lustrous dark hair and green silk. From the passenger side came a sturdy figure, well dressed, with hair the color of steel. For a few seconds, the men in the hayloft mistook him for a seventh security man. Then, as he turned his face toward the cameras, they realized he was no bodyguard. He was the man who was supposed to be on a conference call with Zurich. The man who was not supposed to be here.
The men in the hayloft attempted to warn Sarah-they had hidden a tiny audio speaker in the entrance hall for just such a contingency- but she had already opened Havermore’s impressive door and was stepping into the forecourt. Punch and Judy scampered past her ankles and shot across the gravel like a pair of honey-colored torpedoes. By some natural instinct, they advanced directly toward the most authoritative-looking member of the entourage. The three V’s formed a wall in front of their target: Ivan Kharkov.
He was standing calmly behind them, an expression of mild bemusement on the heavy features of his face. Sarah used a moment of mock anger at the dogs to help conceal the shock of seeing the monster face to face for the first time. She seized the dogs by the collars and gave them each a firm shove on the hindquarters toward the house. By the time she turned around again, a small crack opened between Vadim and Viktor. She extended her hand through it toward Ivan and managed a smile. “I’m afraid herding instincts take over when they see a large group of people,” she heard herself say. “I’m Sarah Crawford.”
Ivan’s right hand rose from the seam of his trousers. It looked, thought Sarah, like a manicured mallet. It gave her hand a testing squeeze and quickly released it.
“You’re an American,” he pointed out.
And you forgot to tell me your name, she thought.
“Actually, I’m only half American.”
“Which half?”
“The self-centered half, according to my uncle. This is his home. I’m just visiting.”
“From America?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you live in America?”
“ Washington, D.C. And you?”
“I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world, Miss Crawford. ”
A citizen of the world, perhaps, but exposure to the West had yet to buff away the last traces of KGB English. It was surprisingly fluent but still flecked with the intonation of a Radio Moscow propagandist. He was proud of his English, thought Sarah, just like he was proud of his armored limousines, his bodyguards, his handmade suit, his three-thousand-dollar necktie, and the rich aftershave that hung round him like a vaporous cloud. No amount of Western clothing and cologne could conceal his Russianness, though. It was etched in the sturdy forehead, the almond-shaped eyes, and the angular cheekbones. Nor could it hide the fact that he was a KGB hood who had stumbled into a mountain of money.
Almost as an afterthought, he lifted his left hand and, with his eyes still fixed on Sarah, said, “My wife.” She was standing several feet away, surrounded by her own palace guard. She was taller than Ivan by an inch or two and held herself with the erect carriage of a dancer. Her skin was pale, her eyes liquid green, her hair black. She wore it long and allowed it to fall loosely about her shoulders. As for the prospect of Sarah’s beauty posing a challenge to Elena’s, there was little chance of that, for at forty-six years, seven months and nineteen days, she was still a strikingly attractive woman. She took a step forward and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sarah. I’m Elena Kharkov. ” Her accent, unlike Ivan’s, was authentic and rich, and completely beguiling. “I believe Alistair told you I would be coming alone. My husband decided to join me at the last minute.”
A husband who still has no name, Sarah thought.
“Actually, Alistair told me a woman would be coming alone. He didn’t give me a name. He was very discreet, Mrs. Kharkov.”
“And we trust that you will be discreet as well,” Ivan said. “It is important for people such as ourselves to conduct our acquisitions and business transactions with a certain amount of privacy.”
“You may rest assured my uncle feels precisely the same way, Mr. Kharkov.”
As if on cue, Boothby emerged, with Punch and Judy now swirling noisily at his feet. “Did my ears deceive me,” he trumpeted, “or is it true that the great Ivan Kharkov has come to Havermore? That dolt from Christie’s told me to expect a VIP, but no one of your stature.” He took Ivan’s hand in his own and pumped it vigorously. “It is indeed an honor to have you here, Mr. Kharkov. I do admire your accomplishments. I knew you were a man of many interests, but I never knew art was one of them.”
Ivan’s stony face broke briefly into something approaching a genuine smile. Ivan, they knew, was vulnerable to flattery, from pretty young girls, and even from tattered English landed gentry.
“Actually, my wife is the expert when it comes to art,” he said. “I just felt like getting out of London for a few hours.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Can’t stand London any longer, what with the traffic and the terrorism. Go there now to see the odd play or hear a bit of music at Covent Garden, but I’d choose the Cotswold Hills over Kensington any day of the week. Too expensive in London, these days. Too many people such as yourself buying everything up. No insult intended, of course.”
“None taken.”
“Do you have a country estate yet or just your London residence?”
“Just the house in Knightsbridge at the moment.”
Boothby gestured toward the façade of Havermore. “This has been in my family for five generations. I’d love to give you a tour while our two art experts have a look at the painting.”
A glance passed between Ivan and Elena: coded, secure, inscrutable to an outsider. She murmured a few words in Russian; Ivan responded by looking at Boothby and giving a single nod of his sturdy head. “I’d love a tour,” he said. “But we’ll have to make it brief. I’m afraid my wife tends to make decisions quickly.”
“Brilliant!” said Boothby. “Allow me to show you the grounds.”
He lifted his hand and started toward the East Meadow. Ivan, after a brief hesitation, followed after him, with the three V’s flying close behind in tight formation. Boothby looked at the bodyguards and politely objected.
“I say, but is that really necessary? I can assure you, Mr. Kharkov, that you have no enemies here. The most dangerous things at Havermore are the dogs and my martinis.”
Ivan glanced once again at Elena, then spoke a few words in Russian to the bodyguards in a baritone murmur. When he started toward the meadow a second time, the guards remained motionless. Elena watched her husband’s departure in silence, then looked at Sarah.
“I’m sorry about the security, Miss Crawford. I would do almost anything to be rid of them, but Ivan insists they stay by my side wherever I go. I imagine that it must seem very exciting to be surrounded by men in dark suits. I can assure you it is not.”