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afoul of the regime. He was reluctant to stick another finger in Moscow’s eye.”
    “What changed his mind?”
    “We told him it was the proper thing to do. After all, the Americans had agreed to take Elena and her children. We felt we had to do our bit. Grigori promised to be a good boy and to keep his head down. Which he did.” Seymour paused, then added, “For a while.”
    “Until he became a celebrity defector and dissident.”
    Seymour nodded his head in agreement.
    “You should have locked him away in a little cottage in the countryside somewhere and thrown away the key.”
    “Grigori insisted on London. The Russians love London.”
    “So this worked out rather nicely for you. You never wanted Grigori, and now the Russians have been kind enough to take him off your hands.”
    “We don’t see it that way.”
    “How do you see it?”
    Seymour made a show of deliberation. “As you might expect, Grigori’s motivations are now the subject of rather intense debate. As you also might expect, opinion is divided. There are those who believe he was bad from the start. There are others who think he simply had a change of heart.”
    “A change of heart?”
    “Rather like that Yurchenko chap who came over to the Americans back in the eighties. You remember Vitaly Yurchenko? A few months after he defected, he was dining at a dreadful little French restaurant in Georgetown when he told his CIA minder that he was going out for a walk. He never came back.”
    “Grigori was homesick?” Gabriel shook his head. “He couldn’t get out of Russia fast enough. There’s no way he would willingly go back.”
    “His own words would suggest otherwise.” Seymour removed a plain buff envelope from the attaché and held it aloft between two fingers. “You might want to listen to this before attaching your star to a man like Grigori. He’s not exactly the marrying kind.”

     
    11
    MAIDA VALE, LONDON
    THE LETTER was dated January the twelfth and addressed to the cover name of Grigori’s MI5 minder. The text was brief, five sentences in length, and written in English, which Grigori spoke quite well—well enough, Gabriel recalled, to conduct a rather terrifying interrogation in the cellars of Lubyanka. Graham Seymour read the letter aloud. Then he handed it to Gabriel, who read it silently.
    Sorry I didn’t tell you about my plans to return home, Monty, but I’m sure you can understand why I kept them to myself. I hope my actions don’t leave a permanent stain on your record. You are far too decent to be working in a business like this. I enjoyed our time together, especially the chess. You almost made London bearable.
     
     
     
     
    Regards, G
    “It was mailed from Zurich to an MI5 postbox in Camden Town. That address was known to only a handful of senior people, Grigori’s minder, and Grigori himself. Shall I go on?”
    “Please do.”
    “Our experts have linked the original A4 stationery to a German paper company based in Hamburg. Oddly enough, the envelope was manufactured by the same company but was of a slightly different style. Our experts have also conclusively attributed the handwriting, along with several latent fingerprints found on the surface of the paper, to Grigori Bulganov.”
    “Handwriting can be forged, Graham. Just like paintings.”
    “What about the fingerprints?”
    Gabriel lifted Seymour’s hand by the wrist and placed it against the paper. “We’re talking about Russians, Graham. They don’t play by Marquis of Queensberry rules.”
    Seymour freed his hand from Gabriel’s grasp. “It’s clear from the letter that Grigori was cooperating. It was addressed to the correct cover name of his minder and mailed to the proper address.”
    “Perhaps they tortured him. Or perhaps torture wasn’t necessary because Grigori knew full well what would happen if he didn’t cooperate. He was one of them, Graham. He knew their methods. He used them from time to time. I should know. I saw him in his