“Could somebody else have laid their hands on the Novak account, got control of it somehow?”

The Russian shrugged. “Origination code just tell me ownership of account. Could be many specifications as to access. This I cannot tell you from here. This information not flow from modem to modem. Legal certification held by institution of origination. Bank in Amsterdam follows instructions established by owner. Account suffix says it’s linked to Foundation. Paperwork at bank, paperwork at headquarters.” Berman pronounced the word paperwork with the distaste he reserved for older financial instruments, directives and stipulations that could not be reduced to strings of ones and zeros.

“This makes no sense.”

“Makes dollars!” Berman said merrily. “If somebody put sixteen million dollars in Grigori account, Grigori not insist on dental examination of gift horse.” He held out his hands. “I wish I could tell you more.”

Had Peter Novak been betrayed by somebody near and dear to him? If so, by whom? A high-ranking member of his organization? Márta Lang herself? She spoke of him, it seemed, with genuine affection and respect. Yet what did that prove, aside from that she might have been an accomplished actress? What now seemed irrefutable was that whoever had betrayed Novak was in a position to have earned his trust. And that meant the agent was a master of deception, a virtuoso of the patient arts of craft and deceit and waiting. But to what end?

“You come with me,” Berman said. “I show you house.” He put an arm around Janson’s shoulder and propelled him up the stairs, down the magnificent hallways of the estate, and into the airy, light-filled kitchen. He pressed a finger to his lip. “Mr. French not want us in kitchen. But Russians know that heart of house is kitchen.”

Berman stepped toward the glittering stainless-steel sink, where the casement windows looked onto a beautifully tended rose garden. Beyond it stretched Regent’s Park. “Take a look—twenty-four hundred acres in the middle of London, like my backyard.” He pulled out the sink spray nozzle and held it to his mouth like microphone. “Someone left the scones out in the rain,” he sang in a thick Russian basso. “I don’t think that I can take it …” He pulled Janson closer, trying to form a duet. He raised an expressive hand high in the air, like an opera singer on the stage.

There was a tinkle of glass, and Berman broke off with a sharp expulsion of breath. A moment later, he slumped to the floor.

A small red hole was just visible on the front of his hand. On the upper left quadrant of his shirtfront was another puncture wound, just slightly rimmed with red.

“Jesus Christ!” Janson shouted.

Time slowed.