The English Spy Read online

  Quinn carried the Makarov into the bathroom and showered quickly, leaving the curtain open so he could watch Katerina in the next room. She was still sleeping when he emerged. He prepared the tea and poured two cups, one with milk, the other with sugar. Then he woke Katerina and handed her the cup with the sugar.

  “Get dressed,” he said coldly. “It’s time to let Moscow Center know you’re still alive.”

  Katerina spent a long time in the shower and took inordinate care with her appearance while dressing. Finally, she pulled on her coat and followed Quinn downstairs to the lobby, where a gray-haired woman of sixty sat in an alcove doing needlepoint. Quinn poked his head through the window and asked where he might find an Internet café.

  “Lord Street, luv. Opposite the chippy.”

  It was a walk of five minutes, which they passed in silence. Lord Street was long and straight and lined with shops on both sides. The fish-and-chips shop was at the midway point; the Internet café, as promised, was directly opposite. Quinn purchased thirty minutes of time and led Katerina to a terminal in the corner. She addressed a new e-mail to the same SVR address and looked to Quinn for guidance.

  “Tell Alexei that your phone is on the bottom of the North Sea and that you’re under my control. Tell him to deposit twenty million dollars into my account in Zurich. Otherwise, I’m going to cancel the second phase of the operation and hold you as collateral until I receive payment in full.”

  Katerina began to type.

  “In English,” Quinn said.

  “It doesn’t fit my legend.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Katerina deleted the German text and began again in English. She managed to make Quinn’s demands sound like a mundane business dispute between two firms working on the same project.

  “Lovely,” said Quinn. “Now send it.”

  She clicked the SEND icon and immediately deleted the e-mail from her out-box.

  “How long will it take them to reply?”

  “Not long,” she answered. “But why don’t you go over to the bar and get us something to drink, so we don’t look like a couple of assassins waiting for word from headquarters?”

  Quinn handed her a ten-pound note. “Milk, no sugar.”

  Katerina rose and walked over to the bar. Quinn placed his chin in his palm and stared at the computer screen.

  Their thirty minutes of computer time expired with no reply from Moscow. Quinn sent Katerina over to the counter to purchase additional time, and another fifteen minutes passed before an e-mail finally appeared in her in-box. The text was written in German. Katerina’s expression darkened as she read it.

  “What does it say?” asked Quinn.

  “It says we have a problem.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re still alive.”

  “Who?”

  “Allon and the Englishman.” She turned away from the screen and looked at Quinn seriously. “Apparently, that story about Allon’s death was a lie. Moscow Center assumes they’re searching for us.”

  Quinn felt his face flush with anger. “Did Alexei agree to deposit my money?”

  “Perhaps you weren’t listening. You failed to fulfill the terms of your contract, which means there is no money. Alexei suggests you let me leave the country at once. Otherwise, you’re going to spend the rest of your life hiding from people like me.”

  “What about the second phase of the operation?”

  “There is no operation, Quinn. Not anymore. Alexei has ordered us to abort.”

  Quinn stared at the screen for a moment. “Tell Alexei I didn’t do all this for nothing,” he said finally. “Tell him we’re going to carry out the second phase. Tell him to confirm the location.”

  “He won’t agree.”

  “Tell him,” said Quinn through gritted teeth.

  Katerina dispatched a second e-mail, again in English. This time, they had to wait only ten minutes for a reply. It came in the form of an address. Katerina pasted it into a search engine and hit the enter key. Quinn smiled.

  53

  THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

  MILES KENT WAS THE ONLY person at Thames House who could penetrate the battlements of Amanda Wallace’s office without an appointment. He entered at half past six that evening as she was preparing to leave for a long weekend in Somerset with her husband Charles, a wealthy Etonian who did something with money in the City. Amanda adored Charles and seemed completely oblivious to the fact he was carrying on a torrid affair with his young secretary. Kent had thought often about bringing the affair to Amanda’s attention—it was a potential security risk, after all—but had decided such a move could be ruinous. Amanda could be ruthlessly vindictive, especially toward those whom she regarded as threats to her power. Charles would suffer no sanction for his indiscretion, but Kent might very well find himself turfed out of the service in the prime of his career. And then what? He’d have to take a job at a private security firm, the last port of call for dried-up spies and secret policemen.

  “I hope this won’t take long, Miles. Charles is on his way.”

  “It won’t,” said Kent as he lowered himself into one of the chairs in front of Amanda’s desk.

  “What have you got?”

  “Yuri Volkov.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was a busy boy today.”

  “How so?”

  “He left the embassy on foot at midday. An A4 team followed him for about an hour. And then they misplaced him.”

  “Lost him? Is that what you mean?”

  “It happens, Amanda.”

  “It’s been happening too much lately.” She placed some weekend reading material into her briefcase. “Where was the last place the team had eyes on the target?”

  “Oxford Street. They came back to Thames House and spent the rest of the afternoon piecing together Volkov’s subsequent movements using CCTV.”

  “And?”

  “He took a stroll down Piccadilly to make sure he was clean. Then he ducked into the tube at the Circus and boarded a train.”

  “Piccadilly or Bakerloo?”

  “Bakerloo. He rode it to Paddington Station and then returned to the embassy on foot.”

  “Did he meet with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Kill anyone?”

  “Not that we’re aware of,” said Kent with a smile.

  “What about when he was on the train?”

  “He just stood there.”

  Amanda added another file to her briefcase. “It sounds to me, Miles, as though Yuri Volkov took a walk.”

  “Russian spies don’t take a walk for no reason. They take a walk because they’re spying. That’s what they do.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Inside the embassy.”

  “Anything unusual?”

  “GCHQ picked up a burst of high-priority message traffic not long after he returned, all heavily encrypted with stuff they haven’t been able to unbutton.”

  “And you find the timing suspicious?”

  “To say the least.” Miles Kent was silent for a moment. “I have a bad feeling about this, Amanda.”

  “I can’t do anything with bad feelings, Miles. I need actionable intelligence.”

  “It was the same bad feeling I had before that bomb exploded on Brompton Road.”

  Amanda closed her briefcase and retook her seat. “What do you propose?”

  “I’m worried about the train ride.”

  “I thought you said he didn’t make contact with anyone.”

  “There was no physical contact or communication, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’d like authorization to run down every person who was on that carriage with him.”

  “We can’t possibly spare the resources, Miles. Not now.”

  “What if we don’t have a choice?”

  Amanda made a show of thought. “Done,” she said. “But D4 will have to shoulder the burden. I won’t have you drawing assets from any of the o
ther branches.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What else?”

  “It might be a good idea for you to have a word with our friends across the river,” said Kent, nodding toward the white facade of Vauxhall Cross. “We don’t want to be blindsided again.”

  Kent rose to his feet and withdrew. Alone, Amanda picked up her phone and speed-dialed her husband’s mobile, but there was no answer. She left a brief message saying she was going to be delayed and killed the connection. Then she picked up the receiver of a phone connected directly to Vauxhall Cross.

  “I know it’s only Thursday, but I wonder if I might tempt you with a drink.”

  “Hemlock?” asked Graham Seymour.

  “Gin,” said Amanda.

  “My place or yours?”

  54

  LORD STREET, FLEETWOOD

  QUINN AND KATERINA LEFT the Internet café on Lord Street and started back to their hotel. Quinn moved calmly past the storefronts, but Katerina was jumpy and on edge. Her eyes moved restlessly about the street, and once, when a pair of teenage boys overtook them, she gouged her nails painfully into Quinn’s bicep.

  “Something bothering you?” asked Quinn.

  “Two things, actually. Gabriel Allon and Christopher Keller.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “That was a very expensive text message you sent to Allon. Alexei will never pay you now.”

  “Unless I fulfill the terms of the contract.”

  “How do you intend to do that?”

  “By killing Allon and Keller, of course.”

  Katerina’s lighter flared. “You only get one shot at men like that,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cold night air. “You’ll never be able to find them again.”

  “I don’t have to find them.”

  “Then how do you intend to kill them?”

  “By bringing them to me.”

  “With what?”

  “The last target,” said Quinn.

  Katerina stared at him incredulously. “You’re mad,” she said. “You’ll never be able to pull it off alone.”

  “I won’t be alone. You’re going to help me.”

  “I have no interest in helping you.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice.”

  They arrived back at the hotel. Katerina dropped her cigarette to the pavement and followed Quinn inside. The gray-haired woman was still working on her needlepoint in the alcove. Quinn informed her that they would be leaving in a few minutes.

  “So soon?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” said Quinn, “but something’s come up.”

  55

  HAMBURG

  AT THAT SAME MOMENT Austrian Airlines Flight 171 from Vienna touched down in Hamburg and started toward its gate. Unbeknownst to the carrier, the passengers included an Iranian intelligence officer and his Israeli handler. The two men were seated several rows apart and did not communicate during the flight. Nor did they speak as they hiked through the terminal toward passport control. There they joined the same line and both were admitted into Germany after only a cursory inspection of their travel documents. In the Hamburg safe flat, Gabriel celebrated his first small victory. Crossing borders was always tricky for Iranians, even Iranians with diplomatic passports in their pockets.

  VEVAK’s travel department had arranged a car for Reza Nazari through the Iranian consulate. It collected him at the arrivals level of the terminal and took him directly to the Marriott Hotel in the Neustadt. He arrived at 7:45 p.m., checked in, and went upstairs to his room, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign on the latch before entering. Two minutes later there was a knock at the door. He opened it and Yaakov Rossman came inside.

  “Any last questions?” he asked.

  “No questions,” replied Nazari. “Just a demand.”

  “You’re in no position to be making demands, Reza.”

  Nazari managed a weak smile. “Alexei always calls me before we meet. If I don’t pick up, he won’t come. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “It must have slipped my mind.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  The Iranian was still smiling. Yaakov was staring at the ceiling in anger.

  “How much is it going to cost me to make you answer the phone?” he asked.

  “I want to hear the sound of my wife’s voice.”

  “It’s not possible. Not now.”

  “All things are possible, Mr. Taylor. Especially tonight.”

  Until that moment, Reza Nazari had been a model prisoner. Even so, Gabriel had been anticipating one final act of defiance. Only in movies, Shamron always said, did the condemned man accept the noose without a struggle—and only in operational planning rooms did coerced assets face their moment of ultimate betrayal without a last ultimatum. Nazari could have made any number of demands. That he insisted only on speaking to his wife elevated him, however slightly, in the eyes of those who held his fate in their hands. Indeed, it might very well have saved his life.

  The arrangements for an emergency contact between Nazari and his wife had been made shortly after his initial interrogation in Austria. Yaakov had only to dial a number in Tel Aviv, and the call would be routed securely to the villa in eastern Turkey where an Office team was babysitting Nazari’s wife and children. The conversation would be recorded at King Saul Boulevard, and a Persian speaker would be listening for any irregularities. The only danger was that the Russians and the Iranians might be listening, too.

  With Gabriel’s approval, Yaakov dialed the number at 8:05. By 8:10 Nazari’s wife was on the line, and the translator was in place at King Saul Boulevard. Yaakov held out the phone toward Nazari.

  “No tears, no good-byes. Just ask her about her day, and do your best to sound normal.”

  Nazari took the phone and lifted it to his ear. “Tala, my darling,” he said, closing his eyes with relief. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  The conversation was slightly more than five minutes in duration, longer than Gabriel would have preferred. He had not wanted to risk a direct live feed to Hamburg, so he had to wait several additional minutes to learn the call had gone off without a problem. Outside his window, the clock of St. Michael’s Church read 8:20. With a few clicks on his computer keyboard, he moved his team into place. The evening’s first crisis had been averted. All he needed now was Alexei Rozanov.

  56

  NEUSTADT, HAMBURG

  FOUR HUNDRED TRANQUIL FEET separated the Marriott Hotel from Die Bank restaurant—a walk of perhaps three minutes, two if one were running late for a reservation. The guests who departed the hotel at 8:37 p.m. were in no particular hurry because like many in Hamburg that evening they had been unable to secure a coveted table. Their names were Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern, though both were registered at the hotel under operational aliases. Yossi was a senior analyst in the Office’s Research division who happened to have a flair for the dramatic and was good on his feet in the field. Rimona was the chief of the Office unit that spied on Iran’s nuclear program. As such, she had been the primary recipient of Reza Nazari’s false intelligence. She had never met the Iranian spy personally and was not looking forward to being in the same room with him tonight. In fact, earlier that evening, she had stated her preference for sending Nazari back to Tehran in a pine box. Her anger had come as no surprise to Gabriel. Rimona was the niece of Ari Shamron, and like her famous uncle she did not take betrayal lightly, especially where Iranians were involved.

  She was an analyst by training and experience, but she shared Yossi’s natural instincts in the field. As she moved along the elegant street, a bag in the window of Prada seemed to catch her eye. She paused there for a moment while a car overtook them and while Yossi, playing the role of annoyed spouse, glared at his wristwatch. It was 8:41 when they passed through the imposing entrance of Die Bank. The maître d’ informed them there were no tables available, so they moped off to the bar
to await a cancellation. Rimona sat facing the entrance, Yossi the dining room. From the breast pocket of his jacket he removed a gold pen identical to the one Gabriel had given to Reza Nazari. Yossi twisted the cap to the right and then returned the pen to his pocket. Two minutes later a text message appeared on his secure mobile. The transmitter was working, the signal was strong and clear. Yossi snared a passing waitress and ordered drinks. It was 8:44 p.m.

  In the streets surrounding Die Bank, the rest of Gabriel’s team was moving quietly into place. On the Poststrasse, Dina Sarid was easing a Volkswagen sedan into an empty space outside a Vodafone outlet. Mordecai sat next to her in the front passenger seat, and in the back Oded was doing a few deep-breathing exercises to slow his racing heart rate. Fifty meters farther along the street, Mikhail Abramov sat astride a parked motorbike, watching the pedestrians with an expression of profound boredom on his face. Keller sat next to him atop a motorbike of his own. He was peering at the screen of his mobile. The message told him the man of the hour had not yet surfaced. It was 8:48 p.m.

  At 8:50 Alexei Rozanov had still not made contact with Reza Nazari. Gabriel stood in the window of the safe flat watching the clock atop St. Michael’s Church as two more minutes passed without a call. Eli Lavon stood next to him, a consoling presence, a fellow mourner at the grave of an old friend.

  “You have to send him, Gabriel. Otherwise, he’s going to be late.”

  “What if he’s not supposed to go to the restaurant until he hears from Alexei?”

  “We’ll have him make up an excuse.”

  “Maybe Alexei won’t buy it.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Or maybe he isn’t coming.”