The New Girl Page 28

  The three right lanes were blocked, and an officer with a red-tipped torch was directing all traffic into the left. As Anna passed him, their eyes met in the darkness.

  The traffic halted. Another wave of nausea washed over her. She touched her forehead. It was dripping with sweat.

  Again, the wave receded. Anna was suddenly freezing cold. She switched on the heater and then reached into her handbag, which was lying on the passenger seat. It took her a moment of fumbling to find her phone and another moment to dial Nikolai’s number.

  He picked up instantly. “Where are you?”

  She told him.

  “Have you been listening to the news?”

  She hadn’t. She’d been too busy trying not to be sick.

  “Abdullah’s canceled dinner. Apparently, he’s a bit under the weather.”

  “So am I.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I must have exposed myself.”

  “Did you drink any?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then it will pass,” said Nikolai. “Like the flu.”

  Another wave crested. This time, Anna flung open the door and was violently ill. The convulsion was so powerful it blurred her vision. When it finally cleared, she saw several men in tactical gear surrounding the car, weapons drawn.

  She laid the phone on her thigh and put the call on speaker.

  “Nikolai?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, Nikolai.”

  She reached beneath the passenger seat and wrapped her hand around the butt of the Stechkin. She managed to fire only a single shot before the car’s windows exploded in a hurricane of incoming rounds.

  You’re dead, she thought. Dead, dead, dead . . .

  The gunfire lasted two or three seconds at most. When it was over, Mikhail Abramov threw open the door of the Ford Fiesta and sprinted along the verge of the motorway toward the shattered Renault. The woman was hanging out the open driver’s-side door, suspended by the safety belt, a gun in her hand. Police radios were crackling, passengers in the surrounding cars were screaming in terror. And somewhere, thought Mikhail, a man was shouting in Russian.

  Are you there, Anna? What’s happening? Can you hear me, Anna?

  Suddenly, two of the SCO19 officers pivoted and leveled their HK G36 assault rifles at Mikhail. Hands raised, he backpedaled slowly and returned to the Ford.

  “Is she dead?” asked Eli Lavon.

  “As a doornail. And her friend at the hotel in Frinton knows it.”

  “How?”

  “She was on the phone with him when it happened.”

  Lavon tapped out a message to Gabriel. The reply was instant.

  “What does it say?” asked Mikhail.

  “He just ordered Sarah to leave the hotel immediately. He wants us to get out to Essex as quickly as possible.”

  “Does he really?” Behind them, a chorus of car horns arose in the night. The traffic was at a standstill. “You’d better tell him we’re going to be here awhile.”

  69

  Frinton-on-Sea, Essex

  Nikolai Azarov had allowed the connection to Anna’s phone to remain active longer than he should have—five minutes and twelve seconds, according to the call timer on his own device. He had heard the burst of automatic gunfire, the sound of shattering glass, Anna’s screams of agony. What came next were effectively the first chaotic moments of a highly unusual crime-scene investigation. There was a declaration of death, followed a moment later by a shouted warning of something called a full-scale deflection, a term with which Nikolai was not familiar. The same voice instructed officers to move away from the vehicle until it could be made secure. One officer, however, remained close enough to spot Anna’s phone lying on the floorboard. He had also noticed there was a call in progress. He had requested permission from a superior to retrieve the device, but the superior had refused. “If she touched the phone,” he shouted, “the bloody thing is positively heaving with radiation.”

  It was then, five minutes after Anna’s death, that Nikolai ended the call. No, he thought angrily. Not Anna’s death, her assassination. Nikolai was well versed in the rules and tactics of the Metropolitan Police and the various county and regional forces. Ordinary officers did not carry guns, only AFOs, authorized firearms officers, or SFOs, the highly trained specialist firearms officers of SCO19. AFOs did not typically carry the type of automatic assault rifle Nikolai had heard over the phone. Only SCO19 officers were armed with such weapons. Their presence on the M25 suggested they had been lying in wait for Anna. So, too, did the presence of a hazardous materials team with a radiation-detection device. But how had the Metropolitan Police known that Anna would be contaminated? Obviously, surmised Nikolai, the British had been watching her.

  But if that were the case, why had they not tried to arrest him? At present, he was drinking tea at his usual table in the lounge bar. He had checked out of his room earlier that afternoon. His car was waiting curbside in the Esplanade. His small overnight bag was in the custody of the porter. The bag contained nothing of operational value. Nikolai’s Makarov 9mm was resting comfortably against the small of his back. In the right front pocket of his trousers was the spare vial of radioactive toxin that Moscow Center had insisted he carry into Britain. They had assured him the radiation could not escape the container. After hearing the voice of the hazmat technician, he was no longer certain that was the case.

  A full-scale deflection . . .

  He glanced at the television above the bar. It was tuned to Sky News. It seemed Khalid bin Mohammed had paid a visit to his uncle’s house in Eaton Square shortly before Downing Street announced the cancellation of tonight’s dinner. The event was noteworthy for another reason; it was the first public sighting of KBM since his abdication. Sky News had somehow obtained a video of his arrival. In Western clothing, his head bare, Khalid was scarcely recognizable. Nikolai’s eye, however, was drawn to the British security agent walking next to him. Nikolai had seen him somewhere before, he was certain of it.

  He picked up his phone. Sky News had posted the story on its Web site, along with the video. Nikolai watched it three times. He was not mistaken.

  They’re newlyweds. Apparently, it was all very spur of the moment . . .

  He powered off his phone and removed the SIM card. Then he went onto the terrace overlooking the Esplanade. It was dark, the wind had died. He could see no sign of surveillance, but he knew they were watching him. His car, too. It was parked outside the hotel’s entrance. Suddenly, another car drew up behind it. An open-top Jaguar F-Type. Bright red.

  Nikolai smiled.

  Upstairs, Sarah shoved the Walther PPK into her handbag and went into the corridor. Her phone rang as she was waiting for the lift.

  “Where are you?” asked Keller anxiously.

  She explained.

  “How long does it take to leave a hotel?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Try harder, Sarah. And faster.”

  The lift arrived. She wheeled her suitcase into the carriage.

  “Still there?” she asked.

  “Still here.”

  “Any plans for tonight?”

  “I was thinking about a late dinner.”

  “Anywhere special?”

  “My place.”

  “Want some company?”

  “Love some.”

  The carriage slowed to a stop and the doors opened with a wheeze. Passing reception, Sarah noisily bade farewell to Margaret, the head of guest services, and Evans, the concierge. In the lounge bar she glimpsed Keller walking across the screen of the television with Khalid at his side. Rising to his feet, as though in a hurry to be on his way, was the Russian assassin.

  Sarah considered turning around and retracing her steps to the lift. Instead, she quickened her pace. It was no more than twenty steps to the entrance, but the Russian drew alongside her effortlessly and pressed something hard against t
he base of her spine. There was no mistaking it for anything other than a gun.

  With his left hand he took hold of her arm and smiled. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair,” he said quietly, “I suggest you keep walking.”

  Sarah squeezed the phone tightly. “Still there?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Keller. “Still here.”

  70

  Frinton-on-Sea, Essex

  Outside, the Russian took the phone from Sarah’s grasp and killed the connection. The two cars waited in the street, watched over by the valet. He was clearly confounded by the scene he was witnessing. Forty-eight hours earlier, Sarah had arrived at the hotel as a newlywed. Now she was abruptly leaving with another man.

  The valet relieved Sarah of her suitcase. “Which car?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Edgerton’s,” replied the Russian in a crisp British accent.

  Sarah managed to conceal her astonishment. Clearly, the Russian had been aware of her presence at the hotel for some time. He accepted the car keys from the valet and instructed him to place “Mrs. Edgerton’s” suitcase in the Jaguar’s boot. Sarah tried to keep her handbag, but the Russian plucked it from her shoulder and tossed it into the boot as well. It landed with an unusually heavy thud.

  The Russian’s overcoat was draped over his right arm. With his left he closed the boot and then opened the passenger door. Sarah’s eyes scanned the Esplanade as she climbed inside. Somewhere nearby were four MI6 watchers, none of whom were armed. It was imperative they not lose track of her.

  The Russian closed her door and walked around the back of the car to the driver’s side, where the valet was awaiting his gratuity. The Russian handed him a ten-pound note before dropping behind the wheel and starting the engine. The gun was now in his left hand, and it was pointed at Sarah’s right hip. As they pulled away from the curb, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the valet running after them.

  The Russian had forgotten his suitcase.

  He turned onto Connaught Avenue and pressed the throttle to the floorboard. A parade of shops flashed past Sarah’s window: Café 19, Allsorts Cookware, Caxton Books & Gallery. The Russian was pressing the barrel of his gun into her hip. With his right hand he was gripping the wheel tightly. His eyes were locked on the rearview mirror.

  “You might want to look where you’re going,” said Sarah.

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re innocent British subjects who are trying to enjoy a pleasant evening in a seaside community.”

  The Russian ground the gun into Sarah’s hip. “The two people in the van behind us.” His British accent was gone. “Essex Police? MI5? MI6?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He placed the barrel of the gun against the side of her head.

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know who they are.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He works in the City.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Back at the hotel, wondering where I am.”

  “I saw him on television a few minutes ago.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “He escorted Khalid into his uncle’s house in Eaton Square.”

  “Khalid who?”

  Sarah never saw the blow coming—the butt of the gun, an inch above her right ear. The pain was otherworldly. “You just made the second biggest mistake of your life.”

  “What was the first?”

  “Strapping a bomb to Khalid’s daughter.”

  “I’m glad we cleared that up.” He swerved to avoid a pedestrian crossing the road. “Who does your husband work for?”

  “MI6.”

  “And you?”

  “CIA.” It was an untruth, but only a small one. And it would make the Russian think twice about killing her.

  “And the two people who are following me?” he asked.

  “SCO19.”

  “You’re lying, Mrs. Edgerton.”

  “If you say so.”

  “If they were SCO19, they would have killed me at the hotel.” He turned off Connaught Avenue and drove dangerously fast through a quiet residential area. After a moment he checked his rearview mirror. “Too bad.”

  “Did you lose them?”

  He smiled coldly. “No.”

  He sped along Upper Fourth Avenue to the car park of the Frinton rail station. It was an old redbrick building, with a steeply pitched white portico over the entrance. Sarah would always remember the flowers—the two pots of red-and-white geraniums hanging from hooks along the facade.

  A train must have just arrived because a few passengers were filing into the pleasant evening. One or two glanced at the tall man who stepped from a flashy Jaguar F-Type, but most ignored him.

  Swiftly, he walked over to the white Ford van that had followed him into the confined space of the car park. Sarah screamed a warning, but it was no use. The Russian fired four shots through the driver’s-side window and three more through the windscreen.

  “In case you were wondering,” he said when he was behind the wheel again, “I saved one bullet for you.”

  From the rail station, he sped north on Elm Tree Avenue. It seemed to Sarah he knew exactly where he was going. He made a right at Walton Road and another at Coles Lane. A hedgerowed track, it bore them into a marshland. The first sign of human habitation was a blue, cube-like security office at the entrance of a marina. Inside was a single guard. Despite Sarah’s pleas, the Russian shot him with the last round in his gun. Then he reloaded and shot him three more times.

  Calmly, he returned to the Jaguar and drove along the access road to the marina. A part of Sarah was relieved to find it deserted. The Russian had just killed three people in less than five minutes. Once they were at sea, there would be no one left to kill but her.

  71

  Essex–London City Airport

  Units of the Essex Police responded to reports of gunfire at the Frinton-on-Sea rail station at 7:26 p.m. There they discovered two victims. One had been shot four times; the other, three. A pair of distraught-looking men were desperately trying to resuscitate them. Traumatized witnesses described the gunman as a tall, well-dressed man driving a bright red Jaguar sports car. There had been a woman in the passenger seat. She had screamed throughout the entire incident.

  In the United States, where firearms are plentiful and gun violence epidemic, police might have initially attributed the killings to road rage. The authorities in Essex, however, made no such assumption. With the help of the Metropolitan Police—and the two distraught-looking men—they established that the gunman was an operative of Russian intelligence. The woman was not his accomplice but his hostage. The Essex Police were told nothing about her professional provenance, only that she was an American.

  Despite a frantic search for the Russian and the woman, more than ninety minutes would elapse before two constables called on the marina located at the end of Coles Lane. The guard at the gate was dead, shot four times at close range, and the bright red Jaguar was parked haphazardly outside the marina’s office, which had been broken into and ransacked. With the help of the marina’s video system, police determined that the Russian had stolen a Bavaria 27 Sport motor yacht owned by a local businessman. The vessel was fitted with twin Volvo-Penta engines and a 147-gallon fuel tank, which the Russian had filled before leaving the marina. Just twenty-nine feet in length, the Bavaria was designed for harbor and coastal cruising. But with a skilled seaman at the helm, the vessel was more than capable of reaching the European mainland in a matter of hours.

  Though the two constables did not know it, the dead guard and missing motor yacht were but a small part of a rapidly unfolding diplomatic and national security crisis. The elements of this crisis included a dead Russian operative on the M25 motorway and a Russian oligarch who was being held in a hazmat tent at London City Airport because he was too radioactive to be moved.

  At eight p.m., Prime Minister Lancaster convened COBRA, Br
itain’s senior crisis management group. They gathered, as usual, in Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, from which the group derived its name. It was a contentious meeting from the start. Amanda Wallace, the director-general of MI5, was outraged she had not been told of the presence of a Russian hit team on British soil. Graham Seymour, who had just lost two officers, was in no mood for an internecine squabble. MI6 had learned about the Russian operatives, he said, as part of a counterintelligence operation directed against the SVR. Seymour had informed the prime minister and the Metropolitan Police about the Russians after confirming they had indeed arrived in Britain. In short, he had played it by the book.

  Curiously, the official record of the meeting contained not a single reference to Crown Prince Abdullah—or the possibility there might be a connection between his sudden illness and the Russian hit team. Graham Seymour, for his part, did not lead the horse to water. And neither, for that matter, did the prime minister.

  At nine o’clock, however, he once again went before the cameras outside Number 10, this time to brief the British public on the extraordinary events taking place in Greater London and in the Essex resort town of Frinton-on-Sea. Little of what he said was true, but he steered clear of outright falsehoods. Most were lies of omission. He said nothing, for example, of a dead security guard at a marina along the river Twizzle, a stolen Bavaria 27 motor yacht, or a captive American woman who had once worked for the CIA.

  Nor did Lancaster find reason to mention that he had granted Gabriel Allon, the chief of Israeli intelligence, broad latitude to find the missing woman. At nine fifteen, he arrived at London City Airport, accompanied by two of his most trusted operatives and an MI6 officer named Christopher Keller. A Gulfstream G550 waited on the tarmac. As yet, it had no destination.