The New Girl Page 29

  72

  London City Airport

  A Metropolitan Police officer was standing watch outside the entrance of the London Jet Centre. He tugged at the sleeve of his bulky hazmat suit as Gabriel approached.

  “You sure you don’t want one of these?” he asked through the clear protective mask.

  Gabriel shook his head. “It might ruin my image.”

  “Better than the alternative.”

  “How bad is he?”

  “A little south of Hiroshima, but not much.”

  “How long is it safe to be in his presence?”

  “Ten minutes won’t kill you. Twenty might.”

  Gabriel went inside. The staff had been evacuated. In the departure lounge a gray-haired man in a business suit was seated at one end of a rectangular table. He might have looked like a typical user of private aircraft were it not for the four heavily armed SCO19 officers in hazmat suits standing around him in a semicircle. Gabriel sat down at the opposite end of the table, as far away from the man as possible, and marked the time on his wristwatch. It was 9:22 p.m.

  Ten minutes won’t kill you. Twenty might . . .

  The man was pondering his hands, which were folded on the table before him. At length, he looked up. For an instant he appeared relieved that someone had dared to enter his presence in normal clothing. Then, suddenly, his expression changed. It was the same look Gabriel had seen on Hanifa Khoury’s face in the safe flat in Berlin.

  “Hello, Konstantin. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

  Gabriel glanced at the SCO19 officers and with a movement of his eyes instructed them to leave the room. A moment passed. Then all four filed out.

  Konstantin Dragunov watched the display of Gabriel’s authority with evident dread. “I suppose you’re the reason I’m here.”

  “You’re here because you’re a Roman candle of radiation.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And so is the woman.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In a situation not unlike yours. You, however, are in much more serious trouble.”

  “I did nothing.”

  “Then why are you dripping with radiation? And why is your fancy house in Belgravia a nuclear disaster zone? The hazmat teams are working fifteen-minute shifts to avoid overexposure. One technician refused to go back in, it was so bad. Your drawing room is a nightmare, but the kitchen is even worse. The counter where she poured the champagne is like Fukushima, and the rubbish bin where she tossed the vial and the pipette dropper nearly broke their scanners. The same was true of Abdullah’s empty champagne glass, but yours was no picnic, either.” Gabriel adopted a confiding tone. “It does make one wonder.”

  “About what?”

  “Whether your good friend the Tsar was trying to kill you, too.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he entrusted you with several billion dollars to turn Abdullah into a puppet of the Kremlin. And all the Tsar got for his money was an MI6 asset.” Gabriel smiled. “Or so he thought.”

  “He isn’t a British agent?”

  “Abdullah?” Gabriel shook his head. “Don’t be silly.”

  Dragunov’s face was aflame with rage. “You bastard.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, Konnie.”

  “What did I ever do to you?”

  “You told the Tsar that Khalid asked me to find his daughter, and the Tsar used the opportunity to try to kill me. If I hadn’t spotted the bomb beneath Reema’s coat that night, I’d be dead.”

  “Perhaps you should have tried to save her. Your conscience might be clearer.”

  Gabriel rose slowly, walked to the opposite end of the table, and with every ounce of strength he could summon drove his fist into Konstantin Dragunov’s face. The Russian toppled sideways and came to rest on the floor of the lounge. Gabriel was surprised to see his head still attached to his shoulders.

  “Who planned it, Konstantin?”

  For a moment, Dragunov was incapable of speech. Finally, he groaned, “Planned what?”

  “Abdullah’s murder.”

  The Russian gave no answer.

  “Do I need to remind you of your current situation, Konstantin? You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a British prison. I think you’ll find it much less luxurious than Eaton Square.”

  “The president will never allow it.”

  “He won’t be in any position to help you. In fact, if I had to guess, the British government is going to issue a warrant for his arrest.”

  “And if I give you the name of the SVR officer who ran the operation? How will that change anything?”

  “Your cooperation will not be forgotten.”

  “Since when do you speak for the British government?”

  “I speak for Reema. And if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to hit you again.”

  Gabriel gave his watch another check. 9:26 . . . According to the Essex Police, Sarah and the Russian assassin had set sail from the marina north of Frinton at 7:49. By now, they were several miles out to sea. Her Majesty’s Coastguard was searching for the vessel, as yet without success.

  “You were saying, Konnie?”

  Dragunov was still lying on the floor. “It was the Englishwoman.”

  “Rebecca Manning?”

  “She uses her father’s name now.”

  “You saw her?”

  “I had a couple of meetings with her.”

  “Where?”

  “A little dacha in Yasenevo. It had a sign outside. I can’t recall what it said.”

  “The Inner-Baltic Research Committee?”

  “Yes, that was it. How did you know?”

  Gabriel didn’t answer. “Under normal circumstances, I’d help you to your feet. But you’ll understand if I don’t.”

  The Russian hauled himself onto the chair. The left side of his face was already badly swollen, and his eye was beginning to close. All in all, thought Gabriel, it was a slight improvement.

  “Keep talking, Konnie.”

  “It wasn’t much of an operation, really. All we had to do was ask Abdullah to set aside a few minutes of time while he was in London.”

  “That was your job?”

  Dragunov nodded. “That’s the way these things work. It’s always a friend.”

  “He came through the passageway in the basement?”

  “He didn’t come through the front door, did he?”

  “What did you give him besides a glass of Louis Roederer?”

  “He drank two glasses, actually.”

  “Both were contaminated?”

  Dragunov nodded.

  “What was the substance?”

  “I wasn’t told.”

  “Maybe you should have asked.”

  Dragunov said nothing.

  “Why didn’t the woman come to the airport with you?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because I killed her, Konstantin. And I’m going to kill you unless you keep talking.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Gabriel awakened his BlackBerry and laid it on the table in front of Dragunov. On the screen was a photograph of a blood-spattered woman hanging out the front door of a Renault Clio.

  “Jesus.”

  Gabriel returned the BlackBerry to his jacket pocket. “Go on, Konnie.”

  “The Englishwoman wanted us to leave Britain separately. Anna was supposed to leave tonight on the Harwich–to–Hoek van Holland ferry. The eleven o’clock.”

  “Anna?”

  “Yurasova. The president has known her since she was a kid.”

  “The operative at the hotel was supposed to leave with her?”

  Dragunov nodded. “His name is Nikolai.”

  “Where were they planning to go when they got to Holland?”

  “If it was safe for them to get on a plane, they were going to head straight for Schiphol.”

  “And if it wasn’t?”

  “There’s a safe house.”
>
  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.” When Gabriel rose angrily from his chair, Dragunov covered his face with his hands. “Please, Allon, not again. I’m telling you the truth. The safe house is in South Holland, somewhere near the coast. But that’s all I know.”

  “Is anyone there now?”

  “A couple of gorillas and someone to handle secure communications with Yasenevo.”

  “Why do they need a secure link to Moscow Center?”

  “It isn’t just a crash pad, Allon. It’s a forward command post.”

  “Who else is there, Konstantin?”

  Dragunov hesitated, then said, “The Englishwoman.”

  “Rebecca Manning?”

  “Philby,” said the Russian. “She uses her father’s name now.”

  73

  The North Sea

  Nikolai Azarov was by no means a skilled seaman, but his father had been a high-ranking officer in the old Soviet Navy and he knew a thing or two about boats. Leaving the marina, he had guided the Bavaria 27 through the shallow tidewaters of Walton Channel and into the North Sea. Once clear of the headland, he turned due east and increased his speed to twenty-five knots. It was comfortably below the vessel’s top cruising speed. Even so, the onboard Garmin navigation system anticipated a 1:15 a.m. arrival.

  It was a straight line to his destination. After establishing his heading, Nikolai switched off the Garmin so it could not be used by the British to locate his position. His phone—the phone Anna had called a few moments before she was killed—was on the bottom of Walton Channel. So was the phone he had taken from the woman outside the hotel. Nikolai was not, however, without means of communication. The Bavaria had an Inmarsat phone and wireless network. He had switched off the system soon after leaving the marina. The handheld receiver was in his pocket, safely beyond the reach of the woman.

  Her suitcase was still in the boot of the Jaguar, but Nikolai had taken her handbag. In it he had found a few cosmetics, a bottle of antidepressants, six hundred pounds in cash, and an old Walther PPK, an interesting choice of weapon. There was no passport or driver’s license, and no credit or bank cards.

  The sea before the Bavaria was empty. Nikolai ejected the magazine from the Walther and removed the round from the chamber. Then he engaged the autopilot and carried the gun and the bottle of antidepressants down the companionway. Entering the salon, Nikolai saw the woman glaring at him from the table. An angry red welt had risen on her cheek where Nikolai had struck her when she refused to board the boat.

  The BBC was playing on the radio. The signal was weak, in and out. The prime minister had just addressed reporters outside Number 10. The radioactive corpse of a dead Russian agent had shut down the M25. A radioactive Russian oligarch had closed London City Airport. A third Russian had killed two people at the Frinton-on-Sea rail station. Police were said to be desperately searching for him.

  Nikolai switched off the radio. “They didn’t mention the guard at the marina.”

  “They probably haven’t found him yet.”

  “I rather doubt that.”

  Nikolai sat down opposite the woman. Despite the welt, she was quite attractive. She would have been prettier were it not for the ridiculous dark wig.

  He placed the bottle of pills before her. “Why are you depressed?”

  “I spend too much time with people like you.”

  He glanced at the bottle. “Perhaps you should take one. You’ll feel better.”

  She stared at him without expression.

  “How about this?” He placed the vial of clear liquid on the table.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the same radioactive chemical element that Anna gave to Abdullah when he visited Konstantin Dragunov’s mansion in Belgravia. And for some reason,” said Nikolai, “you and your friends allowed it to happen.”

  She looked down at the bottle. “Maybe you should get rid of that.”

  “How? Should I pour it into the North Sea?” He made a face of mock revulsion. “Think of the environmental damage.”

  “What about the damage it’s doing to us right now?”

  “It’s totally safe unless it’s ingested.”

  “Did Moscow Center tell you that?”

  Nikolai returned the vial to the pocket of his trousers.

  “That’s the perfect place for it.”

  Nikolai smiled in spite of himself. He had to admit, he admired the woman’s nerve.

  “How long have you been carrying it around?” she asked.

  “A week.”

  “That would explain your peculiar greenish glow. You’re probably hotter than Chernobyl.”

  “And now you are, too.” He examined the welt on her cheek. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not as much as my head.”

  “Take your wig off. I’ll have a look at it.”

  “Thank you, but you’ve done enough already.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” Nikolai lowered his voice. “I said take it off.”

  When she hesitated, he reached across the table and ripped the wig from her head. Her blond hair was in disarray and matted with dried blood above her right ear. Still, Nikolai realized he had seen the woman before. It was the night he had given a briefcase bomb to the halfwit head of security from the Geneva International School. The woman had been at a table under the awning, next to the tall Russian-looking man who had followed Nikolai from the café. A car had followed him, too. Nikolai had not recognized the man behind the wheel, the man with gray temples. But by the following evening, Moscow Center had managed to confirm his identity.

  Gabriel Allon . . .

  Nikolai tossed aside the wig. Without it, the woman was even more beautiful. He could only imagine the sort of jobs she had done for them. The Israelis used honey traps almost as much as the SVR.

  “I thought you said you’re an American.”

  “I am.”

  “Jewish?”

  “Episcopalian, actually.”

  “You made aliyah?”

  “To England?”

  Nikolai hit her a third time. Hard enough for blood to flow from her nose. Hard enough to shut her up.

  “I’m Nikolai,” he said after a moment. “Who are you?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Allison.”

  “Allison what?”

  “Douglas.”

  “Come now, Allison, you can do better than that.”

  She didn’t look quite so brave any longer. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

  “I was planning to kill you and throw your body overboard.” Nikolai touched her swollen cheek. “Unfortunately for you, I’ve changed my mind.”

  74

  Rotterdam

  Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster granted permission for a single aircraft to depart London City Airport that evening. A Gulfstream G550, it touched down in Rotterdam at 12:25 a.m. King Saul Boulevard had arranged for a pair of Audi sedans to be waiting outside the terminal. Keller and Mikhail headed straight for the town of Hellevoetsluis, home of one of South Holland’s largest marinas. Gabriel asked Eli Lavon, who avoided boats whenever possible, to choose a second location.

  “Do you know how long the Dutch coast is?”

  “Four hundred and forty-one kilometers.”

  Lavon looked up from his phone. “How do you possibly know that?”

  “I checked while we were on the plane.”

  Lavon looked down again and contemplated the map. “If I was at the helm . . .”

  “Yes, Eli?”

  “I wouldn’t try to get into a darkened marina.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I’d dump it on a beach somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  Lavon studied the phone as though it were the Torah.

  “Where, Eli?” asked Gabriel, exasperated.

  “Right here.” Lavon tapped the screen. “In Renesse.”

  After making a single brief call with the Inmarsat phone, Nikolai had in
creased his speed to thirty knots. As a result, he reached the Dutch coast fifteen minutes earlier than the Garmin had originally forecast. His running lights were doused. He switched them on and instantly saw the flash of a torch on land.

  Nikolai doused the running lights again, increased his speed to full, and waited for the bite of the sandy bottom. When it came, the boat lurched violently to a stop, with a pronounced starboard list. He killed the engine and poked his head down the companionway. The woman was struggling to gain footing on the sloped teak floor of the galley.

  “You might have warned me,” she said.

  “Let’s go.”

  She clambered awkwardly up the companionway. Nikolai pulled her into the cockpit and shoved her toward the stern.

  “In you go,” he said.

  “Do you know how cold that water is?”

  He aimed the Makarov at her head. “Get in.”

  After first removing her shoes, she slid from the swim step and found her footing on the bottom. The water was level with her breasts.

  “Walk,” commanded Nikolai.

  “Where?”

  He pointed toward the two men now standing at the tideline. “Don’t worry, they’re the least of your problems.”

  Shivering, she started toward shore. Nikolai entered the water soundlessly and, holding the Makarov aloft, followed after her. The car, a Swedish-made sedan with Dutch registration, was parked in the public lot behind the dunes. Nikolai sat with her in the backseat, the gun against her ribs. As they passed through the sleeping seaside town, a single car approached from the opposite direction and flashed past them in a blur.

  The car park had been abandoned to the gulls. Gabriel hurried up the footpath to the beach and saw a darkened Bavaria 27 Sport motor yacht about thirty meters from shore. He rushed down to the sea and with his phone illuminated the hard, flat sand along the tideline. There were footprints everywhere. Three men in street shoes, a woman whose feet were bare. The impressions were recent. They had just missed her.

  He ran back to the car park and climbed into the Audi.

  “Anything?” asked Lavon.