The New Girl Page 30

  Gabriel told him.

  “They couldn’t have arrived more than a few minutes ago.”

  “They didn’t.”

  “You don’t think she was in that car, do you?”

  “Yeah,” said Gabriel as he slammed the Audi into reverse. “I think she was.”

  They crossed a narrow land bridge, with a great inland bay on the right and the sea to the left. The juxtaposition told Sarah they were headed north. Eventually, a road sign appeared in the darkness. The name of the town, Ouddorp, meant nothing to her.

  The car rounded a traffic circle and then sped across an expanse of tabletop-flat farmland. The narrow track into which they finally turned was unmarked. It led to a collection of clapboard holiday bungalows hidden away in a range of grass-covered dunes. One was surrounded by tall hedges and had a separate garage with old-fashioned swinging doors. Nikolai locked the Volvo inside before leading Sarah to the bungalow.

  It was white as a wedding cake, with a red tile roof. Plexiglass barriers shielded the veranda from the wind. A woman waited there alone, like a specimen in a jar. She wore an oilskin coat and stretch jeans. Her eyes were unusually blue—and tired-looking, thought Sarah. The night had been unkind to the woman’s appearance.

  A stray forelock had fallen over one of her eyes. The woman pushed it aside and studied Sarah carefully. Something about the gesture was familiar. The face was familiar, too. All at once Sarah realized where she had seen it before.

  A news conference at the Grand Presidential Palace in Moscow . . .

  The woman on the veranda was Rebecca Manning.

  75

  Rotterdam

  The car had been a Volvo, late model, dark in color. On that point, Gabriel and Eli Lavon were in complete agreement. Both had caught a clear glimpse of the front grille and had noted the circular ornament and distinctive diagonal line sloping left to right. Gabriel was certain it had been a sedan. Lavon, however, was convinced it was an estate car.

  There was no dispute over the direction it had been heading, which was north. Gabriel and Lavon concentrated on the little villages along the coast while Mikhail and Keller worked the larger towns inland. Between them, they spotted one hundred and twelve Volvos. In none did they find Sarah.

  Admittedly, it was an impossible task—“a needle in a Dutch haystack,” as Lavon put it—but they kept at it until seven fifteen, when they all four gathered at a coffee shop in an industrial quarter of south Rotterdam. They were the first customers of the morning. There was a petrol station next door and a couple of car dealerships across the road. One, of course, sold Volvos.

  An environmentally friendly Dutch police cruiser rolled past in the street, slowly.

  “What’s his problem?” asked Mikhail.

  It was Lavon who answered. “Maybe he’s looking for the idiots who’ve been racing around the countryside all night. Or the genius who ran a Bavaria 27 aground near Renesse.”

  “Think they’ve found it?”

  “The yacht?” Lavon nodded. “It’s rather hard to miss, especially now that it’s light.”

  “What happens next?”

  “The Dutch police find out who owns the boat and where it came from. And before long, every officer in Holland will be looking for a Russian assassin and a pretty American woman named Sarah Bancroft.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” said Mikhail.

  “Unless Rebecca and her friend Nikolai decide to cut their losses and kill her.”

  “Maybe they already have.” Mikhail looked at Gabriel. “You’re sure they were a woman’s footprints?”

  “I’m sure, Mikhail.”

  “Why bother to bring her ashore? Why not lighten their load and make a run for Moscow?”

  “I suppose they want to ask her a few questions first. Wouldn’t you if you were in their position?”

  “You think they’re going to get rough with her?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Who’s asking the questions.” Gabriel noticed that Keller was suddenly working the keyboard of his BlackBerry. “What’s going on?”

  “Apparently, Konstantin Dragunov isn’t feeling well.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “He just admitted to the Metropolitan Police that he and the woman poisoned the crown prince last night. Lancaster’s making the announcement at Downing Street at ten.”

  “Do me a favor, Christopher.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell Graham and Lancaster to announce it now.”

  76

  10 Downing Street

  Graham Seymour was waiting in the entrance hall of Number 10 when Jonathan Lancaster came down the Grand Staircase with Geoffrey Sloane at his side. Sloane was nervously adjusting his necktie, as though he were the one who was about to face the battery of cameras arrayed outside in Downing Street. Lancaster was clutching a few light blue notecards. He led Seymour into the Cabinet Room and solemnly closed the door.

  “It worked to perfection. Just like you and Gabriel said it would.”

  “With one problem, Prime Minister.”

  “The best-laid plans of mice and men . . .” Lancaster held up the notecards. “Do you think this will be enough to keep the Russians from killing her?”

  “Gabriel seems to think it will.”

  “Did he really punch Konstantin Dragunov?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Was it a good one?” asked Lancaster mischievously.

  “Quite.”

  “I hope Konstantin wasn’t too seriously injured.”

  “At this point I doubt he even remembers it.”

  “He’s ill, is he?”

  “The sooner we get him on a plane, the better.”

  Lancaster looked down at the first notecard and, lips moving, rehearsed the opening line of his prepared remarks. It was true, thought Seymour. It had worked to perfection. He and Gabriel had beaten the Russians at their own game. The Tsar had killed before, recklessly, with weapons of mass destruction. But this time he had been caught in the act. The consequences would be severe—sanctions, expulsions, perhaps even excommunication from the Group of Eight—and the damage was likely to be permanent.

  “She has some nerve,” said Lancaster suddenly.

  “Sarah Bancroft?”

  “Rebecca Manning.” The prime minister was still looking down at his remarks. “One would have thought she would have remained safely in Moscow.” He lowered his voice. “Like her father.”

  “We’ve made it clear we want nothing to do with her. Therefore, it’s safe for her to travel outside Russia.”

  “Perhaps we should reevaluate our position vis-à-vis Ms. Philby. After this, she deserves to be brought back to Britain in chains. In fact,” said Lancaster, waving the notecards, “I’m thinking about making a small revision to my prepared remarks.”

  “I would advise against that.”

  The door opened and Geoffrey Sloane leaned into the room. “It’s time, Prime Minister.”

  Lancaster, the consummate political actor, squared his shoulders before striding out the world’s most famous door, into the glare of the lights. Seymour followed Sloane into his office to watch the announcement on television. The prime minister seemed entirely alone in the world. His voice was calm but knife-edged with anger.

  This monstrous and depraved act carried out by the intelligence services of the Russian Federation, on the direct order of the Russian president, will not go unpunished . . .

  It had worked to perfection, thought Seymour. With one problem.

  77

  Ouddorp, The Netherlands

  It became apparent within minutes of Sarah’s arrival at the safe house that they were not prepared for a hostage. Nikolai cut a bedsheet to ribbons, bound her hands and feet, and tied a gag tightly around her mouth. The bungalow’s cellar was a small, stone-lined chamber. Sarah sat with her back to a damp wall and her knees beneath her chin. Soaked to the skin from her walk to shore, she was
soon shivering uncontrollably. She thought of Reema and the many nights she had spent in captivity before her brutal murder. If a child of twelve could bear up under the pressure, Sarah could, too.

  There was a door at the top of the stone steps. Beyond it, Sarah could hear two voices conversing in Russian. One belonged to Nikolai, the other to Rebecca Manning. Judging by their tone, they were attempting to piece together the series of events that led to the arrest of the Russian president’s close friend and the death of a female SVR operative. By now, they had no doubt determined that their operation had been compromised from the beginning—and that Gabriel Allon, the man who had unmasked Rebecca Manning as a Russian mole, was somehow involved. Rebecca was now fighting for her career, perhaps even her life. Eventually, she would come for Sarah.

  She willed herself into restless sleep, if only to stop the convulsive trembling of her body. In her dreams she was lying on a Caribbean beach with Nadia al-Bakari, but she woke to find Nikolai and the two goons staring down at her. They lifted her from the cold, damp floor as though she were made of tissue paper and carried her up the steps. A table of pale unfinished wood had been placed in the center of the sitting room. They forced her into a chair and removed only the gag, leaving her hands and feet bound. Nikolai clamped a hand over her mouth and said he would kill her if she screamed or tried to call for help. There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest the threat was hollow.

  Rebecca Manning seemed unaware of Sarah’s presence. Arms folded, she was staring at the television, which was tuned to the BBC. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster had just accused Russia of attempting to assassinate the crown prince of Saudi Arabia during his state visit to Britain.

  This monstrous and depraved act . . .

  Rebecca listened to Lancaster’s announcement a moment longer before aiming a remote at the screen and muting the sound. Then she turned and glared at Sarah.

  At length, she asked, “Who are you?”

  “Allison Douglas.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “The CIA.”

  Rebecca glanced at Nikolai. The blow was open-handed but vicious. Sarah, fearful of Nikolai’s warning, smothered a scream.

  Rebecca Manning took a step closer and placed the vial of clear liquid on the table. “One drop,” she said, “and not even your friend the archangel will be able to save you.”

  Sarah stared at the vial in silence.

  “I thought that would refresh your memory. Now tell me your name.”

  Sarah waited until Nikolai drew back his hand before finally answering.

  “Is it a work name?” asked Rebecca.

  “No, it’s real.”

  “Sarah is a Jewish name.”

  “So is Rebecca.”

  “Who do you work for, Sarah Bancroft?”

  “The Museum of Modern Art in New York.”

  “Is it a cover job?”

  “No.”

  “And before that?”

  “The CIA.”

  “What is your connection to Gabriel Allon?”

  “I worked with him on a couple of operations.”

  “Name one.”

  “Ivan Kharkov.”

  “Did Allon know about the plot to kill Abdullah?”

  “Of course.”

  “How?”

  “It was his idea.”

  Rebecca absorbed Sarah’s words like a blow to the abdomen. She was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Was Abdullah ever an MI6 asset?”

  “No,” said Sarah. “He was a Russian asset. And you, Rebecca Manning, just killed him.”

  It was half past eight when Gabriel’s BlackBerry shivered with an incoming call. He did not recognize the number. Ordinarily, he terminated such calls without a second thought. But not that call. Not the call that arrived on his phone at half past eight in Rotterdam.

  He tapped answer, lifted the BlackBerry to his ear, and murmured a greeting.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t pick up.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You don’t recognize my voice?”

  It was female and slightly hoarse with fatigue and tobacco. The accent was British with a trace of French. And, yes, Gabriel recognized it.

  It was the voice of Rebecca Manning.

  78

  Ouddorp, the Netherlands

  The beach pavilion was called Natural High. In summer it was one of the busiest spots on the Dutch coast. But at half past ten on an April morning, it had the air of an abandoned colonial outpost. The weather was fitful, blinding sun one minute, blinding rain the next. Gabriel watched it from the shelter of the café. So fair and foul a day I have not seen . . . Suddenly, he thought of a seaside café atop the cliffs of Lizard Point in West Cornwall. He used to hike there along the coastal path, have a pot of tea and a scone with thick clotted cream, and then hike back to his cottage in Gunwalloe Cove. It seemed a lifetime ago. Perhaps one day, when his term was over, he would go back again. Or maybe he would take Chiara and the children to Venice. They would live in a grand apartment in Cannaregio, he would restore paintings for Francesco Tiepolo. The world and its many problems would pass him by. He would spend his nights with his family and his days with his old friends Bellini, Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese. He would be anonymous again, a man with a brush and a palette atop a work platform, hidden behind a shroud.

  For now, however, he was very much in plain sight. He was sitting alone at a table against the window. On the table before him was his BlackBerry. He had nearly run the battery dry putting in place the pieces of the deal. Rebecca had quibbled over one or two details regarding the timing, but after one final call to London, it was done. Downing Street, it seemed, wanted to make the exchange as badly as Gabriel.

  Just then, the BlackBerry flashed. It was Eli Lavon. He was outside in the car park. “She just arrived.”

  “Alone?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” said Lavon, “there is no one else visible in the car.”

  “What kind is it?”

  “A Volvo.”

  “Sedan or an estate car?”

  The call went dead. It was a sedan, thought Gabriel.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Mikhail and Keller. They were sitting at a table in the back corner of the room. At another were two SVR hoods in leather jackets. The Russians watched Rebecca Manning carefully as she entered the café and sat down opposite Gabriel. She looked very English in her dark green Barbour jacket. She placed her phone on the table, along with a packet of L&B cigarettes and an old silver lighter.

  “May I?” asked Gabriel.

  She nodded.

  He picked up the lighter. The inscription was scarcely visible. For a lifetime of service to the motherland . . .

  “Couldn’t they have bought you a new one?”

  “It belonged to my father.”

  Gabriel glanced at her wristwatch. “And that?”

  “It was gathering dust in the SVR’s private museum. I took it to a jeweler and replaced the timepiece. It works quite well, actually.”

  “Then why are you ten minutes late?” Gabriel placed the lighter atop her packet of cigarettes. “You should probably put those away.”

  “Even at a beach café?” She returned the cigarettes and the lighter to her handbag. “Things are a bit more relaxed in Russia.”

  “And your life expectancy rates reflect that.”

  “I believe we’ve fallen below North Korea on the latest list.” Her smile was genuine. Unlike their last meeting, which had taken place in a secret MI6 detention center in the north of Scotland, it was all very cordial. “My mother was asking about you the other day,” she said suddenly.

  “Is she still in Spain?”

  Rebecca nodded. “I was hoping she might settle with me in Moscow.”

  “But?”

  “She didn’t care for it much when she visited.”

  “It’s an acquired taste.”

  The wai
tress was hovering.

  “You should order something,” said Gabriel.

  “I wasn’t planning to stay long.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  She ordered a koffie verkeerd. Then, when the waitress was gone, she unlocked her phone and pushed it toward Gabriel. On the screen was a still image of Sarah Bancroft. One side of her face was red and swollen.

  “Who did that to her?”

  Rebecca ignored his question. “Play it.”

  Gabriel tapped the play icon and listened for as long as he could stomach it. Then he tapped pause and glared at Rebecca over the tabletop. “I would advise you never to make that recording public.”

  “We would be justified.”

  “It would be a grave mistake.”

  “Would it?”

  “Sarah’s an American, not Israeli. The CIA will retaliate if they find out you roughed her up like that.”

  “She was working for you when you spoon-fed us that disinformation about Abdullah being an MI6 asset.” Rebecca reclaimed the phone. “Don’t worry, the recording is for my personal use only.”

  “Do you think it will be enough?”

  “For what?”

  “To save your career at the SVR.”

  Rebecca fell silent while the waitress placed a glass of milky Dutch coffee before her. “Is that what this was about? Destroying me?”

  “No. It was about destroying him.”

  “Our president? You’re tilting at windmills, Don Quixote.”

  “Wait a few hours for the news to sink in that the Kremlin ordered the assassination of the future king of Saudi Arabia. Russia will be the pariah of pariahs.”

  “It was your assassination, not ours.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “By the time the trolls from the Internet Research Agency are finished, no one in the world will believe we had anything do with it.” Rebecca added sugar to her coffee and stirred it thoughtfully. “And who’s going to enforce this so-called pariah status of yours? You? Great Britain? The United States?” She shook her head slowly. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but the long-cherished institutions of the West are in tatters. We’re the only game in town. Russia, China, the Iranians . . .”