by Daniel Silva
“And you’re certain about the attribution?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t have offered it to Viktor if I wasn’t. It wouldn’t have been ethical.”
“Since when do ethics have anything to do with being an art dealer?”
“Or an intelligence officer,” replied Sarah.
“But Italian Old Masters aren’t exactly your area of expertise, are they? In fact, if I recall correctly, you wrote your dissertation at Harvard on the German Expressionists.”
“At the tender age of twenty-eight.” She moved a stray lock of blond hair from her face using only her middle finger. “And before that, as you well know, I earned my MA in art history from the Courtauld Institute here in London.”
“Did you seek a second opinion?”
“Niles Dunham. He offered me eight hundred thousand on the spot.”
“For an Artemisia? Outrageous.”
“I told him so.”
“Still, all things considered, you would have been wise to take it.”
“Trust me, I intend to call him first thing in the morning.”
“Please don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because one never knows when one might need a newly discovered painting by Artemisia Gentileschi.”
“It needs work,” said Sarah.
“Who did you have in mind for the job?”
“Since you weren’t available, I was hoping I could convince David Bull to take it on.”
“I thought he was in New York these days.”
“He is. I had lunch with him before I left. Such a lovely man.”
“Have you discussed it with him?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Who else knew about the sale to Viktor other than Julian?”
“No one.”
“And you didn’t let it slip at Wilton’s?”
“I’m a former intelligence officer and undercover operative. I don’t let things slip.”
“And what about Viktor?” Gabriel persisted. “Did he tell anyone that you were coming to Cheyne Walk last night?”
“With Viktor, I suppose anything’s possible. But why do you ask?”
Christopher answered on Gabriel’s behalf. “He’s wondering whether the Russians were trying to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Viktor and me?”
“You do have a rather long track record when it comes to Russians,” Gabriel pointed out. “It stretches all the way back to our old friend Ivan Kharkov.”
“If Moscow Center had wanted to kill me, they would have made an appointment to see a painting at Isherwood Fine Arts.”
Gabriel directed his gaze toward Christopher. “And you’re sure the contaminated documents were in fact delivered by Nina Antonova?”
“We didn’t see her place the bloody things on Viktor’s desk, if that’s what you’re asking. But someone gave them to Viktor, and Nina is the most likely candidate.”
“Why didn’t Jonathan mention her name this morning outside Number Ten?”
“National pride, for a start. As you can imagine, there were red faces all round when we realized that she’d slipped out of the country even before we started looking for her. The home secretary is planning to make the announcement tomorrow morning.”
“But what if Sarah is right? What if Nina was deceived into delivering those documents? And what if Viktor managed to warn her before he died?”
“She should have called the police instead of fleeing the country.”
“She doesn’t trust the police. You wouldn’t either if you were a Russian journalist.”
Gabriel’s phone pulsed with an incoming message. He had been forced, at long last, to part company with his beloved BlackBerry Key2. His new device was an Israeli-made Solaris, reputedly the world’s most secure mobile phone. Gabriel’s had been customized to his unique specifications. Larger and heavier than a typical smartphone, it was capable of fending off remote attacks from the world’s most sophisticated hackers, including the American NSA and Russia’s Special Communications Service, or Spetssviaz.
Christopher eyed Gabriel’s device enviously. “Is it as secure as they say?”
“I could send an email from the middle of the Doughnut with complete confidence that HMG would never be able to read it.” The Doughnut was how employees of Britain’s GCHQ referred to their circular headquarters in Cheltenham.
“May I at least hold it?” asked Christopher.
“In the age of Covid? Don’t even think about it.” Gabriel entered his fourteen-character hard password, and the text message appeared on the screen. He frowned as he read it.
“Something wrong?”
“Graham has asked me to come to dinner. Apparently, Helen is making couscous.”
“My condolences. I’m only sorry I won’t be joining you.”
“You are, actually.”
“Tell Graham I’ll take a raincheck.”
“He’s the director-general of your service.”
“I realize that,” said Christopher, staring at the beautiful woman draped across the overstuffed chair. “But I’m afraid I have a much better offer.”
7
Eaton Square, Belgravia
When Helen Liddell-Brown met Graham Seymour at a drinks party at Cambridge, he told her that his father worked for a very dull department of the Foreign Office. She did not believe him, for her uncle served in a senior position in the same department, which was known to insiders as the Firm and the rest of the world as MI6. She accepted Graham’s proposal of marriage on the condition he take a respectable job in the City. But a year after they wed, he surprised her by joining MI5, a betrayal for which Helen—and Graham’s father, for that matter—never quite forgave him.
She punished Graham by adopting stridently left-wing politics. She opposed the Falklands War, campaigned for a nuclear freeze, and was twice arrested outside the South African Embassy in Trafalgar Square. Graham never knew what horrors awaited him in the post each night when he returned home from the office. He once remarked to a colleague that if Helen were not his wife, he would have opened a file on her and tapped her phone.
If it was her secret strategy to derail his career, she failed miserably. After serving for several years in Northern Ireland, he took control of MI5’s counterterrorism division and was then promoted to the rank of deputy director for operations. It was his intention, at the conclusion of his term, to retire to his villa in Portugal. His plans changed, however, when Prime Minister Lancaster offered him the keys to his father’s old service—a move that surprised everyone in the intelligence trade except Gabriel, who had brought about the set of circumstances that led to Graham’s appointment. With the Americans turning inward and torn by political divisions, ties between the Office and MI6 had grown exceedingly close. The two services operated together routinely, and critical intelligence flowed freely between Vauxhall Cross and King Saul Boulevard. Gabriel and Graham saw themselves as defenders of the postwar international order. Given the current state of global affairs, it was an increasingly thankless task.
Helen Seymour’s acceptance of her husband’s ascent to the pinnacle of British intelligence had been grudging at best. At Graham’s request, she had toned down her politics and placed some distance between herself and some of her more heretical friends. She practiced yoga each morning and passed her afternoons in the kitchen, where she indulged her passion for exotic cooking. During Gabriel’s last visit to the Seymour residence, he had heroically consumed a plate of paella in violation of Jewish dietary laws. The chicken couscous was a rare triumph. Even Graham, who was skilled at moving food around his plate to create the illusion of consumption, helped himself to a second portion.
At the conclusion of the meal, he dabbed the corners of his mouth deliberately with his linen napkin and invited Gabriel to join him upstairs in his book-lined study. A draft blew through the open window overlooking Eaton Square. Gabriel was dubious as to the efficacy of such precautions, believing they simply fa
cilitated the transfer of the virus from host to unwitting recipient. He glanced at the wall-mounted television, which was tuned to CNN. A panel of political experts was debating the American presidential election, now only three months away.
“Care to make a prediction?” asked Graham.
“I believe Christopher will propose marriage to Sarah sometime in the next year.”
“I was talking about the election.”
“It will be closer than the polls are predicting, but he cannot win.”
“Will he accept the outcome?”
“Not a chance.”
“And then what?”
Graham went to the window and effortlessly lowered the sash. He seemed unsuited for so mundane a task. With his even features and plentiful pewter-colored locks, he reminded Gabriel of one of those male models who appear in ads for gold fountain pens and expensive wristwatches, the sort of needless trinkets that went out of fashion with the pandemic. He made lesser beings feel inferior, especially Americans.
“Rumor has it you arrived in London on a fancy new Gulfstream,” he said, reclaiming his seat. “The registry is rather opaque.”
“With good reason. My many friends and admirers in the Islamic Republic are rather angry with me at the moment.”
“That’s what you get for blowing up their centrifuge factory. Frankly, I’m surprised you found time in your busy schedule to come here on such short notice.”
“A dear friend of mine was feeling under the weather. I thought I’d pay her a visit.”
“Your dear friend is just fine.”
“Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of Viktor Orlov.”
“Viktor is none of your affair.”
“He was my asset, Graham. And if it wasn’t for his money, I would be dead. So would my wife.”
“As I recall,” said Graham, “I was the one who talked Viktor into surrendering his oil company in exchange for your freedom. If he’d had any sense, he would have kept a lower profile. Instead, he purchased the Gazeta and deliberately placed himself in the Kremlin’s crosshairs. It was only a matter of time before they got to him.”
“With Nina Antonova?”
Graham made a face. “At some point, we might have to reestablish some boundaries between your service and mine.”
“You don’t really believe she’s a Moscow Center assassin, do you?”
“Sometimes two plus two does in fact equal four.”
“But sometimes it’s five.”
“Only in Room 101 of the Ministry of Love, Winston.”
“Sarah has an interesting theory,” replied Gabriel. “She believes Nina was deceived into delivering the contaminated documents.”
“And when did Sarah reach this conclusion? During the thirty seconds she was inside Viktor’s study?”
“She has excellent instincts.”
“That’s hardly surprising. After all, you were the one who trained her. But Moscow Center would never have entrusted such a dangerous weapon to someone who wasn’t fully under its control.”
“Why ever not?”
“What if she had opened the parcel on the British Airways flight from Zurich?”
“But she didn’t. She delivered the package to Viktor. And Viktor, who was justifiably paranoid about his security, waited until she had left before opening it. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me that Nina Antonova and her controllers at Moscow Center devised a rather cunning method of slipping a contaminated package past Viktor’s formidable defenses. They’re probably celebrating their latest success as we speak.”
“There’s no way she’s in Moscow, Graham.”
“Well, she isn’t in Zurich, and her phone is off the air.”
“What about her credit card?”
“No recent activity.”
“That’s because she knows the Russians are looking for her. Obviously, we need to find her first.”
“By midday tomorrow, she will be the world’s most wanted woman.”
“Unless you delay releasing her name and photograph long enough for me to find her.”
Graham was silent.
“Give me seventy-two hours,” said Gabriel.
“Not possible.” Graham paused, then added, “But you can have forty-eight.”
“That’s not much time.”
“It’s all you’re going to get.”
“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I’m sure you won’t mind if I borrow Sarah.”
“Not at all. Where do you intend to start?”
“I was hoping to have a word with someone who used to work with Nina at the Gazeta. Someone who might have an opinion as to whether she was a real journalist or a Moscow Center assassin.” Gabriel smiled. “You wouldn’t know where I could find someone like that, would you, Graham?”
“Yes,” he said. “I think I might.”
8
London–Norwich
Transport left a Vauxhall sedan in Pembridge Square, a key taped beneath the rear bumper, a Beretta 9mm concealed in the glove box. Gabriel collected it at half past nine the following morning and drove to Knightsbridge. Sarah was drinking a cappuccino at Caffè Concerto in the Brompton Road, a mask dangling from one ear. Laughing, she slid into the passenger seat.
“A Vauxhall? What happened? They couldn’t find you a Passat?”
“Evidently, there were none available in the whole of the United Kingdom.”
“We should have taken Christopher’s Bentley.”
“Intelligence officers don’t drive cars like that unless they’re moonlighting for the Russians.”
“Says the man who has his own airplane.”
“It belongs to the state of Israel.”
“Whatever you say, darling.” Sarah glanced at the facade of Harrods. Quietly, she said, “The bricks are in the wall.”
Gabriel gave an involuntary start.
Sarah placed a hand on his arm. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Obviously, you and Christopher have been engaging in a little pillow talk about past operations.”
“We were locked in the maisonette together for three months with nothing to do but watch the pandemic on television and share our deepest, darkest secrets. Christopher told me all about the Eamon Quinn affair and the real story behind the bombing of Harrods. He also mentioned something about a woman he fell in love with while he was working undercover in Belfast.”
“I assume you reciprocated with a tragic tale of your own.”
“Quite a few, actually.”
“Did my name come up?”
“I might have mentioned that I was once desperately in love with you.”
“Why on earth would you tell him that?”
“Because it’s true.”
“But you’re not in love with me anymore?”
“Not even a little.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “You are still a handsome devil, though.”
“For a man of advancing years.”
“You don’t look a day over—”
“Careful, Sarah.”
“I was going to say fifty.”
“How generous of you.”
“What’s your secret?”
“I’m young at heart.”
She gave a dismissive laugh. “You’re the oldest soul I’ve ever met, Gabriel Allon. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.”
He followed the Strand to the Kingsway, then headed through the northeastern boroughs of London to the M11. The traffic was pandemic sparse, mainly lorries and essential workers. They reached Cambridge before noon and an hour later were approaching Norwich, the unofficial capital of East Anglia.
Gabriel left the Vauxhall in a car park near the twelfth-century cathedral and led Sarah on an hour-long walking tour of the city’s ancient center. After performing a series of time-tested countersurveillance maneuvers, they made their way to Bishopsgate. A terrace of redbrick cottages overlooked the deserted sporting grounds of the Norwich Middle School. Gabriel
thumbed the bell push of Number 34 and then turned his back to the camera mounted above the door.
A female voice addressed him in English over the intercom. The accent was vaguely Russian, the tone unwelcoming. “Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
“I’m not selling anything, Professor Crenshaw.”
“Who are you?”
“An old friend.”
“I don’t have any friends. They’re all dead.”
“Not all of them.”
“How are we acquainted, please?”
“We met in Moscow a long time ago. You took me to Novodevichy Cemetery. You said that to understand modern Russia, you had to know her past. And that to know her past, you had to walk among her bones.”
A long moment passed. “Turn around so I can have a look at you.”
Gabriel rotated slowly and lifted his eyes to the lens of the security camera. A buzzer groaned, the deadbolt thumped. He placed his hand on the latch. Sarah followed him inside.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“Not for a minute.”
“How long has it been?”
“A hundred years.”
“Is that all?”
They were seated at a wrought-iron table outside in the unkempt garden. Olga Sukhova was clutching an earthenware mug of tea to her breasts. Her hair, once long and flaxen, was short and dark and flecked with gray, and there were lines around her blue eyes. A plastic surgeon had softened her features. Even so, her face was still remarkably beautiful. Heroic, vulnerable, virtuous: the face of a Russian icon come to life. The face of Russia itself.
Gabriel had glimpsed it for the first time at a diplomatic reception at the Israeli Embassy in Moscow. He had been posing as Natan Golani, a midlevel functionary from the Ministry of Culture who specialized in building artistic bridges between Israel and the rest of the world. Olga was a prominent Russian investigative reporter who had recently come into possession of a most dangerous secret—a secret she shared with Gabriel over dinner the following evening at a Georgian restaurant near the Arbat. Afterward, in the darkened stairwell of her Moscow apartment building, they were targeted for assassination. The Russians mounted a second attempt on their lives a few months later in Oxford, where Olga was working as a Russian-language tutor named Marina Chesnikova. She was now known as Dr. Sonia Crenshaw, a Ukrainian-born professor of contemporary Russian studies at East Anglia University.