The New Girl

by Daniel Silva

  Phoebe placed a pot of Earl Grey tea on the table, along with a plate of dainty sandwiches. “Are you working?”

  “Always,” drawled Nikolai.

  “What kind of story is it?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Does someone die?”

  “Several people, actually.”

  Just then, an open-top Jaguar F-Type, bright red, drew up at the hotel’s entrance. The driver was a good-looking man of perhaps fifty, blond, with deeply tanned skin. His passenger, a black-haired woman, was recording their arrival on a smartphone, her arm outstretched. They seemed to be dressed for a special occasion.

  “The Edgertons,” explained Phoebe.

  “Sorry?”

  “Tom and Mary Edgerton. They’re newlyweds. Apparently, it was all very spur of the moment.” A bellman heaved two suitcases from the car’s boot while the woman snapped photographs of the sea. “Lovely, isn’t she?”

  “Quite,” agreed Nikolai.

  “I think she might be an American.”

  “We won’t hold that against her.”

  Nikolai watched the couple enter the lobby, where the manager presented them each with a complimentary glass of champagne. The woman, while surveying the hotel’s staid interior, inadvertently caught Nikolai’s eye and smiled. The man took her proprietarily by the arm and led her to the lift.

  “She’s definitely American,” said Phoebe.

  “Indeed,” agreed Nikolai. “And her husband is the jealous type.”

  The bridal suite was on the third floor. Keller swiped the key card, pushed open the door, and stood aside for Sarah to enter. Their bags lay on luggage stands at the foot of the bed. Keller hung the do not disturb sign from the latch and, closing the door, engaged the safety bar.

  “Is he the man you saw at Café Remor in Geneva?”

  Sarah nodded once.

  Keller sent a brief message on his BlackBerry to the team at Hatch End. Then he reached inside his suit jacket and removed his Walther PPK from his shoulder holster. “Ever use one of these?”

  “Not a Walther,” said Sarah.

  “Shoot anyone?”

  “A Russian, actually.”

  “Lucky girl. Where?”

  “In the hip and the shoulder.”

  “I meant—”

  “It happened in a bank in Zurich.”

  Keller racked the Walther’s slide, chambering the first round. Then he thumbed the safety into place and handed the gun to Sarah. “It’s now fully loaded. Seven rounds only. When you want to fire it, just disengage the safety and pull the trigger.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Sarah practiced disengaging and engaging the safety. “The perfect wedding gift for the woman who has everything.”

  Keller raised his champagne glass. “Your first wedding, is it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Mine, too.” He walked to the window and stared at the granite sea. “Let’s hope we defy the odds.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sarah as she slipped the Walther into her purse. “Let’s.”

  56

  10 Downing Street

  At eight fifteen that evening, as Keller and Sarah were dining well in the Bedford’s grill room not twenty feet from their Russian quarry, a Jaguar limousine bearing Gabriel Allon and Graham Seymour passed through a heavily guarded gate off Horse Guards Road and parked outside the five-story redbrick building that stood at 12 Downing Street. Formerly the official residence of the chief whip, it now housed the prime minister’s press and communications staff. The chancellor of the Exchequer resided next door at Number 11, and the prime minister himself, of course, at Number 10. The famous black door opened automatically as Gabriel and Seymour approached. Watched by a fierce-looking brown-and-white tabby cat, they went quickly inside.

  Geoffrey Sloane, the prime minister’s chief of staff and the most powerful unelected official in Britain, was waiting in the entrance hall. He thrust a hand in Gabriel’s direction. “I was here the morning you killed that ISIS dirty bomber at the security gate. In fact, I could hear the gunshots from my office.” Sloane released Gabriel’s hand and looked at Seymour. “I’m afraid the PM hasn’t much time.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  “I’d like to sit in.”

  “Sorry, Geoffrey, but that’s not possible.”

  Jonathan Lancaster was waiting upstairs in the Terracotta Room. Earlier that afternoon he had narrowly survived a vote of no confidence in the House of Commons. Even so, the Westminster press corps were at that very moment writing his political obituary. Thanks to the folly of Brexit, which Lancaster had opposed, his career was effectively over. Were it not for Gabriel and Graham Seymour, whom he greeted warmly, it might have ended much sooner.

  The prime minister glanced at his wristwatch. “I have dinner guests.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Seymour, “but I’m afraid we have a rather serious situation regarding the Russians.”

  “Not again.”

  Seymour nodded gravely.

  “And the nature of this situation?”

  “A known SVR assassin has entered the country.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “A small hotel in Essex. The Bedford House.”

  “I remember it fondly from my youth,” said Lancaster. “I take it the Russian is under surveillance.”

  “Total,” answered Seymour. “Four MI6 watchers have checked into the hotel next door, the East Anglia Inn, along with two highly experienced Israeli field officers. Tech-Ops have planted transmitters in the Russian’s room, audio and video. They’ve also hacked into the Bedford’s internal network of security cameras. We’re watching his every move.”

  “Do we have anyone inside the Bedford?”

  “Christopher Keller. He’s the one who—”

  “I know who he is,” interjected Lancaster. Then he asked, “Do we know the Russian’s target?”

  “We can’t say for certain, Prime Minister, but we believe the Russians are planning to assassinate Crown Prince Abdullah during his visit to London.”

  Lancaster absorbed the news with admirable calm. “Why would the Russians want to kill the future king of Saudi Arabia?”

  “Because the future king is a Russian agent. And if he ever reaches the throne, he will tilt Saudi Arabia toward the Kremlin and do irreparable harm to British and American interests in the Gulf.”

  Lancaster stared at Seymour, bewildered. “If that’s the case, why on earth would the Russians want to eliminate him?”

  “Because they’re probably under the impression Abdullah is working for us.”

  “Us?”

  “The Secret Intelligence Service.”

  “And just how did they come to that conclusion?”

  “We told them.”

  “How?”

  Seymour smiled coldly. “Rebecca Manning.”

  Lancaster reached for the phone. “I’m afraid we’re going to be a while, Geoffrey. Please extend my apologies to our guests.” He replaced the receiver and looked at Seymour. “You have my full attention. Keep talking.”

  But it was Gabriel, not the director-general of the Secret Intelligence Service, who explained to the prime minister why it appeared the Russians intended to assassinate the future king of Saudi Arabia while he was on British soil. The briefing was identical to the one Gabriel had given to Graham Seymour several weeks earlier in the safe house in St. Luke’s Mews, though now it contained details of the deception operation targeted at Rebecca Manning, the former MI6 officer and daughter of Kim Philby. Lancaster listened in silence, his jaw clenched. Before Russia’s intervention in America’s politics, they had meddled in Great Britain’s, and Lancaster was the victim. There was also ample evidence to suggest the Kremlin had covertly supported Brexit, which had thrown Britain into turmoil and left his career in ruins. If there was anyone who wanted to punish the Russians as much as Gabriel, it was Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster. />
  “And you’re sure this man Bennett is working for the Russians?”

  Gabriel deferred to Seymour, who explained that Bennett had twice been observed meeting with his SVR handler, Yevgeny Teplov, in Epping Forest.

  “Another spy scandal,” said Lancaster. “Just what the country needs.”

  “We always knew there would be others, Prime Minister. Rebecca was in the perfect position to spot officers who might be vulnerable to a Russian approach.”

  “How did Bennett escape detection until now?”

  “He went dormant after Rebecca’s capture. We took a hard look at him but—”

  “You failed to notice another Russian spy staring you in the face.”

  “No, Prime Minister. I left a suspected Russian spy in place so I might use him later to destroy the woman who destroyed my service.”

  “Rebecca Manning.”

  Seymour nodded.

  “Explain.”

  “If we arrest the members of an SVR hit team on the eve of your meeting with Abdullah, the Russians will suffer enormous international damage, and Rebecca will come under suspicion as the source of the leak.”

  “The Russians will think she’s a triple agent—is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “Indeed.”

  The prime minister made a show of thought. “You said if we arrest the Russian hit team. What other option do we have?”

  “We can allow the plot to go forward.”

  “If we do that, the Russians—”

  “Will kill their own asset, Crown Prince Abdullah, the future king of Saudi Arabia. And with a bit of luck,” added Seymour, “they might kill Rebecca, too.”

  Lancaster looked at Gabriel. “Surely, this is your idea.”

  “Which answer would you prefer?”

  Lancaster frowned. “What happens if Abdullah is . . .”

  “Removed from the line of succession?”

  “Yes.”

  “Khalid’s father will likely see that his son is reinstalled as crown prince, especially when he finds out that Abdullah conspired with the Russians to kidnap and murder Khalid’s daughter.”

  “Is that what we want? A precocious man-child with impulse-control problems running Saudi Arabia?”

  “He’ll be different this time. He’ll be the KBM we all hoped he would be.”

  Lancaster’s smile was condescending. “You never struck me as the naive type.” He looked at Seymour. “I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to Amanda.”

  Amanda Wallace was Seymour’s counterpart at MI5. With his expression, Seymour indicated she was in pitch darkness.

  “There’s no way she’ll agree to this,” said Lancaster.

  “All the more reason why she must never know.”

  “Who does?”

  “A small number of Israeli and MI6 officers working in a safe house in Harrow.”

  “Are any of them spying for the Russians?” Lancaster turned to Gabriel. “Do you know what will happen if a de facto head of state is assassinated on British soil? Our reputation will be destroyed.”

  “Not if the Russians are to blame.”

  “The Russians,” replied Lancaster pointedly, “will deny it or blame us.”

  “They won’t be able to.”

  Lancaster was clearly dubious. “How do they plan to kill him?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Where will it happen?”

  “We don’t—”

  “Have a clue,” said Lancaster.

  Gabriel waited for the heat of the exchange to dissipate. “We have one of the Russian operatives under surveillance. Once he contacts another member of the team—”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  Gabriel allowed a moment to pass. “Today is Tuesday.”

  “I don’t need a spy to tell me what day it is. That’s what I have Geoffrey for.”

  “Your meeting with Abdullah isn’t until Thursday. Let us watch and listen for thirty-six hours.”

  “Thirty-six hours is out of the question.” Lancaster pondered his wristwatch. “But I can give you twenty-four. We’ll reconvene tomorrow evening.” He rose abruptly. “Now if you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’d like to finish my dinner.”

  57

  Ouddorp, the Netherlands

  The holiday bungalow stood in a cleft in the dunes outside the village of Ouddorp. It was white as a wedding cake, with a red tile roof. Plexiglass barriers shielded the small terrace from the wind, which blew without relent from the North Sea. Unheated, lightly insulated, it was scarcely habitable in winter. Occasionally, a brave soul in search of solitude might rent it in May, but typically it sat unoccupied until at least the middle of June.

  Therefore, Isabel Hartman, a local estate agent who managed the property, was surprised by the e-mail inquiry she received in mid-March. It seemed a certain Madame Bonnard from Aix-en-Provence wished to rent the cottage for a period of two weeks, beginning the first of April. She made the advance payment via wire transfer. No, she said in a subsequent e-mail, she did not require a tour of the property when she arrived; a printed brochure would suffice. Isabel left it on the kitchen counter. The key she hid under a flowerpot on the terrace. It was not her usual practice, but she saw no harm in it. The bungalow contained nothing of value other than a television. Isabel had recently installed a wireless Internet connection in a bid to entice more foreign visitors—like Madame Valerie Bonnard of Aix-en-Provence. Isabel could only wonder why she was coming to dreary Ouddorp. Even the name sounded like something that had to be surgically removed. If Isabel were fortunate enough to reside in Aix, she would never leave.

  Owing to the bungalow’s isolation, Isabel was not able to determine exactly when the Frenchwoman arrived. She reckoned it was a day later than anticipated, for that was when Isabel spotted the car, a Volvo sedan, dark in color, Dutch registration, parked in the bungalow’s unpaved drive. Isabel saw the car again later that afternoon in the village. She saw the woman, too. She was coming out of the Jumbo supermarket with a couple of bags of groceries. Isabel considered introducing herself, but decided against it. There was something in the woman’s demeanor and the guarded look in her unusually blue eyes that made her entirely unapproachable.

  There was also something unbearably sad about her. She had experienced a recent trauma, Isabel was certain of it. A child had died, a marriage had collapsed, she had been betrayed. She was preoccupied, that much was clear. Isabel couldn’t decide whether the woman was grieving or plotting an act of vengeance.

  Isabel saw the woman in the village the next day, when she had a coffee at the New Harvest Inn—and the day after that, when she lunched alone at Akershoek. Two days passed before the next sighting, which occurred once again at the Jumbo supermarket. This time, the woman’s cart was filled nearly to capacity, suggesting to Isabelle she was expecting visitors. They arrived the following morning in a second car, a Mercedes E-Class. Isabel was surprised by the fact that all three were men.

  She saw the woman only one more time, at two o’clock the next afternoon, at the foot of the old West Head Lighthouse. She was wearing a pair of Wellington boots and a dark green oilskin jacket, and was staring across the North Sea toward England. Isabel thought she had never seen a woman so sad—or so determined. She was plotting an act of vengeance. Of that, Isabel Hartman was certain.

  The woman standing in the shadow of the lighthouse was aware she was being watched. She was not alarmed; it was only the busybody estate agent. She waited until the Dutchwoman had gone before setting out for the bungalow. It was a walk of ten minutes along the beach. One of her bodyguards was outside on the terrace. The other was inside the cottage, along with the communications officer. On the table in the dining room was an open laptop computer. The woman checked the status of British Airways Flight 579 from Venice to Heathrow. Then she ignited an L&B cigarette with an old silver lighter and poured herself three fingers of Scotch whisky. It was only the weather, she assured herself. The melancholia would pass once summer arri
ved.

  58

  Heathrow Airport, London

  The flight from Venice was slow in disgorging its passengers. Therefore, Anna had to spend an additional five minutes pressed against the window in the twenty-second row of economy class to avoid the damp, fleshy arm of Henry, her space-invading seatmate. Her carry-on suitcase was stowed in the overhead. Her handbag was beneath the seat in front of her. In it was a German passport that identified her place of birth as Berlin. That much, at least, was accurate.

  She was born in the eastern half of the city in 1983, the unwanted by-product of a secret relationship between two intelligence officers. Her mother, Johanna Hoffmann, had worked for the department of the Stasi that provided logistical support to Western European and Palestinian terrorist groups. Her father, Vadim Yurasov, was a colonel in the KGB, based in the backwater of Dresden. They fled East Germany a few days after the fall of the Berlin Wall and settled in Moscow. After the wedding, which was approved by the KGB, Anna took the name Yurasova. She attended a special school reserved for the children of KGB officers, and after graduating from the prestigious Moscow State University, she entered the SVR’s training academy. One of her classmates was a tall, handsome aspiring actor named Nikolai Azarov. They had worked together on numerous operations, and like Anna’s parents they were secretly lovers.

  Inside the terminal, Anna followed the procession to passport control and joined the queue for citizens of the European Union. The uniformed man on the dais scarcely looked at her passport.