Rebecca had expected a warm reception—she had not seen the president since the Kremlin news conference announcing her arrival in Moscow—but he gave her only a businesslike handshake before gesturing indifferently toward the seating area. Stewards entered, tea was poured. Then, without preamble, the president handed Rebecca a copy of an SVR cable. It had been transmitted to Moscow Center overnight by Yevgeny Teplov of the London rezidentura. The topic was a clandestine meeting Teplov had conducted with an agent code-named Chamberlain. His real name was Charles Bennett. Rebecca, while still working inside MI6, had targeted Bennett for sexual compromise and recruitment.

Her Russian had improved markedly since settling in Moscow. Even so, she read the cable slowly. When she looked up, the president was studying her without expression. It was like being contemplated by a cadaver.

“When were you planning to tell us?” he asked at last.

“Tell you what?”

“That Crown Prince Abdullah is a long-term asset of British intelligence.”

A lifetime of lies and deception allowed Rebecca to conceal her unease at being interrogated by the most powerful man in the world. “While I was at MI6,” she said deliberately, “I was unaware of any relationship between Vauxhall Cross and Prince Abdullah.”

“You were one step away from becoming director-general of MI6. How could you not have known?”

“It’s called the Secret Intelligence Service for a reason. I had no need to know.” Rebecca returned the cable. “Besides, it shouldn’t come as a shock that MI6 might have ties to a Saudi prince who spent most of his time in London.”

“Unless the Saudi prince is supposed to be working for me.”

“Abdullah?” Rebecca’s tone was incredulous. Her brief was strictly limited to the United Kingdom. Even so, she had followed Khalid’s spectacular fall from grace with more than a passing interest. She never imagined that Moscow Center might have had a hand in it. Or the president.

As usual, he was slouched in his chair. His chin was lowered, his eyes had a slight upward cast. Somehow he managed to convey both boredom and menace simultaneously. Rebecca supposed he practiced the expression in the mirror.

“I assume,” she said after a moment, “that Khalid’s abdication wasn’t voluntary.”

“No.” The president gave a half smile. Then the life drained once more from his features. “We encouraged him to relinquish his claim to the throne.”

“How?”

The president shot a glance at Ryzhkov, who briefed Rebecca on the operation that had led to Khalid’s removal from the line of succession. It was monstrous, there was no other word for it. But then Rebecca always knew the Russians didn’t play by the same rules as MI6.

“We went to a great deal of trouble to make Abdullah the next king of Saudi Arabia,” Ryzhkov was saying. “But now it seems we’ve been deceived.” He waved the cable from London, dramatically, like a barrister in a courtroom. “Or maybe this is the deception. Perhaps MI6 is up to its old tricks. Perhaps they merely want us to think Abdullah is working for them.”

“Why would they do that?”

It was the president who answered. “To discredit him, of course. To make us wary of him.”

“Graham’s a glorified policeman. He’s not capable of something so clever.”

“He caught you, didn’t he?”

“It was Allon who found me out, not Graham.”

“Ah, yes.” Anger flashed briefly across the president’s face. “I’m afraid he’s involved in this, too.”

“Allon?”

The president nodded. “After we kidnapped the child, Abdullah told us that his nephew had turned to Allon for help.”

“You would have been wise to kill him instead of Khalid’s daughter.”

“We tried. Unfortunately, things didn’t quite go as planned.”

Rebecca took the cable from Ryzhkov and reread it. “It sounds to me as though Abdullah has been selling his wares on both sides of the street. He took your money and support when he needed it. But now that the keys to the Kingdom are within his grasp . . .”

“He’s decided to be his own man?”

“Or London’s,” said Rebecca.

“And if he really is a British asset? What do I do about it? Do I let him take several billion dollars from me with no repercussions? Do I let the British laugh at me behind my back? Do I give Allon the same privilege?”

“Of course not.”

He held up a hand. “Well, then?”

“You have no choice but to remove Abdullah from the line of succession.”

“How?”

“In a way that does as much damage to British credibility and prestige as possible.”

The president’s smile appeared almost genuine. “I’m relieved to hear you say that.”

“Why?”

“Because if you had suggested leaving Abdullah in place, I would have doubted your loyalty to the motherland.” He was still smiling. “Congratulations, Rebecca. The job is yours.”

“What job?”

“Getting rid of Abdullah, of course.”

“Me?”

“Who better to run a major operation in London?”

“It’s not the sort of thing I do.”

“Are you not the director of the United Kingdom Department of the SVR?”

“Deputy director.”

“Yes, of course.” The president glanced at Leonid Ryzhkov. “My mistake.”

54

Moscow–Washington–London

It was the assumption of the SVR’s counterintelligence directorate that MI6 did not know Colonel Rebecca Philby’s Moscow address. In point of fact, that was not the case. MI6 learned the location of her apartment quite by chance when one of its Moscow-based officers spotted her walking along the Arbat with a pair of bodyguards and a formidable-looking woman of advanced years. The officer followed them to Kuntsevo Cemetery, where they placed flowers on the grave of history’s greatest traitor, then to the entrance of a smart new apartment building on Sadovnicheskaya Street.

At the direction of Vauxhall Cross, Moscow Station took great care with its discovery. No attempt was made to place Rebecca under full-time surveillance—it wasn’t possible in a city like Moscow, where MI6 personnel were under near-constant watch themselves—and an ill-conceived scheme to purchase a flat in her building was quickly shelved. Instead, they watched her only occasionally and only from afar. They were able to confirm that she lived on the building’s ninth floor and that she reported for work each morning at SVR headquarters in Yasenevo. They never saw her run a personal errand, dine in a restaurant, or attend a performance at the Bolshoi. There was no evidence of a man in her life, or, for that matter, a woman. In general, she seemed quite miserable, which pleased them no end.

But in early March, for reasons Moscow Station could not possibly fathom, Rebecca vanished from view. When five days passed with no sign of her, the Moscow Head informed Vauxhall Cross—and Vauxhall Cross duly sent word to the sprawling Tudor house of many wings and gables in Hatch End in Harrow. There they cautiously interpreted Rebecca’s sudden disappearance as evidence that Moscow Center was feeding on the bread they had cast upon the water.