“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.