“He didn’t come through the front door, did he?”
“What did you give him besides a glass of Louis Roederer?”
“He drank two glasses, actually.”
“Both were contaminated?”
Dragunov nodded.
“What was the substance?”
“I wasn’t told.”
“Maybe you should have asked.”
Dragunov said nothing.
“Why didn’t the woman come to the airport with you?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“Because I killed her, Konstantin. And I’m going to kill you unless you keep talking.”
“Bullshit.”
Gabriel awakened his BlackBerry and laid it on the table in front of Dragunov. On the screen was a photograph of a blood-spattered woman hanging out the front door of a Renault Clio.
“Jesus.”
Gabriel returned the BlackBerry to his jacket pocket. “Go on, Konnie.”
“The Englishwoman wanted us to leave Britain separately. Anna was supposed to leave tonight on the Harwich–to–Hoek van Holland ferry. The eleven o’clock.”
“Anna?”
“Yurasova. The president has known her since she was a kid.”
“The operative at the hotel was supposed to leave with her?”
Dragunov nodded. “His name is Nikolai.”
“Where were they planning to go when they got to Holland?”
“If it was safe for them to get on a plane, they were going to head straight for Schiphol.”
“And if it wasn’t?”
“There’s a safe house.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.” When Gabriel rose angrily from his chair, Dragunov covered his face with his hands. “Please, Allon, not again. I’m telling you the truth. The safe house is in South Holland, somewhere near the coast. But that’s all I know.”
“Is anyone there now?”
“A couple of gorillas and someone to handle secure communications with Yasenevo.”
“Why do they need a secure link to Moscow Center?”
“It isn’t just a crash pad, Allon. It’s a forward command post.”
“Who else is there, Konstantin?”
Dragunov hesitated, then said, “The Englishwoman.”
“Rebecca Manning?”
“Philby,” said the Russian. “She uses her father’s name now.”
73
The North Sea
Nikolai Azarov was by no means a skilled seaman, but his father had been a high-ranking officer in the old Soviet Navy and he knew a thing or two about boats. Leaving the marina, he had guided the Bavaria 27 through the shallow tidewaters of Walton Channel and into the North Sea. Once clear of the headland, he turned due east and increased his speed to twenty-five knots. It was comfortably below the vessel’s top cruising speed. Even so, the onboard Garmin navigation system anticipated a 1:15 a.m. arrival.
It was a straight line to his destination. After establishing his heading, Nikolai switched off the Garmin so it could not be used by the British to locate his position. His phone—the phone Anna had called a few moments before she was killed—was on the bottom of Walton Channel. So was the phone he had taken from the woman outside the hotel. Nikolai was not, however, without means of communication. The Bavaria had an Inmarsat phone and wireless network. He had switched off the system soon after leaving the marina. The handheld receiver was in his pocket, safely beyond the reach of the woman.
Her suitcase was still in the boot of the Jaguar, but Nikolai had taken her handbag. In it he had found a few cosmetics, a bottle of antidepressants, six hundred pounds in cash, and an old Walther PPK, an interesting choice of weapon. There was no passport or driver’s license, and no credit or bank cards.
The sea before the Bavaria was empty. Nikolai ejected the magazine from the Walther and removed the round from the chamber. Then he engaged the autopilot and carried the gun and the bottle of antidepressants down the companionway. Entering the salon, Nikolai saw the woman glaring at him from the table. An angry red welt had risen on her cheek where Nikolai had struck her when she refused to board the boat.
The BBC was playing on the radio. The signal was weak, in and out. The prime minister had just addressed reporters outside Number 10. The radioactive corpse of a dead Russian agent had shut down the M25. A radioactive Russian oligarch had closed London City Airport. A third Russian had killed two people at the Frinton-on-Sea rail station. Police were said to be desperately searching for him.
Nikolai switched off the radio. “They didn’t mention the guard at the marina.”
“They probably haven’t found him yet.”
“I rather doubt that.”
Nikolai sat down opposite the woman. Despite the welt, she was quite attractive. She would have been prettier were it not for the ridiculous dark wig.
He placed the bottle of pills before her. “Why are you depressed?”
“I spend too much time with people like you.”
He glanced at the bottle. “Perhaps you should take one. You’ll feel better.”
She stared at him without expression.
“How about this?” He placed the vial of clear liquid on the table.
“What is it?”
“It’s the same radioactive chemical element that Anna gave to Abdullah when he visited Konstantin Dragunov’s mansion in Belgravia. And for some reason,” said Nikolai, “you and your friends allowed it to happen.”
She looked down at the bottle. “Maybe you should get rid of that.”
“How? Should I pour it into the North Sea?” He made a face of mock revulsion. “Think of the environmental damage.”
“What about the damage it’s doing to us right now?”
“It’s totally safe unless it’s ingested.”
“Did Moscow Center tell you that?”
Nikolai returned the vial to the pocket of his trousers.
“That’s the perfect place for it.”
Nikolai smiled in spite of himself. He had to admit, he admired the woman’s nerve.
“How long have you been carrying it around?” she asked.
“A week.”
“That would explain your peculiar greenish glow. You’re probably hotter than Chernobyl.”
“And now you are, too.” He examined the welt on her cheek. “Does it hurt?”
“Not as much as my head.”
“Take your wig off. I’ll have a look at it.”
“Thank you, but you’ve done enough already.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” Nikolai lowered his voice. “I said take it off.”
When she hesitated, he reached across the table and ripped the wig from her head. Her blond hair was in disarray and matted with dried blood above her right ear. Still, Nikolai realized he had seen the woman before. It was the night he had given a briefcase bomb to the halfwit head of security from the Geneva International School. The woman had been at a table under the awning, next to the tall Russian-looking man who had followed Nikolai from the café. A car had followed him, too. Nikolai had not recognized the man behind the wheel, the man with gray temples. But by the following evening, Moscow Center had managed to confirm his identity.