Gabriel Allon . . .

Nikolai tossed aside the wig. Without it, the woman was even more beautiful. He could only imagine the sort of jobs she had done for them. The Israelis used honey traps almost as much as the SVR.

“I thought you said you’re an American.”

“I am.”

“Jewish?”

“Episcopalian, actually.”

“You made aliyah?”

“To England?”

Nikolai hit her a third time. Hard enough for blood to flow from her nose. Hard enough to shut her up.

“I’m Nikolai,” he said after a moment. “Who are you?”

She hesitated, then said, “Allison.”

“Allison what?”

“Douglas.”

“Come now, Allison, you can do better than that.”

She didn’t look quite so brave any longer. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“I was planning to kill you and throw your body overboard.” Nikolai touched her swollen cheek. “Unfortunately for you, I’ve changed my mind.”

74

Rotterdam

Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster granted permission for a single aircraft to depart London City Airport that evening. A Gulfstream G550, it touched down in Rotterdam at 12:25 a.m. King Saul Boulevard had arranged for a pair of Audi sedans to be waiting outside the terminal. Keller and Mikhail headed straight for the town of Hellevoetsluis, home of one of South Holland’s largest marinas. Gabriel asked Eli Lavon, who avoided boats whenever possible, to choose a second location.

“Do you know how long the Dutch coast is?”

“Four hundred and forty-one kilometers.”

Lavon looked up from his phone. “How do you possibly know that?”

“I checked while we were on the plane.”

Lavon looked down again and contemplated the map. “If I was at the helm . . .”

“Yes, Eli?”

“I wouldn’t try to get into a darkened marina.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d dump it on a beach somewhere.”

“Where?”

Lavon studied the phone as though it were the Torah.

“Where, Eli?” asked Gabriel, exasperated.

“Right here.” Lavon tapped the screen. “In Renesse.”

After making a single brief call with the Inmarsat phone, Nikolai had increased his speed to thirty knots. As a result, he reached the Dutch coast fifteen minutes earlier than the Garmin had originally forecast. His running lights were doused. He switched them on and instantly saw the flash of a torch on land.

Nikolai doused the running lights again, increased his speed to full, and waited for the bite of the sandy bottom. When it came, the boat lurched violently to a stop, with a pronounced starboard list. He killed the engine and poked his head down the companionway. The woman was struggling to gain footing on the sloped teak floor of the galley.

“You might have warned me,” she said.

“Let’s go.”

She clambered awkwardly up the companionway. Nikolai pulled her into the cockpit and shoved her toward the stern.

“In you go,” he said.

“Do you know how cold that water is?”

He aimed the Makarov at her head. “Get in.”

After first removing her shoes, she slid from the swim step and found her footing on the bottom. The water was level with her breasts.

“Walk,” commanded Nikolai.

“Where?”

He pointed toward the two men now standing at the tideline. “Don’t worry, they’re the least of your problems.”

Shivering, she started toward shore. Nikolai entered the water soundlessly and, holding the Makarov aloft, followed after her. The car, a Swedish-made sedan with Dutch registration, was parked in the public lot behind the dunes. Nikolai sat with her in the backseat, the gun against her ribs. As they passed through the sleeping seaside town, a single car approached from the opposite direction and flashed past them in a blur.

The car park had been abandoned to the gulls. Gabriel hurried up the footpath to the beach and saw a darkened Bavaria 27 Sport motor yacht about thirty meters from shore. He rushed down to the sea and with his phone illuminated the hard, flat sand along the tideline. There were footprints everywhere. Three men in street shoes, a woman whose feet were bare. The impressions were recent. They had just missed her.

He ran back to the car park and climbed into the Audi.

“Anything?” asked Lavon.

Gabriel told him.

“They couldn’t have arrived more than a few minutes ago.”

“They didn’t.”

“You don’t think she was in that car, do you?”

“Yeah,” said Gabriel as he slammed the Audi into reverse. “I think she was.”

They crossed a narrow land bridge, with a great inland bay on the right and the sea to the left. The juxtaposition told Sarah they were headed north. Eventually, a road sign appeared in the darkness. The name of the town, Ouddorp, meant nothing to her.

The car rounded a traffic circle and then sped across an expanse of tabletop-flat farmland. The narrow track into which they finally turned was unmarked. It led to a collection of clapboard holiday bungalows hidden away in a range of grass-covered dunes. One was surrounded by tall hedges and had a separate garage with old-fashioned swinging doors. Nikolai locked the Volvo inside before leading Sarah to the bungalow.

It was white as a wedding cake, with a red tile roof. Plexiglass barriers shielded the veranda from the wind. A woman waited there alone, like a specimen in a jar. She wore an oilskin coat and stretch jeans. Her eyes were unusually blue—and tired-looking, thought Sarah. The night had been unkind to the woman’s appearance.

A stray forelock had fallen over one of her eyes. The woman pushed it aside and studied Sarah carefully. Something about the gesture was familiar. The face was familiar, too. All at once Sarah realized where she had seen it before.

A news conference at the Grand Presidential Palace in Moscow . . .

The woman on the veranda was Rebecca Manning.

75

Rotterdam

The car had been a Volvo, late model, dark in color. On that point, Gabriel and Eli Lavon were in complete agreement. Both had caught a clear glimpse of the front grille and had noted the circular ornament and distinctive diagonal line sloping left to right. Gabriel was certain it had been a sedan. Lavon, however, was convinced it was an estate car.

There was no dispute over the direction it had been heading, which was north. Gabriel and Lavon concentrated on the little villages along the coast while Mikhail and Keller worked the larger towns inland. Between them, they spotted one hundred and twelve Volvos. In none did they find Sarah.

Admittedly, it was an impossible task—“a needle in a Dutch haystack,” as Lavon put it—but they kept at it until seven fifteen, when they all four gathered at a coffee shop in an industrial quarter of south Rotterdam. They were the first customers of the morning. There was a petrol station next door and a couple of car dealerships across the road. One, of course, sold Volvos.

An environmentally friendly Dutch police cruiser rolled past in the street, slowly.

“What’s his problem?” asked Mikhail.