It was Lavon who answered. “Maybe he’s looking for the idiots who’ve been racing around the countryside all night. Or the genius who ran a Bavaria 27 aground near Renesse.”

“Think they’ve found it?”

“The yacht?” Lavon nodded. “It’s rather hard to miss, especially now that it’s light.”

“What happens next?”

“The Dutch police find out who owns the boat and where it came from. And before long, every officer in Holland will be looking for a Russian assassin and a pretty American woman named Sarah Bancroft.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” said Mikhail.

“Unless Rebecca and her friend Nikolai decide to cut their losses and kill her.”

“Maybe they already have.” Mikhail looked at Gabriel. “You’re sure they were a woman’s footprints?”

“I’m sure, Mikhail.”

“Why bother to bring her ashore? Why not lighten their load and make a run for Moscow?”

“I suppose they want to ask her a few questions first. Wouldn’t you if you were in their position?”

“You think they’re going to get rough with her?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Who’s asking the questions.” Gabriel noticed that Keller was suddenly working the keyboard of his BlackBerry. “What’s going on?”

“Apparently, Konstantin Dragunov isn’t feeling well.”

“Imagine that.”

“He just admitted to the Metropolitan Police that he and the woman poisoned the crown prince last night. Lancaster’s making the announcement at Downing Street at ten.”

“Do me a favor, Christopher.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell Graham and Lancaster to announce it now.”

76

10 Downing Street

Graham Seymour was waiting in the entrance hall of Number 10 when Jonathan Lancaster came down the Grand Staircase with Geoffrey Sloane at his side. Sloane was nervously adjusting his necktie, as though he were the one who was about to face the battery of cameras arrayed outside in Downing Street. Lancaster was clutching a few light blue notecards. He led Seymour into the Cabinet Room and solemnly closed the door.

“It worked to perfection. Just like you and Gabriel said it would.”

“With one problem, Prime Minister.”

“The best-laid plans of mice and men . . .” Lancaster held up the notecards. “Do you think this will be enough to keep the Russians from killing her?”

“Gabriel seems to think it will.”

“Did he really punch Konstantin Dragunov?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Was it a good one?” asked Lancaster mischievously.

“Quite.”

“I hope Konstantin wasn’t too seriously injured.”

“At this point I doubt he even remembers it.”

“He’s ill, is he?”

“The sooner we get him on a plane, the better.”

Lancaster looked down at the first notecard and, lips moving, rehearsed the opening line of his prepared remarks. It was true, thought Seymour. It had worked to perfection. He and Gabriel had beaten the Russians at their own game. The Tsar had killed before, recklessly, with weapons of mass destruction. But this time he had been caught in the act. The consequences would be severe—sanctions, expulsions, perhaps even excommunication from the Group of Eight—and the damage was likely to be permanent.

“She has some nerve,” said Lancaster suddenly.

“Sarah Bancroft?”

“Rebecca Manning.” The prime minister was still looking down at his remarks. “One would have thought she would have remained safely in Moscow.” He lowered his voice. “Like her father.”

“We’ve made it clear we want nothing to do with her. Therefore, it’s safe for her to travel outside Russia.”

“Perhaps we should reevaluate our position vis-à-vis Ms. Philby. After this, she deserves to be brought back to Britain in chains. In fact,” said Lancaster, waving the notecards, “I’m thinking about making a small revision to my prepared remarks.”

“I would advise against that.”

The door opened and Geoffrey Sloane leaned into the room. “It’s time, Prime Minister.”

Lancaster, the consummate political actor, squared his shoulders before striding out the world’s most famous door, into the glare of the lights. Seymour followed Sloane into his office to watch the announcement on television. The prime minister seemed entirely alone in the world. His voice was calm but knife-edged with anger.

This monstrous and depraved act carried out by the intelligence services of the Russian Federation, on the direct order of the Russian president, will not go unpunished . . .

It had worked to perfection, thought Seymour. With one problem.

77

Ouddorp, The Netherlands

It became apparent within minutes of Sarah’s arrival at the safe house that they were not prepared for a hostage. Nikolai cut a bedsheet to ribbons, bound her hands and feet, and tied a gag tightly around her mouth. The bungalow’s cellar was a small, stone-lined chamber. Sarah sat with her back to a damp wall and her knees beneath her chin. Soaked to the skin from her walk to shore, she was soon shivering uncontrollably. She thought of Reema and the many nights she had spent in captivity before her brutal murder. If a child of twelve could bear up under the pressure, Sarah could, too.

There was a door at the top of the stone steps. Beyond it, Sarah could hear two voices conversing in Russian. One belonged to Nikolai, the other to Rebecca Manning. Judging by their tone, they were attempting to piece together the series of events that led to the arrest of the Russian president’s close friend and the death of a female SVR operative. By now, they had no doubt determined that their operation had been compromised from the beginning—and that Gabriel Allon, the man who had unmasked Rebecca Manning as a Russian mole, was somehow involved. Rebecca was now fighting for her career, perhaps even her life. Eventually, she would come for Sarah.

She willed herself into restless sleep, if only to stop the convulsive trembling of her body. In her dreams she was lying on a Caribbean beach with Nadia al-Bakari, but she woke to find Nikolai and the two goons staring down at her. They lifted her from the cold, damp floor as though she were made of tissue paper and carried her up the steps. A table of pale unfinished wood had been placed in the center of the sitting room. They forced her into a chair and removed only the gag, leaving her hands and feet bound. Nikolai clamped a hand over her mouth and said he would kill her if she screamed or tried to call for help. There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest the threat was hollow.

Rebecca Manning seemed unaware of Sarah’s presence. Arms folded, she was staring at the television, which was tuned to the BBC. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster had just accused Russia of attempting to assassinate the crown prince of Saudi Arabia during his state visit to Britain.

This monstrous and depraved act . . .

Rebecca listened to Lancaster’s announcement a moment longer before aiming a remote at the screen and muting the sound. Then she turned and glared at Sarah.