“For what?”

“To save your career at the SVR.”

Rebecca fell silent while the waitress placed a glass of milky Dutch coffee before her. “Is that what this was about? Destroying me?”

“No. It was about destroying him.”

“Our president? You’re tilting at windmills, Don Quixote.”

“Wait a few hours for the news to sink in that the Kremlin ordered the assassination of the future king of Saudi Arabia. Russia will be the pariah of pariahs.”

“It was your assassination, not ours.”

“Good luck with that.”

“By the time the trolls from the Internet Research Agency are finished, no one in the world will believe we had anything do with it.” Rebecca added sugar to her coffee and stirred it thoughtfully. “And who’s going to enforce this so-called pariah status of yours? You? Great Britain? The United States?” She shook her head slowly. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but the long-cherished institutions of the West are in tatters. We’re the only game in town. Russia, China, the Iranians . . .”

“You left out Saudi Arabia.”

“Once the American withdrawal from the Middle East is complete, the Saudis will realize they have nowhere else to turn to for protection but us, with or without Abdullah on the throne.”

“Not if Khalid is king.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that your plan?”

“The Allegiance Council will choose the next king, not the State of Israel. But my money is on the man who stayed by his beloved uncle’s side while he was suffering the terrible effects of a radioactive Russian poison.”

“You mean this?” She placed a small glass vial on the table.

Gabriel leaned away. “What is it?”

“It doesn’t have a name yet. I’m sure the Internet Research Agency will think of something catchy.” She smiled. “Something very Israeli-sounding.”

“Is there any chance Abdullah will survive?”

“None whatsoever.”

“And what about you, Rebecca?”

She returned the vial to her handbag.

“They’ll never trust you again,” said Gabriel. “Not after this. Who knows? They might even assume you’ve been working for MI6 since the moment you set foot in Moscow Center. Either way, you’d be a fool to go back. The best you can hope for is that they’ll lock you away in some desolate little village, the kind of place that has a number instead of a name. You’ll end up like your father, a broken-down old drunk, alone in the world.”

“You’ve no right to speak of my father like that.”

Gabriel accepted her rebuke in silence.

“And where would I go? Back to England?” Rebecca frowned. “I appreciate the heartfelt advice, but I think I’ll take my chances in Russia.” She reached for her phone. “Shall we finish this?”

Gabriel picked up his phone, typed a brief message, and hit send. The reply arrived ten seconds later. “Dragunov’s plane has just been cleared for departure. He’ll be out of British airspace in about forty-five minutes.”

Rebecca dialed a number. She spoke a few words in Russian, then severed the connection. “There’s a large square in the middle of Renesse with a church in the center. Very busy, lots of people. We’ll drop her outside the pizzeria exactly one hour from now.” She glanced at her father’s old wristwatch, as if marking the time. Then she dropped the phone into her bag and looked toward the table where Mikhail and Keller were sitting. “The very pale one looks familiar to me. Was he in that Starbucks in Washington where you trapped me into betraying myself?”

Gabriel hesitated, then nodded.

“And the other one?”

“He’s the one you shot on that little street in Georgetown.”

“What a pity. I was sure I’d killed him.” Rebecca Manning rose abruptly. “To be continued,” she said, and went out.

79

Renesse, the Netherlands

The church was brick, austere, and ringed by a cobbled traffic circle. Gabriel and Eli Lavon were parked in front of a small hotel. Mikhail and Keller had found a spot outside a seafood restaurant called Vischmarkt Renesse. Behind them was the pizzeria where Rebecca Manning had promised to drop Sarah at 11:43 a.m. exactly.

It was 11:39. Mikhail was watching the pizzeria in the rearview mirror; Keller, in the side-view. He was chain-smoking Marlboros. Mikhail lowered his window a few inches and scanned the square.

“You realize we’re sitting ducks.” Mikhail paused, then added, “And so is the director-general of my service.”

“We have a deal.”

“So did Khalid.” Mikhail watched as Keller crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. “You really need to stop that, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because Sarah hates it.”

Keller smoked in silence, eyes on the mirror.

“Don’t you think we should talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Your obvious feelings for Sarah.”

Keller gave Mikhail a sidelong glance. “What is it with you people?”

“You people?”

“You and Gabriel. Have you nothing better to do than meddle in the personal lives of others?”

“Like it or not, you’re one of us now, Christopher. And that means we reserve the right to poke our noses into your love life whenever we feel like it.” After a brief silence, Mikhail added quietly, “Especially when it involves my ex-fiancé.”

“Nothing happened in that hotel, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not.”

“And I’m not in love with her.”

“If you say so.” Mikhail checked the time. It was 11:41. “I don’t want it to be awkward, that’s all.”

“What’s that?”

“Our relationship.”

“I didn’t realize we were having one.”

Mikhail smiled in spite of himself. “We’ve done a lot of good work together, you and I. And I suspect we’re going to be working together again in the future. I wouldn’t want Sarah to complicate things.”

“Why would she?”

“Do me a favor, Christopher. Treat her better than I did. She deserves it.” Mikhail lifted his eyes to the mirror. “Especially now.”

A moment passed. Then another. The dashboard clock read 11:44. So did the clock on Keller’s phone. He swore beneath his breath as he crushed out his cigarette.

“You really didn’t think Rebecca was going to be on time, did you? Thanks to Gabriel, she’s going home to a rather uncertain future.”

Keller absently rubbed his clavicle. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer person.”

“Look,” said Mikhail suddenly. “There’s the car.”

It had drawn to a stop outside the pizzeria, a Volvo sedan, dark in color, two men in front, two women in back. One was the daughter of Kim Philby. The other was Sarah Bancroft. In one final act of rebellion, she left her door open after climbing out. Rebecca leaned across the backseat and closed it. Then the car shot forward, passing a few inches from Mikhail’s window.