The train entered Regent’s Park station, took on and disgorged a few more passengers, and started moving again. Two minutes later it arrived at Baker Street, where the man in the mackintosh departed. Yuri Volkov remained on the train until Paddington Station. From there it was a short walk back to the Russian Embassy.

It stood at the northern edge of Kensington Palace Gardens, behind a cordon of British security. Volkov entered the building and made his way down to the rezidentura, where he slipped into the secure communications vault. He removed the device from his coat pocket. It was about three inches by five, the size of an average external hard drive. He plugged it into a computer and typed in the necessary password. Instantly, the device began to whir, and the file it contained flowed into the computer. Fifteen seconds elapsed while the material was decrypted. Then it appeared en clair on the screen. “My God,” was all Volkov said. Then he printed out a copy of the message and went in search of Dmitry Ulyanin.

Ulyanin was in his office, a phone to his ear, when Volkov entered without knocking and dropped the message on the desk. The rezident stared at it for a moment in disbelief before absently hanging up.

“I thought you saw Shamron at Vauxhall Cross.”

“I did.”

“What about the coffin they put on that plane?”

“It must have been empty.”

Ulyanin slammed his fist onto the desktop, spilling his afternoon tea. He held up the printout and asked, “Do you know what’s going to happen when this arrives in Moscow?”

“Alexei Rozanov is going to be very angry.”

“Alexei’s not the one I’m worried about.” Ulyanin flicked the printout across his desk. “Cable Yasenevo right away. It was Alexei’s operation, not mine. Let him clean up the mess.”

Volkov returned to the communications vault and drafted the cable. He showed the draft to Ulyanin for approval, and after a brief argument it was Ulyanin who pushed the button that fired the news securely to Moscow Center. He returned to his office while Volkov waited for confirmation that the cable had been received. It took fifteen minutes to arrive.

“What did he say?” asked Ulyanin.

“Nothing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Alexei’s not in Moscow.”

“Where is he?”

“On an airplane bound for Hamburg.”

“Why Hamburg?”

“A meeting. Something big, apparently.”

“Let’s just hope he checks his messages soon, because Gabriel Allon didn’t fake his death for no reason.” Ulyanin looked down at the sodden papers on his desk and shook his head slowly. “This is what happens when you send an Irishman to do a Russian’s job.”

52

FLEETWOOD, ENGLAND

QUINN OPENED ONE EYE SLOWLY, then the other. He saw his bare arm draped over the breasts of a woman, and his hand wrapped around the grip of a Makarov pistol, a finger resting alertly on the trigger guard. The room was in semidarkness; an open window admitted the sharp smell of the sea. In the instant between sleep and consciousness, Quinn struggled to place his whereabouts. Was he in his villa on Margarita Island? Or perhaps he was back at Ras al Helal, the seaside terror training camp in Libya. He recalled his time at the camp with fondness. He had made a friend there, a Palestinian bomb maker. Quinn had helped the Palestinian overcome a simple problem he was having with his design. In return, he had given Quinn an expensive Swiss wristwatch, paid for by Yasir Arafat himself. The engraving read NO MORE TIMER FAILURES . . .

Quinn raised the watch to his eyes now and saw that it was half past four in the afternoon. Through the open window came the sound of two men conversing in a Lancashire accent. He was not on Margarita Island or at the camp on the Libyan coast. He was in Fleetwood, England, in a hotel along the Esplanade, and the woman sleeping beneath his arm was Katerina. It was not an embrace of affection. Quinn had held her tightly against his body so he could get some much-needed rest. He had slept more than six hours, enough to see him through to the next phase of the operation.

Quinn lifted his arm and slipped from the bed, gently, so as not to wake Katerina. A complimentary coffee-and-tea service stood on a table near the window. Quinn filled the electric kettle, dropped a bag of Twinings into the aluminum pot, and peered out the window. The Renault was parked in the street. A duffel bag containing the weapons was still in the storage compartment. Quinn thought it better to leave the bag in the car rather than bring it into the hotel. It meant there would be fewer firearms within reach of the SVR’s top female assassin.

Quinn carried the Makarov into the bathroom and showered quickly, leaving the curtain open so he could watch Katerina in the next room. She was still sleeping when he emerged. He prepared the tea and poured two cups, one with milk, the other with sugar. Then he woke Katerina and handed her the cup with the sugar.

“Get dressed,” he said coldly. “It’s time to let Moscow Center know you’re still alive.”

Katerina spent a long time in the shower and took inordinate care with her appearance while dressing. Finally, she pulled on her coat and followed Quinn downstairs to the lobby, where a gray-haired woman of sixty sat in an alcove doing needlepoint. Quinn poked his head through the window and asked where he might find an Internet café.

“Lord Street, luv. Opposite the chippy.”

It was a walk of five minutes, which they passed in silence. Lord Street was long and straight and lined with shops on both sides. The fish-and-chips shop was at the midway point; the Internet café, as promised, was directly opposite. Quinn purchased thirty minutes of time and led Katerina to a terminal in the corner. She addressed a new e-mail to the same SVR address and looked to Quinn for guidance.

“Tell Alexei that your phone is on the bottom of the North Sea and that you’re under my control. Tell him to deposit twenty million dollars into my account in Zurich. Otherwise, I’m going to cancel the second phase of the operation and hold you as collateral until I receive payment in full.”

Katerina began to type.

“In English,” Quinn said.

“It doesn’t fit my legend.”

“I don’t care.”

Katerina deleted the German text and began again in English. She managed to make Quinn’s demands sound like a mundane business dispute between two firms working on the same project.

“Lovely,” said Quinn. “Now send it.”

She clicked the SEND icon and immediately deleted the e-mail from her out-box.

“How long will it take them to reply?”

“Not long,” she answered. “But why don’t you go over to the bar and get us something to drink, so we don’t look like a couple of assassins waiting for word from headquarters?”

Quinn handed her a ten-pound note. “Milk, no sugar.”

Katerina rose and walked over to the bar. Quinn placed his chin in his palm and stared at the computer screen.

Their thirty minutes of computer time expired with no reply from Moscow. Quinn sent Katerina over to the counter to purchase additional time, and another fifteen minutes passed before an e-mail finally appeared in her in-box. The text was written in German. Katerina’s expression darkened as she read it.

“What does it say?” asked Quinn.

“It says we have a problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re still alive.”

“Who?”

“Allon and the Englishman.” She turned away from the screen and looked at Quinn seriously. “Apparently, that story about Allon’s death was a lie. Moscow Center assumes they’re searching for us.”