Quinn felt his face flush with anger. “Did Alexei agree to deposit my money?”

“Perhaps you weren’t listening. You failed to fulfill the terms of your contract, which means there is no money. Alexei suggests you let me leave the country at once. Otherwise, you’re going to spend the rest of your life hiding from people like me.”

“What about the second phase of the operation?”

“There is no operation, Quinn. Not anymore. Alexei has ordered us to abort.”

Quinn stared at the screen for a moment. “Tell Alexei I didn’t do all this for nothing,” he said finally. “Tell him we’re going to carry out the second phase. Tell him to confirm the location.”

“He won’t agree.”

“Tell him,” said Quinn through gritted teeth.

Katerina dispatched a second e-mail, again in English. This time, they had to wait only ten minutes for a reply. It came in the form of an address. Katerina pasted it into a search engine and hit the enter key. Quinn smiled.

53

THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

MILES KENT WAS THE ONLY person at Thames House who could penetrate the battlements of Amanda Wallace’s office without an appointment. He entered at half past six that evening as she was preparing to leave for a long weekend in Somerset with her husband Charles, a wealthy Etonian who did something with money in the City. Amanda adored Charles and seemed completely oblivious to the fact he was carrying on a torrid affair with his young secretary. Kent had thought often about bringing the affair to Amanda’s attention—it was a potential security risk, after all—but had decided such a move could be ruinous. Amanda could be ruthlessly vindictive, especially toward those whom she regarded as threats to her power. Charles would suffer no sanction for his indiscretion, but Kent might very well find himself turfed out of the service in the prime of his career. And then what? He’d have to take a job at a private security firm, the last port of call for dried-up spies and secret policemen.

“I hope this won’t take long, Miles. Charles is on his way.”

“It won’t,” said Kent as he lowered himself into one of the chairs in front of Amanda’s desk.

“What have you got?”

“Yuri Volkov.”

“What about him?”

“He was a busy boy today.”

“How so?”

“He left the embassy on foot at midday. An A4 team followed him for about an hour. And then they misplaced him.”

“Lost him? Is that what you mean?”

“It happens, Amanda.”

“It’s been happening too much lately.” She placed some weekend reading material into her briefcase. “Where was the last place the team had eyes on the target?”

“Oxford Street. They came back to Thames House and spent the rest of the afternoon piecing together Volkov’s subsequent movements using CCTV.”

“And?”

“He took a stroll down Piccadilly to make sure he was clean. Then he ducked into the tube at the Circus and boarded a train.”

“Piccadilly or Bakerloo?”

“Bakerloo. He rode it to Paddington Station and then returned to the embassy on foot.”

“Did he meet with anyone?”

“No.”

“Kill anyone?”

“Not that we’re aware of,” said Kent with a smile.

“What about when he was on the train?”

“He just stood there.”

Amanda added another file to her briefcase. “It sounds to me, Miles, as though Yuri Volkov took a walk.”

“Russian spies don’t take a walk for no reason. They take a walk because they’re spying. That’s what they do.”

“Where is he now?”

“Inside the embassy.”

“Anything unusual?”

“GCHQ picked up a burst of high-priority message traffic not long after he returned, all heavily encrypted with stuff they haven’t been able to unbutton.”

“And you find the timing suspicious?”

“To say the least.” Miles Kent was silent for a moment. “I have a bad feeling about this, Amanda.”

“I can’t do anything with bad feelings, Miles. I need actionable intelligence.”

“It was the same bad feeling I had before that bomb exploded on Brompton Road.”

Amanda closed her briefcase and retook her seat. “What do you propose?”

“I’m worried about the train ride.”

“I thought you said he didn’t make contact with anyone.”

“There was no physical contact or communication, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’d like authorization to run down every person who was on that carriage with him.”

“We can’t possibly spare the resources, Miles. Not now.”

“What if we don’t have a choice?”

Amanda made a show of thought. “Done,” she said. “But D4 will have to shoulder the burden. I won’t have you drawing assets from any of the other branches.”

“Agreed.”

“What else?”

“It might be a good idea for you to have a word with our friends across the river,” said Kent, nodding toward the white facade of Vauxhall Cross. “We don’t want to be blindsided again.”

Kent rose to his feet and withdrew. Alone, Amanda picked up her phone and speed-dialed her husband’s mobile, but there was no answer. She left a brief message saying she was going to be delayed and killed the connection. Then she picked up the receiver of a phone connected directly to Vauxhall Cross.

“I know it’s only Thursday, but I wonder if I might tempt you with a drink.”

“Hemlock?” asked Graham Seymour.

“Gin,” said Amanda.

“My place or yours?”

54

LORD STREET, FLEETWOOD

QUINN AND KATERINA LEFT the Internet café on Lord Street and started back to their hotel. Quinn moved calmly past the storefronts, but Katerina was jumpy and on edge. Her eyes moved restlessly about the street, and once, when a pair of teenage boys overtook them, she gouged her nails painfully into Quinn’s bicep.

“Something bothering you?” asked Quinn.

“Two things, actually. Gabriel Allon and Christopher Keller.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “That was a very expensive text message you sent to Allon. Alexei will never pay you now.”

“Unless I fulfill the terms of the contract.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

“By killing Allon and Keller, of course.”

Katerina’s lighter flared. “You only get one shot at men like that,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cold night air. “You’ll never be able to find them again.”

“I don’t have to find them.”

“Then how do you intend to kill them?”

“By bringing them to me.”

“With what?”

“The last target,” said Quinn.

Katerina stared at him incredulously. “You’re mad,” she said. “You’ll never be able to pull it off alone.”

“I won’t be alone. You’re going to help me.”

“I have no interest in helping you.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice.”

They arrived back at the hotel. Katerina dropped her cigarette to the pavement and followed Quinn inside. The gray-haired woman was still working on her needlepoint in the alcove. Quinn informed her that they would be leaving in a few minutes.

“So soon?” she asked.

“Sorry,” said Quinn, “but something’s come up.”

55

HAMBURG

AT THAT SAME MOMENT Austrian Airlines Flight 171 from Vienna touched down in Hamburg and started toward its gate. Unbeknownst to the carrier, the passengers included an Iranian intelligence officer and his Israeli handler. The two men were seated several rows apart and did not communicate during the flight. Nor did they speak as they hiked through the terminal toward passport control. There they joined the same line and both were admitted into Germany after only a cursory inspection of their travel documents. In the Hamburg safe flat, Gabriel celebrated his first small victory. Crossing borders was always tricky for Iranians, even Iranians with diplomatic passports in their pockets.