“Keller?”

Quinn nodded. Jimmy Fagan smiled.

The farm was two hundred acres—or two hundred and forty, depending on which member of the Fagan clan you asked. It was rolling pastureland mainly, divided into smaller plots by low stone fences, some of which had been erected long before the first Protestant had set foot on the land, or so the legend went. Ireland was just over the next hill. On none of the roads was there even a suggestion of a border.

On the highest part of the land stood a two-story brick house where Fagan, a widower, lived with his two sons, both veterans of the IRA and the rejectionist Real IRA. There was a large barn of corrugated aluminum and a second structure, deep within the property, where Fagan had hidden weapons and explosives during the war. It was there, in the winter of 1989, that a younger version of Christopher Keller underwent a brutal interrogation at the hands of Eamon Quinn. Now Madeline and Katerina took Keller’s place. Quinn left enough food, water, and blankets to see them through the cold December afternoon and sealed the door with a pair of heavy padlocks. Then he walked with Billy Conway along the dirt track leading back to the main house. Conway was staring at the ground, hands shoved into the front pockets of his coat. He looked on edge. He usually did.

“How long do we have?” he asked.

“If I had to guess,” replied Quinn, “he’s already here. Allon, too.”

“Looking for me, no doubt.”

“We can only hope.”

“And if Keller asks to see me? What then?”

“You play the double game, Billy—just like you always did. Tell him they’re wasting their time looking for me in the north. Tell him you heard a rumor I’m down in the Republic.”

“What happens if he doesn’t believe me?”

“Why wouldn’t he believe you, Billy?” Quinn placed his hand on Conway’s shoulder and smiled. “You were his best agent.”

73

THE ARDOYNE, WEST BELFAST

KELLER PARKED THE CAR directly opposite the house and hurried up the garden walk. The door opened to his touch; he followed the sound of voices into the kitchen. There he found Gabriel and Maggie Donahue seated at the table, each with a mug of tea before them. There was also a large stack of used bills, a few articles of male clothing, an assortment of toiletries, a photograph, and a Glock 17 firearm. The Glock was a few inches beyond Maggie Donahue’s reach. She was seated ramrod straight, with one arm lying protectively across her waist and a cigarette burning between the fingers of an uplifted hand. Keller reckoned she had been crying a few minutes earlier. Now her hard features had settled into a Belfast mask of reserve and mistrust. Gabriel was expressionless, a priest with a gun and a leather jacket. For a few seconds he seemed unaware of Keller’s presence. Then he looked up and smiled. “Mr. Merchant,” he said cordially. “So good of you to join us. I’d like you to meet my new friend Maggie Donahue. Maggie was just telling me how Billy Conway forced her to put these things in her house.” He paused, then added, “Maggie is going to help us find Eamon Quinn.”

74

CROSSMAGLEN, COUNTY ARMAGH

THE CORRUGATED METAL STRUCTURE AT the center of the Fagan farm was twenty feet by forty, with bales of hay at one end and an assortment of rusted tools and implements at the other. It had been designed to Jimmy Fagan’s exacting specifications and assembled at his factory in Newry. The outer door was unusually heavy, and the raised flooring contained a well-concealed trapdoor that led to one of the largest caches of weapons and explosives in Northern Ireland. Madeline Hart knew none of this. She knew only that she was not alone; the smell of stale tobacco and cheap hotel shampoo told her so. Finally, a hand plucked the hood from her head and gently removed the duct tape from her mouth. Still, she had no sense of her surroundings, for the darkness was absolute. She sat silently for a moment, her back to the hay bales, her legs stretched before her. Then she asked, “Who’s there?”

A cigarette lighter flared, a face leaned into the flame.

“You,” whispered Madeline.

The lighter was extinguished, the darkness returned. Then a voice addressed her in Russian.

“I’m sorry,” said Madeline, “but I don’t understand you.”

“I said you must be thirsty.”

“Terribly,” replied Madeline.

A water bottle opened with a snap. Madeline placed her lips against grooves of plastic and drank.

“Thank—”

She stopped herself. She didn’t want to show a captive’s helpless gratitude toward the captor. Then she realized Katerina was a captive, too.

“Let me see your face again.”

The lighter flared a second time.

“I can’t see you clearly,” said Madeline.

Katerina moved the lighter closer to her face. “How do I look?” she asked.

“Exactly the way you looked in Lisbon.”

“How do you know about Lisbon?”

“A friend of mine was watching you from across the street. He took your picture.”

“Allon?”

Madeline said nothing.

“It’s a shame you ever met him. You’d still be living like a princess in St. Petersburg. Now you’re here.”

“Where is here?”

“Even I’m not sure.” Katerina extracted a cigarette from her packet and then inclined it toward Madeline. “Smoke?”

“God, no.”

“You were always the good girl, weren’t you?” Katerina touched the end of her cigarette to the flame and allowed it to die.

“Please,” said Madeline. “I’ve been in the dark for so long.”

Katerina reignited the lighter.

“Walk around,” said Madeline. “Let me see where we are.”

Katerina moved with the lighter along the perimeter of the shed, stopping at the door.

“Try opening it.”

“It can’t be opened from the inside.”

“Try.”

Katerina leaned against the door but it didn’t budge. “Any other bright ideas?”

“I suppose we could light the hay on fire.”

“At this point,” said Katerina, “I’m sure he’d be more than happy to let us burn to death.”

“Who?”

“Eamon Quinn.”

“The Irishman?”

Katerina nodded.

“What’s he going to do?”

“First, he’s going to kill Gabriel Allon and Christopher Keller. Then he’s going to ransom me back to Moscow Center for twenty million dollars.”

“Will they pay?”

“Perhaps.” Katerina paused, then added, “Especially if the deal includes you.”

The lighter went dark. Katerina sat.

“What should I call you?” she asked.

“Madeline, of course.”

“It’s not your real name.”

“It’s the only name I have.”

“No, it isn’t. We used to call you Natalya at the camp. Don’t you remember?”

“Natalya?”

“Yes,” she said. “Little Natalya, daughter of the KGB general. So pretty. And that English accent they gave you. You were like a doll.” She was silent for a moment. “I adored you. You were all I had in that place.”

“So why did you kidnap me?”

“Actually, I was supposed to kill you. Quinn, too.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Quinn changed the plan.”

“But you would have killed me if you’d had the chance?”

“I didn’t want to,” Katerina answered after a moment. “But, yes, I suppose I would have done it.”

“Why?”

“Better me than someone else. Besides,” she added, “you betrayed your country. You defected.”

“It wasn’t my country. I didn’t belong there.”

“And here, Natalya? Do you belong here?”

“My name is Madeline.” She said nothing for a moment. “What will happen if I go back to Russia?”

“I suppose they’ll spend several months wringing every drop of knowledge out of your brain that they can.”

“And then?”