The English Spy (28 page)

Q
UINN 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.”

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.

M
ILES
K
ENT 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?”

Q
UINN AND
K
ATERINA 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.”