The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(71)

“A nobody in the consular section,” said Graham Seymour.

“There are no nobodies at the Russian Embassy,” replied Gabriel. “He’s an SVR hood. And he just made contact with your controller for Middle East stations.”

At the two long trestle tables, the news that yet another senior MI6 officer might be working for the Russians was greeted only with the tapping of keyboards and the crackle of secure radios. They were in the game. They were most definitely in the game.





51

Epping Forest, Essex


When Charles Bennett stepped from his residence in Albion Road at half past nine on Saturday morning, he was wearing a dark blue waterproof anorak and quick-dry pants. Over one shoulder was a nylon rucksack, and in his right hand he held a carbon walking stick. A devoted hiker, Bennett had traipsed across much of the British Isles. Weekends he typically had to make do with one of the many excellent trails near Greater London. Hester, who considered gardening exercise, never accompanied him. Bennett didn’t mind; he preferred to be alone. In that respect, at least, he and Hester were entirely compatible.

Bennett’s destination that morning was the Oak Trail in Epping Forest, the ancient woodland that stretched from Wanstead in East London to Essex in the north. The footpath wandered for six and a half miles through the uppermost reaches of the forest near the village of Theydon Bois. Bennett drove there in Hester’s Swedish sedan. He parked at the Tube station and in violation of service rules left his MI6 BlackBerry in the glove box. Then, stick in hand, rucksack on his back, he struck out along Coppice Row.

He passed a couple of shops and restaurants, the village hall, and the parish church. A thin fog hung over Theydon Plain like the smoke of a distant battle, then the forest swallowed him. The trail was wide and smooth and covered with fallen leaves. Ahead, a woman of about forty emerged from the gloom and, smiling, bade him a pleasant morning. She reminded him of Magda.

Magda . . .

He had met her at the Rose & Crown one night when he stopped for a beer rather than rush home to Hester’s cold embrace. She was a recent immigrant from Poland, or so she said. She was a beautiful woman, newly divorced, with luminous white skin and a wide mouth that smiled easily. She claimed she was meeting a friend—“a girlfriend, not a man”—and that the friend was running late. Bennett was suspicious. Nevertheless, he had a second drink with her. And when the “friend” sent a text saying she had to cancel, he agreed to walk Magda home. She took him into Clissold Park and pushed him up against a tree near the old church. Before Bennett knew it, his fly was open and her mouth was upon him.

He knew what would come next. Indeed, he supposed he had known it from the moment he laid eyes on her. It happened a week later. A car drew alongside him in Stamford Hill, a hand beckoned from an open rear window. It was Yevgeny’s hand. He was holding a photograph. “Why don’t you let me give you a lift? It’s a filthy night to be out walking.”

Bennett came upon a rubbish bin. The chalk mark at the base was clearly visible. He left the trail and picked his way through the dense trees and undergrowth. Yevgeny was leaning against the trunk of a silver birch, an unlit cigarette dangling impossibly from his lips. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Bennett. Yevgeny was a cruel bastard, as most SVR officers were, but he could be pleasant when it suited his purposes. Bennett possessed the same set of skills. They were two sides of the same coin. Bennett, in a moment of weakness, had allowed Yevgeny to get the upper hand. But perhaps one day it would be Yevgeny who would be forced to reveal his country’s secrets because of a personal misdeed. That was the way the game was played. All it took was a single slip.

“You were careful?” the Russian asked.

Bennett nodded. “You?”

“The oafs from A4 tried to follow me, but I lost them in Highgate.” A4 were the surveillance artists of MI5, the British security and counterintelligence service. “You know, Charles, they really need to raise their game a bit. It’s got to the point where it’s not even sporting.”

“You have more intelligence officers in London now than you did during the height of the Cold War. A4 are overwhelmed.”

“There’s safety in numbers.” Yevgeny lit his cigarette. “That said, we shouldn’t stay long. What have you got?”

“An operation your superiors in Moscow Center might find interesting.”

“What sort?”

“A long-term recruitment of a highly placed asset.”

“Russian?”

“House of Saud,” answered Bennett. “The source has been working on our behalf for several years. He briefs us regularly on internal family matters and political developments inside the Kingdom.”

“You’re the Middle East controller, Charles. Why am I hearing about this only now?”

“The source was recruited and run by London Station. I was told about him only this week.”

“By whom?”

“‘C’ himself.”

“Why did Graham decide to bring you into the picture?”

“Because the highly placed asset is coming to London in a few weeks for an official visit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Crown Prince Abdullah, the next king of Saudi Arabia, is an asset of MI6. We own him, Yevgeny. He’s ours.”