The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(77)

“Always,” drawled Nikolai.

“What kind of story is it?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Does someone die?”

“Several people, actually.”

Just then, an open-top Jaguar F-Type, bright red, drew up at the hotel’s entrance. The driver was a good-looking man of perhaps fifty, blond, with deeply tanned skin. His passenger, a black-haired woman, was recording their arrival on a smartphone, her arm outstretched. They seemed to be dressed for a special occasion.

“The Edgertons,” explained Phoebe.

“Sorry?”

“Tom and Mary Edgerton. They’re newlyweds. Apparently, it was all very spur of the moment.” A bellman heaved two suitcases from the car’s boot while the woman snapped photographs of the sea. “Lovely, isn’t she?”

“Quite,” agreed Nikolai.

“I think she might be an American.”

“We won’t hold that against her.”

Nikolai watched the couple enter the lobby, where the manager presented them each with a complimentary glass of champagne. The woman, while surveying the hotel’s staid interior, inadvertently caught Nikolai’s eye and smiled. The man took her proprietarily by the arm and led her to the lift.

“She’s definitely American,” said Phoebe.

“Indeed,” agreed Nikolai. “And her husband is the jealous type.”



The bridal suite was on the third floor. Keller swiped the key card, pushed open the door, and stood aside for Sarah to enter. Their bags lay on luggage stands at the foot of the bed. Keller hung the do not disturb sign from the latch and, closing the door, engaged the safety bar.

“Is he the man you saw at Café Remor in Geneva?”

Sarah nodded once.

Keller sent a brief message on his BlackBerry to the team at Hatch End. Then he reached inside his suit jacket and removed his Walther PPK from his shoulder holster. “Ever use one of these?”

“Not a Walther,” said Sarah.

“Shoot anyone?”

“A Russian, actually.”

“Lucky girl. Where?”

“In the hip and the shoulder.”

“I meant—”

“It happened in a bank in Zurich.”

Keller racked the Walther’s slide, chambering the first round. Then he thumbed the safety into place and handed the gun to Sarah. “It’s now fully loaded. Seven rounds only. When you want to fire it, just disengage the safety and pull the trigger.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll manage.”

Sarah practiced disengaging and engaging the safety. “The perfect wedding gift for the woman who has everything.”

Keller raised his champagne glass. “Your first wedding, is it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Mine, too.” He walked to the window and stared at the granite sea. “Let’s hope we defy the odds.”

“Yes,” agreed Sarah as she slipped the Walther into her purse. “Let’s.”





56

10 Downing Street


At eight fifteen that evening, as Keller and Sarah were dining well in the Bedford’s grill room not twenty feet from their Russian quarry, a Jaguar limousine bearing Gabriel Allon and Graham Seymour passed through a heavily guarded gate off Horse Guards Road and parked outside the five-story redbrick building that stood at 12 Downing Street. Formerly the official residence of the chief whip, it now housed the prime minister’s press and communications staff. The chancellor of the Exchequer resided next door at Number 11, and the prime minister himself, of course, at Number 10. The famous black door opened automatically as Gabriel and Seymour approached. Watched by a fierce-looking brown-and-white tabby cat, they went quickly inside.

Geoffrey Sloane, the prime minister’s chief of staff and the most powerful unelected official in Britain, was waiting in the entrance hall. He thrust a hand in Gabriel’s direction. “I was here the morning you killed that ISIS dirty bomber at the security gate. In fact, I could hear the gunshots from my office.” Sloane released Gabriel’s hand and looked at Seymour. “I’m afraid the PM hasn’t much time.”

“This won’t take long.”

“I’d like to sit in.”

“Sorry, Geoffrey, but that’s not possible.”

Jonathan Lancaster was waiting upstairs in the Terracotta Room. Earlier that afternoon he had narrowly survived a vote of no confidence in the House of Commons. Even so, the Westminster press corps were at that very moment writing his political obituary. Thanks to the folly of Brexit, which Lancaster had opposed, his career was effectively over. Were it not for Gabriel and Graham Seymour, whom he greeted warmly, it might have ended much sooner.

The prime minister glanced at his wristwatch. “I have dinner guests.”

“I’m sorry,” said Seymour, “but I’m afraid we have a rather serious situation regarding the Russians.”

“Not again.”

Seymour nodded gravely.

“And the nature of this situation?”

“A known SVR assassin has entered the country.”

“Where is he now?”

“A small hotel in Essex. The Bedford House.”