The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(91)

It was then, five minutes after Anna’s death, that Nikolai ended the call. No, he thought angrily. Not Anna’s death, her assassination. Nikolai was well versed in the rules and tactics of the Metropolitan Police and the various county and regional forces. Ordinary officers did not carry guns, only AFOs, authorized firearms officers, or SFOs, the highly trained specialist firearms officers of SCO19. AFOs did not typically carry the type of automatic assault rifle Nikolai had heard over the phone. Only SCO19 officers were armed with such weapons. Their presence on the M25 suggested they had been lying in wait for Anna. So, too, did the presence of a hazardous materials team with a radiation-detection device. But how had the Metropolitan Police known that Anna would be contaminated? Obviously, surmised Nikolai, the British had been watching her.

But if that were the case, why had they not tried to arrest him? At present, he was drinking tea at his usual table in the lounge bar. He had checked out of his room earlier that afternoon. His car was waiting curbside in the Esplanade. His small overnight bag was in the custody of the porter. The bag contained nothing of operational value. Nikolai’s Makarov 9mm was resting comfortably against the small of his back. In the right front pocket of his trousers was the spare vial of radioactive toxin that Moscow Center had insisted he carry into Britain. They had assured him the radiation could not escape the container. After hearing the voice of the hazmat technician, he was no longer certain that was the case.

A full-scale deflection . . .

He glanced at the television above the bar. It was tuned to Sky News. It seemed Khalid bin Mohammed had paid a visit to his uncle’s house in Eaton Square shortly before Downing Street announced the cancellation of tonight’s dinner. The event was noteworthy for another reason; it was the first public sighting of KBM since his abdication. Sky News had somehow obtained a video of his arrival. In Western clothing, his head bare, Khalid was scarcely recognizable. Nikolai’s eye, however, was drawn to the British security agent walking next to him. Nikolai had seen him somewhere before, he was certain of it.

He picked up his phone. Sky News had posted the story on its Web site, along with the video. Nikolai watched it three times. He was not mistaken.

They’re newlyweds. Apparently, it was all very spur of the moment . . .

He powered off his phone and removed the SIM card. Then he went onto the terrace overlooking the Esplanade. It was dark, the wind had died. He could see no sign of surveillance, but he knew they were watching him. His car, too. It was parked outside the hotel’s entrance. Suddenly, another car drew up behind it. An open-top Jaguar F-Type. Bright red.

Nikolai smiled.



Upstairs, Sarah shoved the Walther PPK into her handbag and went into the corridor. Her phone rang as she was waiting for the lift.

“Where are you?” asked Keller anxiously.

She explained.

“How long does it take to leave a hotel?”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder, Sarah. And faster.”

The lift arrived. She wheeled her suitcase into the carriage.

“Still there?” she asked.

“Still here.”

“Any plans for tonight?”

“I was thinking about a late dinner.”

“Anywhere special?”

“My place.”

“Want some company?”

“Love some.”

The carriage slowed to a stop and the doors opened with a wheeze. Passing reception, Sarah noisily bade farewell to Margaret, the head of guest services, and Evans, the concierge. In the lounge bar she glimpsed Keller walking across the screen of the television with Khalid at his side. Rising to his feet, as though in a hurry to be on his way, was the Russian assassin.

Sarah considered turning around and retracing her steps to the lift. Instead, she quickened her pace. It was no more than twenty steps to the entrance, but the Russian drew alongside her effortlessly and pressed something hard against the base of her spine. There was no mistaking it for anything other than a gun.

With his left hand he took hold of her arm and smiled. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair,” he said quietly, “I suggest you keep walking.”

Sarah squeezed the phone tightly. “Still there?”

“Don’t worry,” said Keller. “Still here.”





70

Frinton-on-Sea, Essex


Outside, the Russian took the phone from Sarah’s grasp and killed the connection. The two cars waited in the street, watched over by the valet. He was clearly confounded by the scene he was witnessing. Forty-eight hours earlier, Sarah had arrived at the hotel as a newlywed. Now she was abruptly leaving with another man.

The valet relieved Sarah of her suitcase. “Which car?” he asked.

“Mrs. Edgerton’s,” replied the Russian in a crisp British accent.

Sarah managed to conceal her astonishment. Clearly, the Russian had been aware of her presence at the hotel for some time. He accepted the car keys from the valet and instructed him to place “Mrs. Edgerton’s” suitcase in the Jaguar’s boot. Sarah tried to keep her handbag, but the Russian plucked it from her shoulder and tossed it into the boot as well. It landed with an unusually heavy thud.

The Russian’s overcoat was draped over his right arm. With his left he closed the boot and then opened the passenger door. Sarah’s eyes scanned the Esplanade as she climbed inside. Somewhere nearby were four MI6 watchers, none of whom were armed. It was imperative they not lose track of her.