The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(94)

“About what?”

“Whether your good friend the Tsar was trying to kill you, too.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he entrusted you with several billion dollars to turn Abdullah into a puppet of the Kremlin. And all the Tsar got for his money was an MI6 asset.” Gabriel smiled. “Or so he thought.”

“He isn’t a British agent?”

“Abdullah?” Gabriel shook his head. “Don’t be silly.”

Dragunov’s face was aflame with rage. “You bastard.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Konnie.”

“What did I ever do to you?”

“You told the Tsar that Khalid asked me to find his daughter, and the Tsar used the opportunity to try to kill me. If I hadn’t spotted the bomb beneath Reema’s coat that night, I’d be dead.”

“Perhaps you should have tried to save her. Your conscience might be clearer.”

Gabriel rose slowly, walked to the opposite end of the table, and with every ounce of strength he could summon drove his fist into Konstantin Dragunov’s face. The Russian toppled sideways and came to rest on the floor of the lounge. Gabriel was surprised to see his head still attached to his shoulders.

“Who planned it, Konstantin?”

For a moment, Dragunov was incapable of speech. Finally, he groaned, “Planned what?”

“Abdullah’s murder.”

The Russian gave no answer.

“Do I need to remind you of your current situation, Konstantin? You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a British prison. I think you’ll find it much less luxurious than Eaton Square.”

“The president will never allow it.”

“He won’t be in any position to help you. In fact, if I had to guess, the British government is going to issue a warrant for his arrest.”

“And if I give you the name of the SVR officer who ran the operation? How will that change anything?”

“Your cooperation will not be forgotten.”

“Since when do you speak for the British government?”

“I speak for Reema. And if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to hit you again.”

Gabriel gave his watch another check. 9:26 . . . According to the Essex Police, Sarah and the Russian assassin had set sail from the marina north of Frinton at 7:49. By now, they were several miles out to sea. Her Majesty’s Coastguard was searching for the vessel, as yet without success.

“You were saying, Konnie?”

Dragunov was still lying on the floor. “It was the Englishwoman.”

“Rebecca Manning?”

“She uses her father’s name now.”

“You saw her?”

“I had a couple of meetings with her.”

“Where?”

“A little dacha in Yasenevo. It had a sign outside. I can’t recall what it said.”

“The Inner-Baltic Research Committee?”

“Yes, that was it. How did you know?”

Gabriel didn’t answer. “Under normal circumstances, I’d help you to your feet. But you’ll understand if I don’t.”

The Russian hauled himself onto the chair. The left side of his face was already badly swollen, and his eye was beginning to close. All in all, thought Gabriel, it was a slight improvement.

“Keep talking, Konnie.”

“It wasn’t much of an operation, really. All we had to do was ask Abdullah to set aside a few minutes of time while he was in London.”

“That was your job?”

Dragunov nodded. “That’s the way these things work. It’s always a friend.”

“He came through the passageway in the basement?”

“He didn’t come through the front door, did he?”

“What did you give him besides a glass of Louis Roederer?”

“He drank two glasses, actually.”

“Both were contaminated?”

Dragunov nodded.

“What was the substance?”

“I wasn’t told.”

“Maybe you should have asked.”

Dragunov said nothing.

“Why didn’t the woman come to the airport with you?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Because I killed her, Konstantin. And I’m going to kill you unless you keep talking.”

“Bullshit.”

Gabriel awakened his BlackBerry and laid it on the table in front of Dragunov. On the screen was a photograph of a blood-spattered woman hanging out the front door of a Renault Clio.

“Jesus.”

Gabriel returned the BlackBerry to his jacket pocket. “Go on, Konnie.”

“The Englishwoman wanted us to leave Britain separately. Anna was supposed to leave tonight on the Harwich–to–Hoek van Holland ferry. The eleven o’clock.”

“Anna?”

“Yurasova. The president has known her since she was a kid.”

“The operative at the hotel was supposed to leave with her?”

Dragunov nodded. “His name is Nikolai.”

“Where were they planning to go when they got to Holland?”

“If it was safe for them to get on a plane, they were going to head straight for Schiphol.”