The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(97)
It was white as a wedding cake, with a red tile roof. Plexiglass barriers shielded the veranda from the wind. A woman waited there alone, like a specimen in a jar. She wore an oilskin coat and stretch jeans. Her eyes were unusually blue—and tired-looking, thought Sarah. The night had been unkind to the woman’s appearance.
A stray forelock had fallen over one of her eyes. The woman pushed it aside and studied Sarah carefully. Something about the gesture was familiar. The face was familiar, too. All at once Sarah realized where she had seen it before.
A news conference at the Grand Presidential Palace in Moscow . . .
The woman on the veranda was Rebecca Manning.
75
Rotterdam
The car had been a Volvo, late model, dark in color. On that point, Gabriel and Eli Lavon were in complete agreement. Both had caught a clear glimpse of the front grille and had noted the circular ornament and distinctive diagonal line sloping left to right. Gabriel was certain it had been a sedan. Lavon, however, was convinced it was an estate car.
There was no dispute over the direction it had been heading, which was north. Gabriel and Lavon concentrated on the little villages along the coast while Mikhail and Keller worked the larger towns inland. Between them, they spotted one hundred and twelve Volvos. In none did they find Sarah.
Admittedly, it was an impossible task—“a needle in a Dutch haystack,” as Lavon put it—but they kept at it until seven fifteen, when they all four gathered at a coffee shop in an industrial quarter of south Rotterdam. They were the first customers of the morning. There was a petrol station next door and a couple of car dealerships across the road. One, of course, sold Volvos.
An environmentally friendly Dutch police cruiser rolled past in the street, slowly.
“What’s his problem?” asked Mikhail.
It was Lavon who answered. “Maybe he’s looking for the idiots who’ve been racing around the countryside all night. Or the genius who ran a Bavaria 27 aground near Renesse.”
“Think they’ve found it?”
“The yacht?” Lavon nodded. “It’s rather hard to miss, especially now that it’s light.”
“What happens next?”
“The Dutch police find out who owns the boat and where it came from. And before long, every officer in Holland will be looking for a Russian assassin and a pretty American woman named Sarah Bancroft.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” said Mikhail.
“Unless Rebecca and her friend Nikolai decide to cut their losses and kill her.”
“Maybe they already have.” Mikhail looked at Gabriel. “You’re sure they were a woman’s footprints?”
“I’m sure, Mikhail.”
“Why bother to bring her ashore? Why not lighten their load and make a run for Moscow?”
“I suppose they want to ask her a few questions first. Wouldn’t you if you were in their position?”
“You think they’re going to get rough with her?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Who’s asking the questions.” Gabriel noticed that Keller was suddenly working the keyboard of his BlackBerry. “What’s going on?”
“Apparently, Konstantin Dragunov isn’t feeling well.”
“Imagine that.”
“He just admitted to the Metropolitan Police that he and the woman poisoned the crown prince last night. Lancaster’s making the announcement at Downing Street at ten.”
“Do me a favor, Christopher.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell Graham and Lancaster to announce it now.”
76
10 Downing Street
Graham Seymour was waiting in the entrance hall of Number 10 when Jonathan Lancaster came down the Grand Staircase with Geoffrey Sloane at his side. Sloane was nervously adjusting his necktie, as though he were the one who was about to face the battery of cameras arrayed outside in Downing Street. Lancaster was clutching a few light blue notecards. He led Seymour into the Cabinet Room and solemnly closed the door.
“It worked to perfection. Just like you and Gabriel said it would.”
“With one problem, Prime Minister.”
“The best-laid plans of mice and men . . .” Lancaster held up the notecards. “Do you think this will be enough to keep the Russians from killing her?”
“Gabriel seems to think it will.”
“Did he really punch Konstantin Dragunov?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Was it a good one?” asked Lancaster mischievously.
“Quite.”
“I hope Konstantin wasn’t too seriously injured.”
“At this point I doubt he even remembers it.”
“He’s ill, is he?”
“The sooner we get him on a plane, the better.”
Lancaster looked down at the first notecard and, lips moving, rehearsed the opening line of his prepared remarks. It was true, thought Seymour. It had worked to perfection. He and Gabriel had beaten the Russians at their own game. The Tsar had killed before, recklessly, with weapons of mass destruction. But this time he had been caught in the act. The consequences would be severe—sanctions, expulsions, perhaps even excommunication from the Group of Eight—and the damage was likely to be permanent.