The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(98)

“She has some nerve,” said Lancaster suddenly.

“Sarah Bancroft?”

“Rebecca Manning.” The prime minister was still looking down at his remarks. “One would have thought she would have remained safely in Moscow.” He lowered his voice. “Like her father.”

“We’ve made it clear we want nothing to do with her. Therefore, it’s safe for her to travel outside Russia.”

“Perhaps we should reevaluate our position vis-à-vis Ms. Philby. After this, she deserves to be brought back to Britain in chains. In fact,” said Lancaster, waving the notecards, “I’m thinking about making a small revision to my prepared remarks.”

“I would advise against that.”

The door opened and Geoffrey Sloane leaned into the room. “It’s time, Prime Minister.”

Lancaster, the consummate political actor, squared his shoulders before striding out the world’s most famous door, into the glare of the lights. Seymour followed Sloane into his office to watch the announcement on television. The prime minister seemed entirely alone in the world. His voice was calm but knife-edged with anger.

This monstrous and depraved act carried out by the intelligence services of the Russian Federation, on the direct order of the Russian president, will not go unpunished . . .

It had worked to perfection, thought Seymour. With one problem.





77

Ouddorp, The Netherlands


It became apparent within minutes of Sarah’s arrival at the safe house that they were not prepared for a hostage. Nikolai cut a bedsheet to ribbons, bound her hands and feet, and tied a gag tightly around her mouth. The bungalow’s cellar was a small, stone-lined chamber. Sarah sat with her back to a damp wall and her knees beneath her chin. Soaked to the skin from her walk to shore, she was soon shivering uncontrollably. She thought of Reema and the many nights she had spent in captivity before her brutal murder. If a child of twelve could bear up under the pressure, Sarah could, too.

There was a door at the top of the stone steps. Beyond it, Sarah could hear two voices conversing in Russian. One belonged to Nikolai, the other to Rebecca Manning. Judging by their tone, they were attempting to piece together the series of events that led to the arrest of the Russian president’s close friend and the death of a female SVR operative. By now, they had no doubt determined that their operation had been compromised from the beginning—and that Gabriel Allon, the man who had unmasked Rebecca Manning as a Russian mole, was somehow involved. Rebecca was now fighting for her career, perhaps even her life. Eventually, she would come for Sarah.

She willed herself into restless sleep, if only to stop the convulsive trembling of her body. In her dreams she was lying on a Caribbean beach with Nadia al-Bakari, but she woke to find Nikolai and the two goons staring down at her. They lifted her from the cold, damp floor as though she were made of tissue paper and carried her up the steps. A table of pale unfinished wood had been placed in the center of the sitting room. They forced her into a chair and removed only the gag, leaving her hands and feet bound. Nikolai clamped a hand over her mouth and said he would kill her if she screamed or tried to call for help. There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest the threat was hollow.

Rebecca Manning seemed unaware of Sarah’s presence. Arms folded, she was staring at the television, which was tuned to the BBC. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster had just accused Russia of attempting to assassinate the crown prince of Saudi Arabia during his state visit to Britain.

This monstrous and depraved act . . .

Rebecca listened to Lancaster’s announcement a moment longer before aiming a remote at the screen and muting the sound. Then she turned and glared at Sarah.

At length, she asked, “Who are you?”

“Allison Douglas.”

“Who do you work for?”

“The CIA.”

Rebecca glanced at Nikolai. The blow was open-handed but vicious. Sarah, fearful of Nikolai’s warning, smothered a scream.

Rebecca Manning took a step closer and placed the vial of clear liquid on the table. “One drop,” she said, “and not even your friend the archangel will be able to save you.”

Sarah stared at the vial in silence.

“I thought that would refresh your memory. Now tell me your name.”

Sarah waited until Nikolai drew back his hand before finally answering.

“Is it a work name?” asked Rebecca.

“No, it’s real.”

“Sarah is a Jewish name.”

“So is Rebecca.”

“Who do you work for, Sarah Bancroft?”

“The Museum of Modern Art in New York.”

“Is it a cover job?”

“No.”

“And before that?”

“The CIA.”

“What is your connection to Gabriel Allon?”

“I worked with him on a couple of operations.”

“Name one.”

“Ivan Kharkov.”

“Did Allon know about the plot to kill Abdullah?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“It was his idea.”

Rebecca absorbed Sarah’s words like a blow to the abdomen. She was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Was Abdullah ever an MI6 asset?”

“No,” said Sarah. “He was a Russian asset. And you, Rebecca Manning, just killed him.”