The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(99)

It was half past eight when Gabriel’s BlackBerry shivered with an incoming call. He did not recognize the number. Ordinarily, he terminated such calls without a second thought. But not that call. Not the call that arrived on his phone at half past eight in Rotterdam.

He tapped answer, lifted the BlackBerry to his ear, and murmured a greeting.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t pick up.”

“Who is this?”

“You don’t recognize my voice?”

It was female and slightly hoarse with fatigue and tobacco. The accent was British with a trace of French. And, yes, Gabriel recognized it.

It was the voice of Rebecca Manning.





78

Ouddorp, the Netherlands


The beach pavilion was called Natural High. In summer it was one of the busiest spots on the Dutch coast. But at half past ten on an April morning, it had the air of an abandoned colonial outpost. The weather was fitful, blinding sun one minute, blinding rain the next. Gabriel watched it from the shelter of the café. So fair and foul a day I have not seen . . . Suddenly, he thought of a seaside café atop the cliffs of Lizard Point in West Cornwall. He used to hike there along the coastal path, have a pot of tea and a scone with thick clotted cream, and then hike back to his cottage in Gunwalloe Cove. It seemed a lifetime ago. Perhaps one day, when his term was over, he would go back again. Or maybe he would take Chiara and the children to Venice. They would live in a grand apartment in Cannaregio, he would restore paintings for Francesco Tiepolo. The world and its many problems would pass him by. He would spend his nights with his family and his days with his old friends Bellini, Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese. He would be anonymous again, a man with a brush and a palette atop a work platform, hidden behind a shroud.

For now, however, he was very much in plain sight. He was sitting alone at a table against the window. On the table before him was his BlackBerry. He had nearly run the battery dry putting in place the pieces of the deal. Rebecca had quibbled over one or two details regarding the timing, but after one final call to London, it was done. Downing Street, it seemed, wanted to make the exchange as badly as Gabriel.

Just then, the BlackBerry flashed. It was Eli Lavon. He was outside in the car park. “She just arrived.”

“Alone?”

“Looks like it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Lavon, “there is no one else visible in the car.”

“What kind is it?”

“A Volvo.”

“Sedan or an estate car?”

The call went dead. It was a sedan, thought Gabriel.

He glanced over his shoulder at Mikhail and Keller. They were sitting at a table in the back corner of the room. At another were two SVR hoods in leather jackets. The Russians watched Rebecca Manning carefully as she entered the café and sat down opposite Gabriel. She looked very English in her dark green Barbour jacket. She placed her phone on the table, along with a packet of L&B cigarettes and an old silver lighter.

“May I?” asked Gabriel.

She nodded.

He picked up the lighter. The inscription was scarcely visible. For a lifetime of service to the motherland . . .

“Couldn’t they have bought you a new one?”

“It belonged to my father.”

Gabriel glanced at her wristwatch. “And that?”

“It was gathering dust in the SVR’s private museum. I took it to a jeweler and replaced the timepiece. It works quite well, actually.”

“Then why are you ten minutes late?” Gabriel placed the lighter atop her packet of cigarettes. “You should probably put those away.”

“Even at a beach café?” She returned the cigarettes and the lighter to her handbag. “Things are a bit more relaxed in Russia.”

“And your life expectancy rates reflect that.”

“I believe we’ve fallen below North Korea on the latest list.” Her smile was genuine. Unlike their last meeting, which had taken place in a secret MI6 detention center in the north of Scotland, it was all very cordial. “My mother was asking about you the other day,” she said suddenly.

“Is she still in Spain?”

Rebecca nodded. “I was hoping she might settle with me in Moscow.”

“But?”

“She didn’t care for it much when she visited.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

The waitress was hovering.

“You should order something,” said Gabriel.

“I wasn’t planning to stay long.”

“What’s the rush?”

She ordered a koffie verkeerd. Then, when the waitress was gone, she unlocked her phone and pushed it toward Gabriel. On the screen was a still image of Sarah Bancroft. One side of her face was red and swollen.

“Who did that to her?”

Rebecca ignored his question. “Play it.”

Gabriel tapped the play icon and listened for as long as he could stomach it. Then he tapped pause and glared at Rebecca over the tabletop. “I would advise you never to make that recording public.”

“We would be justified.”

“It would be a grave mistake.”

“Would it?”

“Sarah’s an American, not Israeli. The CIA will retaliate if they find out you roughed her up like that.”