Seymour climbed out and walked over to the iron gate, which opened at his approach. A flight of steep steps bore him to the front door, where a woman with sandstone-colored hair and child-bearing hips was waiting. Seymour recognized her. She was Rimona Stern, head of the Office division known as Collections.
“Don’t just stand there!” she snapped. “Come inside.”
Seymour followed her into the large main room, where Gabriel and two of his senior officers—Yaakov Rossman and Yossi Gavish—were gathered around a folding trestle table, staring into laptop computers. On the wall behind them was a large patch of mold. It looked vaguely like a map of Greenland.
“Is thisreallywhere your ambassador lives?” asked Seymour.
But Gabriel didn’t answer; he was staring at the message that had just arrived on his screen. It stated that Eva Fernandes and Mikhail Abramov were leaving the apartment building on MacArthur Boulevard. Seymour removed his Crombie overcoat and reluctantly laid it over the back of a chair. From his pocket he took his MI6 BlackBerry. He checked the time. It was 7:12 a.m.
66
Burleith, Washington
The traffic was already a nightmare, especially along Reservoir Road, which stretched from Foxhall to the northern end of Georgetown. It was a commuter alley for the Maryland suburbs, eastbound in the morning, westbound at night, made worse by the presence of Georgetown University Medical Center and, at that hour, a blinding sunrise. Eva Fernandes, an experienced if illegal Washington driver, knew a few shortcuts. She was dressed in her usual morning attire—leggings, neon-green Nike trainers, and a form-fitting zippered jacket, also neon-green. After two consecutive nights without sleep, Mikhail looked like her troubled boyfriend, the one who preferred booze and drugs to work.
“And I thought the traffic in Moscow was bad,” he said beneath his breath.
Eva made a left turn onto Thirty-Seventh Street and headed north into Burleith, a neighborhood of small terraced cottages popular with students and young professionals. And with Russian spies, thought Mikhail. Aldrich Ames used to leave a chalk mark on a mailbox on T Street when he wanted to deliver the CIA’s secrets to his KGB handler. The original postbox was in a museum downtown. The one that slid past Mikhail’s window was a replacement.
“Remind me what happens after you drop me off,” he said.
Eva made no protestation other than a heavy sigh. They had reviewed the plan thoroughly at her kitchen table. Now, in the final minutes before the scheduled drop, they were going to review it again, whether she needed to or not.
“I drive the rest of the way to the Starbucks,” she recited, as if by rote.
“And what happens if you try to make a run for it?”
“The FBI,” she answered. “Prison.”
“Order your latte,” said Mikhail with operational calm, “and take it to the upstairs seating area. Don’t make eye contact with any of the other customers. And whatever you do, don’t forget to switch on the receiver. When Rebecca transmits, it will automatically forward her report to us.”
Eva turned onto Whitehaven Parkway. “What happens if she gets cold feet? What happens if she doesn’t transmit?”
“The same thing that happens if she does. Wait upstairs until you hear from me. Then go to your car and start the engine. I’ll join you. And then...”
“Poof,” she said.
Eva pulled to the curb at the corner of Thirty-Fifth Street. Mikhail opened the door and dropped a foot to the gutter. “Don’t forget to turn on the receiver. And whatever you do, don’t leave that café unless I tell you to.”
“What happens if she doesn’t transmit?” Eva asked once again.
Mikhail climbed out of the car without answering and closed the door. Instantly, the Kia lurched away from the curb and turned right onto Wisconsin Avenue. So far so good, he thought, and started walking.
67
Wisconsin Avenue, Washington
As a tableau for Cold War–style espionage, it lacked the usual iconography. There were no walls or checkpoints, no guard towers or searchlights, no bridge of spies. There was only a wildly popular chain coffee shop, with its ubiquitous green-and-white sign. It was located on the western side of Wisconsin Avenue, at the end of a parade of small shops—an animal hospital, a hair salon, a bespoke tailor, a cobbler, a pet groomer, and one of Washington’s better French restaurants.
Only the coffee shop had its own car park. Eva hovered in the center of the lot for two long minutes until a space opened up. Inside, the line stretched from the cash register nearly to the door. It was no matter; she had arrived in plenty of time.
Ignoring the instructions of the man she knew as Alex, she scanned her surroundings carefully. There were nine people ahead of her—edgy commuters headed toward downtown office buildings, a couple of sweatshirted habitués from the neighborhood, and three children wearing the striped tie of the British International School, which was located on the opposite side of Wisconsin Avenue. Five or six more customers were waiting for their drinks at the other end of the L-shaped counter, and four more were reading copies of theWashingtonPostorPoliticoat a communal table. None looked to Eva like operatives of the FBI, the Israeli or British intelligence services, or, more important, the Washingtonrezidenturaof the SVR.
There was additional seating at the back of the restaurant, past the display case of plastic-looking cakes and sandwiches. All but two of the tables were occupied. At one sat a man in his mid-twenties with an indoor pallor. He wore a Georgetown University pullover and was staring at a laptop. He looked like a typical Wi-Fi mooch, which was exactly the point. Eva believed she had just identified the Israeli computer technician who had managed to break through the unbreakable firewall of the SVR receiver.
It was 7:40 when she finally placed her order. The barista sang Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” rather well while he prepared her grande latte with an extra shot, which she sweetened liberally before making her way to the rear seating area. The kid in the Georgetown pullover was the only man who did not look up from his device to watch Eva pass in her leggings and tight-fitting jacket, thus confirming he was indeed the Israeli computer tech.
On the left side of the room was the stairway to the upper seating area. Only one person was present, a middle-aged man in chinos and a crewneck sweater who was writing furiously on a yellow legal pad. He was sitting next to the balustrade overlooking the front of the store. Eva sat down at the back, near a door that led to an unoccupied terrace. The power switch of the SVR receiver, when engaged, emitted a muted click. Even so, the man looked up and frowned before resuming his labors.
