72
Wisconsin Avenue, Washington
Behind the locked door of the coffee shop’s omnigender restroom, Rebecca reread Graham Seymour’s text message.Change in plan. I want you to accompany me to Langley. Meet me at the station soonest... The benign tone could not conceal the message’s true meaning. It confirmed Rebecca’s worst fears. She had been exposed and led into a trap.
The door latch rattled impatiently.
“One minute, please,” said Rebecca with a serenity that would have warmed her father’s traitorous heart. It was his face reflected in the mirror. “With each passing year,” her mother used to say, “you look more and more like him. The same eyes. The same contemptuous expression.” Rebecca was never sure her mother meant it as a compliment.
She zipped the BlackBerry and iPhone into the Faraday pouch in her handbag and tore a single sheet of paper from her notebook. On it she wrote a few words in Cyrillic script. The toilet flushed thunderously. She ran water into the basin for a few seconds, then tugged a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and dropped them into the bin.
From beyond the door came the gentle hum of the busy café. Rebecca placed her left hand on the latch and her right inside her handbag, around the grip of the compact SIG Sauer. She had released the external safety switch immediately after entering the restroom. The magazine held ten 9mm Parabellum rounds, as did the backup.
She pulled open the door and stepped out with the haste of a powerful Washingtonian who was running late for work. She had expected to find someone waiting, but the foyer was empty. The kid with the Georgetown hoodie had altered the angle of his laptop. The screen was shielded from Rebecca’s view.
She turned abruptly to her right and headed up the stairs. In the upper seating area she found two people, a middle-aged man scribbling on a legal pad, and Eva Fernandes, the Russian illegal. In her neon-green jacket, she was hard to miss.
Rebecca sat down in the chair opposite. Her right hand was still inside the handbag, wrapped around the grip of the SIG Sauer. With her left, she handed Eva Fernandes the note. The illegal feigned incomprehension.
“Just do it,” whispered Rebecca in Russian.
The woman hesitated, then surrendered her phone. Rebecca added it to the Faraday pouch.
“Where’s your car?”
“I don’t have a car.”
“You drive a Kia Optima. It’s parked outside in the lot.” Rebecca opened her handbag sufficiently to allow the illegal to see the gun. “Let’s go.”
73
Wisconsin Avenue, Washington
In violation of all Office field doctrine, written and unwritten, spoken and unspoken, Mikhail Abramov had switched seats, exchanging his rear-facing chair for one angled toward the front of the café. He wore a miniature earpiece, left side, facing the wall. It allowed him to monitor the feed from Eva’s phone, which was thoroughly compromised and acting as a transmitter. At least ithadbeen acting as a transmitter until 8:04, when Rebecca Manning, after leaving the restroom, unexpectedly darted up the stairs.
In the final seconds before the phone went silent, Mikhail had heard a whisper. It was possible the words were Russian, but he couldn’t be sure. Nor could he say with certainty who had spoken them. Regardless of what had transpired, both women were now headed toward the door. Eva was staring straight ahead, as though walking toward an open grave. Rebecca Manning was a step behind, her right hand inside a stylish handbag.
“What do you suppose she has inside that bag?” asked Mikhail quietly, as the two Russian agents passed within range of Ilan’s camera.
“Several mobile phones,” answered Gabriel, “and an SVR short-range agent communication device.”
“She has more than that.” Mikhail watched Eva and Rebecca walk out the door and turn left toward the parking lot. “Maybe you should ask your friend whether his Washington Head of Station carries a sidearm.”
Gabriel did. Then he repeated the answer to Mikhail. Rebecca Manning did not as a general rule carry a weapon in public but kept one at her house for protection, with the blessing of the State Department and the CIA.
“What kind?”
“SIG Sauer.”
“A nine, I assume?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Probably a compact.”
“Probably,” agreed Gabriel.
“That means the capacity is ten.”
