“What about the two women?” probed Gabriel gently.
“No sign of them, either.”
“And they were last seen headingnorthon Wisconsin Avenue? You’re sure it was north?”
“Forget about the direction,” snapped Carter. “Just tell me who they are.”
“According to the FBI agent,” replied Gabriel, “one of them is a Brazilian national named Eva Fernandes.”
“And the other?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“Any idea why she might be calling a number inside the Russian Embassy from a pay phone?”
“Maybe you should ask one of those SVR officers who were spotted leaving the embassy in such a hurry.”
“The Bureau is looking for them, too. Any help from you,” said Carter, “would be held in the strictest confidence. So why don’t we start from the beginning? Who were the three men?”
“What three men?”
“And the women?”
“Sorry, Adrian, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Carter exhaled heavily. “When are you planning to leave town?”
“Tonight.”
“Any chance you could make it sooner?”
“Probably not.”
“Too bad,” said Carter, and the call went dead.
77
Chesapeake Street, Washington
Mikhail Abramov and Eli Lavon departed the command post at five minutes past ten o’clock in the back of an Israeli Embassy van. Their plan was to fly from Dulles to Toronto, and from Toronto to Ben Gurion. Mikhail left the Barak .45 with Gabriel, who pledged to lock it in the residence’s safe before leaving for the airport himself.
Alone, he adjusted the time code on the computer and once again watched the two women walking out of Starbucks, Eva leading the way, Rebecca a step behind, gripping the SIG Sauer 9mm hidden in her handbag. Gabriel now knew that she had called the Russian Embassy from a Shell station on Wisconsin Avenue before heading north toward the Maryland suburbs. And, in all likelihood, straight into the arms of an SVR exfiltration team.
The speed of the Russian response suggested therezidenturahad a well-oiled escape plan in place. Which meant the chances of finding Rebecca were close to zero. The SVR was a highly capable and ruthless intelligence service, the successor of the mighty KGB. Smuggling her out of the United States would not be a problem. She would appear next in Moscow, just as her father had in 1963.
Unless Gabriel could somehow stop her before she left Metropolitan Washington. He could not ask the Americans for help; he had made a promise to Graham Seymour, and if he broke it the recriminations would hang over the rest of his tenure as chief. No, he would have to find Rebecca Manning alone. Not entirely alone, he thought. He had Charlotte Bettencourt to help him.
He rewound the recording and once again watched Rebecca following Eva from the coffee shop. It was fourteen steps, he noticed. Fourteen steps from the stairwell to Wisconsin Avenue. Gabriel wondered whether Rebecca, somewhere inside, was counting them, or whether she even remembered the game she used to play with her mother in Paris. Gabriel doubted it. Surely, Philby and Sasha would have purged such counterrevolutionary impulses.
Gabriel watched Rebecca Manning walk from the screen of his computer. And then he remembered something Charlotte Bettencourt had told him that night in Seville, very late, when they were alone together because neither could sleep. “She’s more like her father than she realizes,” she said. “She does things exactly the same way, and she doesn’t know why.”
Charlotte Bettencourt had told Gabriel something else that night. Something that sounded trivial at the time. Something only two other people in the world knew. “Who’s to say whether it’s still there,” she said as her eyes closed with exhaustion. “But perhaps, if you have a free moment, you might want to have a look.”
Yes, thought Gabriel. He might indeed.
It was ten fifteen when Gabriel slipped the Barak .45 into the waistband of his jeans and headed down the steep steps. Oren unlocked the iron gate and started toward the waiting car, a rented Ford Fusion. Gabriel, however, ordered him to remain behind.
“Not again,” said Oren.
