“Morris tells me the same thing.”
“I didn’t realize you were on a Christian-name basis.”
“He’s not so bad, Graham.”
“He’s ideological, which makes me nervous. A spy should believe in nothing.” He paused, then added, “Like you, Rebecca.”
“Morris Payne isn’t a spy, he’s the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. There’s an enormous difference.” She opened her copy of the briefing book. “Shall we begin?”
Seymour had never doubted the wisdom of Rebecca Manning’s appointment to Washington, never less so than in the forty-five minutes of her briefing. She moved through the agenda swiftly and sure-footedly—North Korea, China, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, the global effort against ISIS and al-Qaeda. Her command of the policy issues was complete, as was her exposure to American covert operations. As MI6’s Head of Station in Washington, Rebecca Manning knew far more about the secret workings of the American intelligence community than most members of the Senate. Her thinking was subtle and sophisticated, and not given to hyperbole or rashness. For Rebecca, the world was not a dangerous place spinning rapidly out of control; it was a problem to be managed by men and women of competence and training.
The last item on the agenda was Russia. It was inherently treacherous ground. The new American president had made no secret of his admiration for Russia’s authoritarian leader and expressed a desire for better relations with Moscow. Now he was embroiled in an investigation into whether the Kremlin had provided covert assistance that helped him prevail in a close election against his Democratic opponent. Seymour and MI6 had concluded it was so, as had Morris Payne’s predecessor at the Central Intelligence Agency.
“For obvious reasons,” said Rebecca, “Morris has no desire to discuss American domestic politics. He’s interested in one topic and one topic only.”
“Heathcliff?”
Rebecca nodded.
“If that’s the case, he should invite Gabriel Allon to Washington for a chat.”
“It was Allon’s fault—is that your position?” There was a brief silence. “May I speak frankly?”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“The Americans won’t buy it. They’ve worked closely with Allon for many years, as have you. And they know he’s more than capable of taking in a defecting Russian agent.”
“You seem to have your fingers firmly on the American pulse.”
“That’s part of my job, Graham.”
“What should I expect from them?”
“Grave concern,” answered Rebecca. She said nothing more, for nothing more needed to be said. If the CIA shared Gabriel’s belief that MI6 had been penetrated by the Russians, it was a disaster.
“Is Morris going to make the accusation explicitly?” asked Seymour.
“I’m afraid I don’t know. That said, he’s not one to mince words. I’m already detecting a change in temperature in my dealings with them. The air is getting a bit chilly. Lots of long silences and blank stares. We have to address their concerns head-on. Otherwise, they’ll begin withholding the crown jewels.”
“And if I tell them I share their concerns?”
“Do you?” asked Rebecca Manning.
Seymour sipped his coffee.
“You need to be aware of the fact that Heathcliff’s assassination has led the Americans to take another look at what went wrong with the Gribkov case. A very hard look,” Rebecca added.
“They would be fools not to.” After a pause, Seymour said, “And so would we.”
“Have you opened a formal investigation?”
“Rebecca, you know I can’t possibly—”
“And I can’t possibly carry out my duties as your Washington Head of Station unless I know the answer to that question. I’ll be left in an untenable situation, and any residual trust the Americans have in me will evaporate.”
Her point was valid. “No formal investigation,” said Seymour evenly, “has been opened at this time.”
The response was a masterpiece of passive, bureaucratic murk. It did not escape Rebecca’s notice. “What about aninformalone?” she asked.
