Gabriel nodded. “I recommend she stay there until you’ve taken Rebecca into custody. But I’d move quickly. The Russians are liable to notice she’s no longer in Zahara.”
“Arrest Rebecca Manning?” asked Seymour. “On what charge? Being the illegitimate daughter of Kim Philby?”
“She’s a Russian mole, Graham. Make up some excuse to get her to London, something that won’t make her suspicious, and take her into custody the minute she steps off the plane at Heathrow.”
“Did Rebecca ever actuallyspyfor the Russians?”
“Of course.”
“I need proof,” said Seymour. “Otherwise, all I have is a sad story about a young child who was brainwashed by the KGB into completing the work of her treacherous father.”
“I’d read a story like that.”
“Unfortunately, so will a good many other people.” Seymour paused, then added, “And the reputation of the Secret Intelligence Service will be destroyed.”
A silence fell between them. It was Gabriel who broke it.
“Put her under blanket surveillance, Graham. Physical, cyber, cellular. Wire her home and her office. Eventually, she’ll slip up.”
“Are you forgetting who her father was?”
“I was the one who figured it out.”
“She’s a child prodigy,” said Seymour. “Philby never slipped up, and neither will she.”
“I’m sure you and Christopher will think of something.” Gabriel dropped the birth certificate atop the photograph. “I have a plane to catch and several pressing matters at home that require my attention.”
Seymour managed a smile. “Not even a little tempted?”
“To what?”
“To finish what you started?”
“I’ll wait for the movie. Besides, I have a bad feeling about how this is going to turn out.” Gabriel rose slowly to his feet. “If you don’t mind, I need to lock up. Housekeeping will slip a nasty letter into my file if I leave you behind.”
Seymour remained seated. He was pondering his wristwatch. “There’s no way you’ll make the three-thirty El Al flight now. Why don’t you stick around for a few minutes and tell me how you’d go about it?”
“What’s that?”
“Catching Kim Philby’s daughter red-handed.”
“That’s the easy part. All you have to do is catch a spy to catch a spy.”
“How?”
“With a Ford Explorer,” said Gabriel. “On the rue Saint-Denis in Montreal.”
Seymour smiled. “You have my full attention. Keep talking.”
53
Narkiss Street, Jerusalem
It was nearly midnight by the time Gabriel’s motorcade turned in to Narkiss Street. An armored limousine was parked outside his building, and upstairs in his apartment a light burned softly in the kitchen. Ari Shamron was sitting at the little café table, alone. He was dressed, as usual, in a pair of pressed khaki trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and a leather bomber jacket with an unrepaired tear in the left shoulder. On the table before him was a packet of Turkish cigarettes, unopened, and his old Zippo lighter. His olive wood cane leaned against the opposing chair.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” asked Gabriel.
“Your wife does. Your children were asleep when I arrived.” Shamron contemplated Gabriel through his ugly steel-rimmed spectacles. “Sound familiar?”
