“Did you hear the news? That bastard Philby is dead. Drinks in the canteen to celebrate.”
Three years later the country to which Kim Philby had devoted his life died, too. Suddenly bereft of their traditional enemy, the intelligence services of the West went in search of new targets to justify their existence. Rebecca used these years of uncertainty to focus relentlessly on advancing her career. At Sasha’s suggestion she studied Arabic, which enabled her to serve on the front lines of the global war on terrorism. Her tenure as Amman Head of Station had been a triumph and had led to her posting to Washington. Now she was just one step away from the ultimate prize—the prize that had eluded her father. She did not consider herself a traitor. Rebecca’s only country was Kim Philby, and she was faithful only to him.
Her run that morning took her to Dupont Circle and back. Returning to Warren Street, she passed her house twice without going inside. As usual, she drove herself to the embassy and embarked on what turned out to be an uncommonly dull day. For that reason alone, she agreed to have drinks with Kyle Taylor at J.Gilbert’s, a CIA hangout in McLean. Taylor was the chief of the Counterterrorism Center and one of the least discreet officers in all of Langley. Rebecca rarely left a meeting with Taylor without knowing something she shouldn’t.
On that evening, Taylor was even more loquacious than usual. One drink turned to two, and it was nearly eight by the time Rebecca crossed Chain Bridge and returned to Washington. She took a deliberately lengthy route back to Tenleytown and parked in front of her house. Warren Street was deserted, but as she made her way up the flagstone walk, she had the uncomfortable feeling she was being watched. Turning, she saw nothing to justify her fear, but once inside she discovered unmistakable evidence her home had been entered in her absence. It was the Crombie overcoat tossed carelessly over the back of a wing chair, and the man sitting at the end of her couch in the dark.
“Hello, Rebecca,” he said calmly as he switched on a lamp. “Don’t be afraid, it’s only me.”
59
Warren Street, Washington
Rebecca filled two tumblers with ice and several ounces of Johnnie Walker Black Label. To her own glass she added a dash of Evian water, but the other she left undiluted. The last thing she needed was another drink, but she welcomed the opportunity to collect herself. It was fortunate she wasn’t carrying her gun; she might very well have shot the director-general of the Secret Intelligence Service. It was upstairs, the gun, in the top drawer of her bedside table, a SIG Sauer 9mm. The Americans knew about the weapon and approved of Rebecca keeping it in her home for protection. She was forbidden, however, to carry it while in public.
“I was beginning to think you’d fled the country,” Graham Seymour called out from the next room.
“Kyle Taylor,” explained Rebecca.
“How was he?”
“Talkative.”
“Did he drone anyone today?”
Rebecca smiled in spite of herself. She knew Kyle Taylor to be a man of relentless career ambition. It was said of Kyle Taylor that he would drone his mother if he thought it would earn him a job on Langley’s cherished seventh floor.
Rebecca carried the two glasses into the sitting room and handed one to Seymour. He watched her carefully over the rim as she lit an L&B. Her hand was shaking.
“Are you all right?”
“I will be eventually. How did you get in here?”
Seymour held up a spare key to Rebecca’s front door. She kept a copy at the station in case of emergency.
“And your car and driver?” she asked.
“Around the corner.”
Rebecca chided herself inwardly for not having taken a pass through the surrounding streets before returning home. She drew heavily on her cigarette and exhaled a lungful of smoke toward the ceiling.
“Forgive me for not telling you I was coming to town,” Seymour said. “And for dropping in unannounced. But I wanted a word in private, away from the station.”
“It’s not secure here.” Rebecca nearly choked on the absurdity of her words. No room in the world was secure, she thought, so long as she was in it.
Seymour handed her his BlackBerry. “Do me a favor and drop this in a Faraday pouch. Yours, too.”
Faraday pouches blocked incoming and outgoing signals from smartphones, tablets, and laptop computers. Rebecca always kept one in her handbag. She placed Seymour’s BlackBerry into the pouch, along with her own BlackBerry and personal iPhone, and stowed it in the refrigerator. Returning to the sitting room, she found Seymour lighting one of her cigarettes.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but I could use one.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“I’m afraid it is. At eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, I’m meeting with Morris Payne at Langley. I will tell Director Payne that my government has obtained definitive proof the SVR was behind Alistair’s murder in Bern.”
“You told me it was an accident.”
“It wasn’t. Which is why, at noon tomorrow, our foreign secretary will telephone the secretary of state at Foggy Bottom and deliver a similar message. What’s more, the foreign secretary will tell the secretary of state that the United Kingdom intends to suspend all diplomatic ties with Russia. The prime minister will break the news to the president at one o’clock.”
