“Don’t waste time fighting old wars. The days when Five and Six could operate as adversaries are long past. You’ll learn very quickly you need Thames House watching your back.”
“Any other advice?”
“I know you don’t share my personal fondness for Gabriel Allon, but you would be wise to keep him in your arsenal. In a few hours’ time, a new cold war is going to commence. Allon knows the Russians better than anyone else in the business. He has the scars to prove it.”
Rebecca went into the kitchen and retrieved Seymour’s BlackBerry from the Faraday pouch. When she returned, he was wearing his overcoat and waiting by the door.
“What time do you want me to be at Dulles?” she asked as she handed him the phone.
“No later than noon. And plan to be in London for at least a week.” He slipped his phone into his coat pocket and started down the flagstone walkway.
“Graham,” Rebecca called out from the portico.
Seymour stopped next to the darkened iron lamp and turned.
“Thank you,” she said.
He frowned, perplexed. “For what?”
“For trusting me.”
“I could say the very same thing,” replied Seymour, and disappeared into the night.
The car was parked on Forty-Fifth Street. Seymour slid into the backseat. Through a gap in the trees, he could just make out Rebecca’s house in the distance, and the darkened lamp at the end of the walk.
“Back to the ambassador’s residence, sir?”
Seymour was spending the night there. “Actually,” he said, “I need to make a phone call first. Mind walking around the block a couple hundred times?”
The driver climbed out. Seymour started to dial Helen’s number but stopped; it was long past midnight in London, and he didn’t want to wake her. Besides, he doubted Rebecca would make him wait long. Not after what he had just told her about the plan to sever ties with Russia. She had a narrow window of opportunity to warn her masters at Moscow Center.
Seymour’s BlackBerry pulsed. It was a text from Nigel Whitcombe in London, a bit of chickenfeed to make it appear to Vauxhall Cross that all was normal. Seymour typed out a response and tapped thesendkey. Then he gazed through the gap in the trees, toward Rebecca Manning’s house.
The iron lamp at the end of the walk was burning brightly.
Seymour dialed a number and lifted the phone to his ear. “Do you see what I see?”
“I see it,” said the voice at the other end.
“Keep an eye on her.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let her out of my sight.”
Seymour killed the connection and stared at the light. Tomorrow, he told himself, would be a mere formality, the signing of a name to a document of treachery. Rebecca was the mole, and the mole was Rebecca. She was Philby incarnate, Philby’s revenge. The truth was written on Rebecca’s face. It was the one thing about her Philby hadn’t been able to undo.
I’m Kim. Who are you?
I’m Graham, he thought. I was the one who gave her your old job. I’m your last victim.
60
The Palisades, Washington
It was 11:25 p.m. when Eva Fernandes locked the front door of Brussels Midi restaurant on MacArthur Boulevard. Her car was parked a few doors down, outside a small post office. She climbed inside and started the engine and pulled away from the curb. The man she knew as Alex—the tall one with pale skin, the one who spoke Russian like a native and who had been following her all day—was standing on the corner of Dana Place, outside a darkened Afghan steak house. He had a backpack over one shoulder. He dropped into the front seat next to Eva and with a nod instructed her to keep driving.
“How was work?” he asked.
“Better than last night.”
