“My place.”
“Want some company?”
“Love some.”
The carriage slowed to a stop and the doors opened with a wheeze. Passing reception, Sarah noisily bade farewell to Margaret, the head of guest services, and Evans, the concierge. In the lounge bar she glimpsed Keller walking across the screen of the television with Khalid at his side. Rising to his feet, as though in a hurry to be on his way, was the Russian assassin.
Sarah considered turning around and retracing her steps to the lift. Instead, she quickened her pace. It was no more than twenty steps to the entrance, but the Russian drew alongside her effortlessly and pressed something hard against the base of her spine. There was no mistaking it for anything other than a gun.
With his left hand he took hold of her arm and smiled. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair,” he said quietly, “I suggest you keep walking.”
Sarah squeezed the phone tightly. “Still there?”
“Don’t worry,” said Keller. “Still here.”
70
Frinton-on-Sea, Essex
Outside, the Russiantook the phone from Sarah’s grasp and killed the connection. The two cars waited in the street, watched over by the valet. He was clearly confounded by the scene he was witnessing. Forty-eight hours earlier, Sarah had arrived at the hotel as a newlywed. Now she was abruptly leaving with another man.
The valet relieved Sarah of her suitcase. “Which car?” he asked.
“Mrs. Edgerton’s,” replied the Russian in a crisp British accent.
Sarah managed to conceal her astonishment. Clearly, the Russian had been aware of her presence at the hotel for some time. He accepted the car keys from the valet and instructed him to place “Mrs. Edgerton’s” suitcase in the Jaguar’s boot. Sarah tried to keep her handbag, but the Russian plucked it from her shoulder and tossed it into the boot as well. It landed with an unusually heavy thud.
The Russian’s overcoat was draped over his right arm. With his left he closed the boot and then opened the passenger door. Sarah’s eyes scanned the Esplanade as she climbed inside. Somewhere nearby were four MI6 watchers, none of whom were armed. It was imperative they not lose track of her.
The Russian closed her door and walked around the back of the car to the driver’s side, where the valet was awaiting his gratuity. The Russian handed him a ten-pound note before dropping behind the wheel and starting the engine. The gun was now in his left hand, and it was pointed at Sarah’s right hip. As they pulled away from the curb, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the valet running after them.
The Russian had forgotten his suitcase.
He turned onto Connaught Avenue and pressed the throttle to the floorboard. A parade of shops flashed past Sarah’s window: Café 19, Allsorts Cookware, Caxton Books & Gallery. The Russian was pressing the barrel of his gun into her hip. With his right hand he was gripping the wheel tightly. His eyes were locked on the rearview mirror.
“You might want to look where you’re going,” said Sarah.
“Who are they?”
“They’re innocent British subjects who are trying to enjoy a pleasant evening in a seaside community.”
The Russian ground the gun into Sarah’s hip. “The two people in the van behind us.” His British accent was gone. “Essex Police? MI5? MI6?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He placed the barrel of the gun against the side of her head.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know who they are.”
“What about your husband?”
“He works in the City.”
“Where is he now?”
“Back at the hotel, wondering where I am.”
“I saw him on television a few minutes ago.”
