Two women, holidaymakers, pensioners, were coming up the footpath, trailed by a rust-colored spaniel. Nikolai bade them a pleasant afternoon, and they chirped a greeting in return before continuing north to the headland. Despite their age, he scrutinized them carefully as they moved off. And for an instant he even considered how best to kill them both. He had been trained to assume that every encounter—especially one that occurred in a remote location, such as a marshland in Essex—was potentially hostile. Unlike ordinary SVR operatives, Nikolai possessed the authority to kill first and worry about the consequences later. So, too, did Anna.
He checked the time. It was nearly two o’clock. He crossed the headland to Naze Tower and then retraced his steps along the seafront to Frinton. The sun had finally burned a hole in the clouds by the time he arrived at the Bedford House. One of the last surviving hotels from the town’s golden age, it stood at the far southern end of the Esplanade, a Victorian mausoleum with pennants flying from its turrets. The woman had chosen it, the woman known in the West as Rebecca Manning and at Moscow Center as Rebecca Philby. The Bedford’s management was under the impression that Nikolai was Philip Lane, a writer of television crime dramas who had come to Essex in search of inspiration.
Entering the hotel, he made his way to the atrium-like Terrace Café for afternoon tea. Phoebe, the tight-skirted waitress, showed him to a table overlooking the Esplanade. Nikolai, playing the role of Philip Lane, spread a Moleskine notebook before him. Then, absently, he took up his SVR-issue mobile phone.
Concealed within its applications was a protocol that allowed him to communicate securely with Moscow Center. Even so, the wording of the message he typed was so vague as to be incomprehensible to an adversarial signals intelligence service like Britain’s GCHQ. It stated that he had just completed a long surveillance-detection run and had seen no evidence he was being followed. In his opinion, it was safe to insert the next member of the team. Upon arrival, she was to make her way to Frinton to collect the weapon of assassination, which Nikolai had smuggled into the country. And upon completion of her assignment, Nikolai would see that she made it out of Britain safely. For this operation, at least, he was little more than a glorified delivery boy and driver. Still, he was looking forward to seeing her again. She was always better when they were in the field.
Phoebe placed a pot of Earl Grey tea on the table, along with a plate of dainty sandwiches. “Are you working?”
“Always,” drawled Nikolai.
“What kind of story is it?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Does someone die?”
“Several people, actually.”
Just then, an open-top Jaguar F-Type, bright red, drew up at the hotel’s entrance. The driver was a good-looking man of perhaps fifty, blond, with deeply tanned skin. His passenger, a black-haired woman, was recording their arrival on a smartphone, her arm outstretched. They seemed to be dressed for a special occasion.
“The Edgertons,” explained Phoebe.
“Sorry?”
“Tom and Mary Edgerton. They’re newlyweds. Apparently, it was all very spur of the moment.” A bellman heaved two suitcases from the car’s boot while the woman snapped photographs of the sea. “Lovely, isn’t she?”
“Quite,” agreed Nikolai.
“I think she might be an American.”
“We won’t hold that against her.”
Nikolai watched the couple enter the lobby, where the manager presented them each with a complimentary glass of champagne. The woman, while surveying the hotel’s staid interior, inadvertently caught Nikolai’s eye and smiled. The man took her proprietarily by the arm and led her to the lift.
“She’s definitely American,” said Phoebe.
“Indeed,” agreed Nikolai. “And her husband is the jealous type.”
The bridal suite was on the third floor. Keller swiped the key card, pushed open the door, and stood aside for Sarah to enter. Their bags lay on luggage stands at the foot of the bed. Keller hung thedo not disturbsign from the latch and, closing the door, engaged the safety bar.
“Is he the man you saw at Café Remor in Geneva?”
Sarah nodded once.
Keller sent a brief message on his BlackBerry to the team at Hatch End. Then he reached inside his suit jacket and removed his Walther PPK from his shoulder holster. “Ever use one of these?”
“Not a Walther,” said Sarah.
“Shoot anyone?”
“A Russian, actually.”
“Lucky girl. Where?”
“In the hip and the shoulder.”
“I meant—”
