Page 116 of The New Girl

“Where?”

“I don’t know.” When Gabriel rose angrily from his chair, Dragunov covered his face with his hands. “Please, Allon, not again. I’m telling you the truth. The safe house is in South Holland, somewhere near the coast. But that’s all I know.”

“Is anyone there now?”

“A couple of gorillas and someone to handle secure communications with Yasenevo.”

“Why do they need a secure link to Moscow Center?”

“It isn’t just a crash pad, Allon. It’s a forward command post.”

“Who else is there, Konstantin?”

Dragunov hesitated, then said, “The Englishwoman.”

“Rebecca Manning?”

“Philby,” said the Russian. “She uses her father’s name now.”

73

The North Sea

Nikolai Azarov was by no means a skilled seaman, but his father had been a high-ranking officer in the old Soviet Navy and he knew a thing or two about boats. Leaving the marina, he had guided the Bavaria 27 through the shallow tidewaters of Walton Channel and into the North Sea. Once clear of the headland, he turned due east and increased his speed to twenty-five knots. It was comfortably below the vessel’s top cruising speed. Even so, the onboard Garmin navigation system anticipated a 1:15 a.m. arrival.

It was a straight line to his destination. After establishing his heading, Nikolai switched off the Garmin so it could not be used by the British to locate his position. His phone—the phone Anna had called a few moments before she was killed—was on the bottom of Walton Channel. So was the phone he had taken from the woman outside the hotel. Nikolai was not, however, without means of communication. The Bavaria had an Inmarsat phone and wireless network. He had switched off the system soon after leaving the marina. The handheld receiver was in his pocket, safely beyond the reach of the woman.

Her suitcase was still in the boot of the Jaguar, but Nikolai had taken her handbag. In it he had found a few cosmetics, a bottle of antidepressants, six hundred pounds in cash, and an old Walther PPK, an interesting choice of weapon. There was no passport or driver’s license, and no credit or bank cards.

The sea before the Bavaria was empty. Nikolai ejected the magazine from the Walther and removed the round from the chamber. Then he engaged the autopilot and carried the gun and the bottle of antidepressants down the companionway. Entering the salon, Nikolai saw the woman glaring at him from the table. An angry red welt had risen on her cheek where Nikolai had struck her when she refused to board the boat.

The BBC was playing on the radio. The signal was weak, in and out. The prime minister had just addressed reporters outside Number 10. The radioactive corpse of a dead Russian agent had shut down the M25. A radioactive Russian oligarch had closed London City Airport. A third Russian had killed two people at the Frinton-on-Sea rail station. Police were said to be desperately searching for him.

Nikolai switched off the radio. “They didn’t mention the guard at the marina.”

“They probably haven’t found him yet.”

“I rather doubt that.”

Nikolai sat down opposite the woman. Despite the welt, she was quite attractive. She would have been prettier were it not for the ridiculous dark wig.

He placed the bottle of pills before her. “Why are you depressed?”

“I spend too much time with people like you.”

He glanced at the bottle. “Perhaps you should take one. You’ll feel better.”

She stared at him without expression.

“How about this?” He placed the vial of clear liquid on the table.

“What is it?”

“It’s the same radioactive chemical element that Anna gave to Abdullah when he visited Konstantin Dragunov’s mansion in Belgravia. And for some reason,” said Nikolai, “you and your friends allowed it to happen.”

She looked down at the bottle. “Maybe you should get rid of that.”

“How? Should I pour it into the North Sea?” He made a face of mock revulsion. “Think of the environmental damage.”