The English Spy (26 page)

T
HEY SAID HE WAS A
seer, a visionary, a prophet. He was almost never wrong—and even if he was, it was only because enough time had not passed to prove him right. He had the power to move markets, to raise alert levels, to influence policy. He was undeniable, he was infallible. He was a burning bush.

His identity was not known, and even his nationality was a bit of a mystery. He was widely assumed to be an Australian—the Web site was hosted there—though many believed he was of Middle Eastern origin, for his insights into the region’s tangled politics were thought to be far too subtle to be the product of a non-Oriental mind. And still others were convinced he was in fact a woman. A gender analysis of his writing style said it was at least a possibility.

Though influential, his blog was not read by the masses. Most of his readers were business elites, executives from private security
firms, policymakers, and journalists who focused on matters related to international terrorism and the crisis facing Islam and the Middle East. It was one such journalist, a respected investigative reporter from an American television network, who noticed the brief item that appeared early the next morning. The reporter rang one of his sources—a retired CIA agent who had a blog of his own—and the retired agent said the item passed the smell test. That was good enough for the respected investigative reporter, who immediately posted a few lines of copy on his social media feed. And thus an international crisis was born.

The Americans were skeptical at first, the British less so. Indeed, one proliferation expert from MI6 called it the nightmare scenario come true: one hundred pounds of highly radioactive nuclear material, enough to produce one large dirty bomb or several smaller devices that would be capable of rendering major city centers uninhabitable for years. The radioactive material—its precise nature was not specified—had been stolen from a secret Iranian laboratory near the sacred city of Qom and sold on the black market to a smuggler linked to Chechen Islamic terrorists. The whereabouts of the Chechen and the material were unknown, though the Iranians were said to be searching frantically for both. For reasons that were not clear, they had chosen not to inform their Russian friends about the situation.

The Iranians denounced the report as a Western provocation and a Zionist lie. The laboratory named in the report did not exist, they said, and all nuclear material in the country was safe and accounted for. Even so, by the end of that day, it was all anyone was talking about in Vienna. The chief American negotiator said the report, regardless of its veracity, demonstrated the importance of reaching an agreement. Her Iranian counterpart appeared less convinced. He left the talks without addressing reporters and slipped into the back of his official car. At his side was Reza Nazari.

They traveled to the Iranian Embassy and remained there until ten that evening, when finally they returned to the InterContinental Hotel. Reza Nazari went to his room long enough to shed his coat and attaché case and then knocked on the door of his neighbor. Mikhail Abramov drew him quickly inside. Yaakov Rossman poured him a scotch from the minibar.

“It is forbidden,” said Nazari.

“Take it, Reza. You deserve it.”

The Iranian accepted the drink and raised it slightly in salutation. “My congratulations,” he said. “You and your friends managed to create quite a stir today.”

“What’s the view from Tehran?”

“They’re skeptical of the timing, to say the least. They assume the report was part of an Office plot designed to sabotage the talks and prevent an agreement.”

“Did Allon’s name come up?”

“How could it? Allon is dead.”

Yaakov smiled. “And the Russians?” he asked.

“Deeply concerned,” replied Nazari. “And that’s putting it mildly.”

“Did you volunteer to reassure them?”

“I didn’t have to. Mohsen Esfahani instructed me to make contact and arrange a meeting.”

“Will Alexei agree to see you?”

“I can’t guarantee it.”

“Then perhaps we should promise him something a bit more interesting than a mutual hand-holding session.”

Nazari was silent.

“Did you bring your VEVAK BlackBerry?”

The Iranian held it up for Yaakov to see.

“Send a message to Alexei. Tell him you’d like to discuss recent
developments here in Vienna. Tell him Russia has nothing at all to be concerned about.”

Nazari quickly composed the e-mail, showed the text to Yaakov, and then pressed
SEND
.

“Very good.” Yaakov pointed at his open laptop and said, “Now send him that one.”

Nazari walked over and looked at the screen:

My government is lying to you about the seriousness of the situation. It is urgent I see you at once.

Nazari typed in the address and clicked
SEND
.

“That should get his attention,” said Yaakov.

“Yes,” said Nazari. “One would think.”

T
HEY DID NOT HEAR FROM
Alexei Rozanov that first night, nor was there any response the following morning. Reza Nazari left the hotel at eight thirty along with the rest of the Iranian delegation and twenty minutes after that disappeared down the black hole of the nuclear negotiations. At which point Gabriel, trapped in the Vienna safe flat with Christopher Keller, allowed himself to ponder at length all the reasons why his operation was doomed even before it had left port. It was possible, of course, that Reza Nazari had gone on the record with his service in the hours immediately following his brutal interrogation. It was possible, too, he had then told Alexei Rozanov that the man he had conspired to kill so spectacularly was very much alive and out for vengeance. Or perhaps there was no Alexei Rozanov. Perhaps he was nothing more than a figment of Nazari’s fevered imagination,
a clever piece of
taqiyya
designed to make himself useful to Gabriel and thus save his own life.

“Clearly,” said Keller, “you’ve lost your mind.”

“It happens to dead people.” Gabriel picked up a photograph of Rozanov walking along a cobbled street in Copenhagen. “Maybe he won’t come. Maybe his superiors at the SVR have decided to put him on ice for a while. Maybe he’ll ask his old friend Reza to pop over to Moscow for a night of vodka and girls.”

“Then we’ll pop over to Moscow, too. And we’ll kill him there.”

No, said Gabriel, shaking his head slowly, they would not be going back to Moscow. Moscow was their forbidden city. They had been lucky to survive their last visit. They would not be going back for a return engagement.

At one that afternoon the negotiators broke for lunch. The morning session had been particularly unproductive because both sides were still in a panic over Gabriel’s missing radioactive material. Reza Nazari slipped away from his delegation long enough to telephone Yaakov Rossman at the InterContinental. Yaakov then rang Keller at the safe flat and repeated the message.

“Radio silence from Moscow. No word from Alexei.”

By then, it was approaching two o’clock. The skies were low and leaden; a few flakes of snow were blowing sideways beyond the windows of the safe flat. Except for Nazari’s interrogation, Gabriel had been a prisoner of its rooms, hidden from view, shielded from the memories lurking just outside his door. It was Keller who suggested a walk. He helped Gabriel into his coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and pulled a hat low over his brow. Then he gave him a gun, a .45-caliber Glock, a man stopper, a weapon of mass destruction.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Shoot any Russian who asks you for directions.”

“What if I run into an Iranian?”

“Go,” said Keller.

By the time Gabriel stepped from the building, the snow was dropping from the sky straight and steady, and the pavements looked like sugar-dusted Viennese cakes. He walked blindly for a few moments, not bothering to check whether he was being followed. Vienna had long ago made a mockery of his tradecraft. He loved its beauty, he hated its history. He was envious of it. He pitied it.

The safe flat was located in Vienna’s Second District. Before the war it had been so heavily Jewish that the Viennese derisively referred to it as the Mazzesinsel, or the Matzo Island. Gabriel crossed the Ringstrasse, leaving the Second District for the First, and paused outside Café Central, where he had once encountered a man named Erich Radek, a former SS officer who had been ordered by Adolf Eichmann to conceal evidence of the Holocaust. Then he walked the short distance to Radek’s stately old mansion, from which a team of Office agents had plucked the war criminal and started him on the first leg of a journey that would end in an Israeli jail cell. Gabriel stood alone at the gate as the snow whitened his shoulders. The exterior of the house was worn and cracked, and the curtains hanging in the unwashed windows appeared threadbare. It seemed no one wanted to reside in the home of the murderer. Perhaps, thought Gabriel, there was hope for them after all.

From Radek’s fading mansion, he made his way through the Jewish Quarter to the Stadttempel. Two years earlier, in the narrow street outside the synagogue’s entrance, he and Mikhail Abramov had killed a team of Hezbollah terrorists who were planning to carry out a Sabbath-night massacre. The rest of the world had been led to believe that two members of EKO Cobra, Austria’s elite tactical police unit, had killed the terrorists. There was even a plaque outside the synagogue commemorating their bravery. Reading it, Gabriel smiled in spite of himself. It was as it should be, he thought. In both
intelligence work and restoration, his goal was the same. He wished to come and go without being seen, to leave no trace of himself. For better or worse, it had not always worked out that way. And now he was dead.

After leaving the synagogue, Gabriel walked to a nearby building that had once housed a small investigative organization called Wartime Claims and Inquiries. The man who had run it, one Eli Lavon, had fled Vienna several years earlier, after a bomb destroyed the office and killed his two young female assistants. As Gabriel set off again, he noticed that Lavon was following him. He paused in the street and with a nearly imperceptible movement of his head instructed Lavon to join him. The watcher appeared sheepish. He didn’t like being spotted by his target, even if the target had known him since he was a boy.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel asked Lavon in German.

“I heard a silly rumor,” replied Lavon in the same language, “that the future chief of the Office was walking around Vienna without a bodyguard.”

“Where did you hear something like that?”

“Keller told me. I’ve been following you since you left the safe flat.”

“Yes, I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Lavon smiled. “You really should be more careful, you know. You have a lot to live for.”

They walked along the quiet street, the snow muffling the sound of their footfalls, until they came to a small square. Gabriel’s heart tolled like an iron bell in his chest, and his legs seemed suddenly like deadweight. He tried to walk on, but the memories pulled him to a stop. He recalled struggling with the straps of his son’s car seat, and the faint taste of wine on his wife’s lips. And he could hear an engine hesitate because a bomb was pulling power from the battery. Too
late, he had tried to warn her not to turn the key a second time. Then, in a flash of brilliant white, his world had been destroyed. Now, finally, his restoration was nearly complete. He thought of Chiara, and for an instant he hoped that Alexei Rozanov would not rise to the bait. Lavon seemed to know what Gabriel was thinking. He usually did.

“My offer still stands,” he said quietly.

“What offer is that?”

“Leave Alexei to us,” answered Lavon. “It’s time for you to go home now.”

Gabriel moved slowly forward and stopped on the very spot where the car had burned down to a blackened skeletal ruin. Despite the bomb’s compact size, it had produced an unusually intense explosion and fire.

“Have you had a chance to look at Quinn’s file?” he asked.

“Interesting reading,” replied Lavon.

“Quinn was at Ras al Helal in the mid-eighties. You remember Ras al Helal, don’t you, Eli? It was that camp in eastern Libya, the one near the sea. The Palestinians trained there, too.” Gabriel peered over his shoulder. “Tariq was there.”

Lavon said nothing. Gabriel stared at the snow-covered cobbles. “He arrived in eighty-five. Or was it eighty-six? He’d been having trouble with his bombs. Detonation failures, problems with his fuses and his timers. But when he emerged from Libya again . . .”

Gabriel’s voice trailed off.

“It was a bloodbath,” said Lavon.

Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Do you suppose they knew each other?” he asked finally.

“Quinn and Tariq?”

“Yes, Eli.”

“I can’t imagine they didn’t.”

“Maybe it was Quinn who helped Tariq solve the problems he was having.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Maybe it was Quinn who designed the bomb that destroyed my family.”

“You settled that account a long time ago.”

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Lavon, but Lavon was no longer listening. He was staring at the screen of his BlackBerry.

“What does it say?” asked Gabriel.

“It seems Alexei Rozanov would like to have a word with Nazari after all.”

“When?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Where?”

Lavon held up the BlackBerry. Gabriel peered at the screen and then tilted his face to the falling snow. Isn’t it beautiful? he thought. The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. The snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain down on Tel Aviv.

I
T WAS A FEW MINUTES
after eleven in the morning when Katerina Akulova stepped from Rotterdam’s central train station. She entered a waiting taxi and in rather good Dutch instructed the driver to take her to the Hotel Nordzee. The street upon which it stood was more residential than commercial, and the hotel had the air of a run-down sea cottage that had been put to more prosperous use. Katerina went to the reception desk. The clerk, a young Dutch woman, seemed surprised to see her.

“Gertrude Berger,” said Katerina. “My friend checked in yesterday. Mr. McGinnis.”

The woman frowned at her computer terminal. “Actually,” she said, “your room is unoccupied.”

“Are you sure?”

The woman gave the serene smile she reserved for the most inane
questions. “But a gentleman did leave something for you earlier this morning.” She handed over a letter-size envelope with the Hotel Nordzee insignia in the upper left corner.

“Do you know what time he left it?”

“About nine, if I remember correctly.”

“Do you recall what he looked like?”

The Dutch woman proceeded to describe a man approximately five feet ten inches in height, with dark hair and eyes.

“Was he Irish?”

“I couldn’t say. His accent was rather hard to place.”

Katerina placed a credit card on the desk. “I’ll only need the room for a few hours.”

The woman swiped the credit card and then handed over a key. “Do you need any help with your bag?”

“I can manage, thank you.”

Katerina climbed the stairs to the second floor. Her room was at the end of a hallway lined with floral wallpaper and prints of bucolic canal scenes and Dutch landscapes. There were no security cameras visible, so she ran her hand around the door frame before inserting the key into the lock. She left her bag at the foot of the bed and searched the interior of the room for hidden cameras or listening devices. The air smelled of lime and stale cigarettes. It was a singularly male aroma.

She opened the bathroom window to dispel the odor, returned to the bedroom, and picked up the envelope she had been given by the girl at reception. She checked the seal to make certain it hadn’t been tampered with and then tore away the flap. Inside was a single sheet of paper, neatly folded in thirds. On it, in block lettering, was a brief explanation for Quinn’s absence. “You bastard,” whispered Katerina. Then she burned the note in the bathroom sink.

Alexei Rozanov had ordered Katerina to proceed to the target country with no communication between herself and Moscow Center. The note, however, changed everything. It stated that Quinn would not be traveling with her as planned. Instead, he would meet her at the next stop on their itinerary, a small seaside hotel on England’s Norfolk Coast. Under the SVR’s strict operational rules, Katerina could not continue without the approval of her controller. And the only way to obtain that approval was to risk a contact.

She fished her phone from her handbag and composed a brief e-mail to an address with a German-based domain. The address was an SVR front that automatically encrypted the e-mail and forwarded it through a circuitous route of nodes and servers to Moscow Center. Alexei’s reply arrived ten minutes later. It was blandly worded but clear in its intentions. She was to play it Quinn’s way, at least for now.

By then, it was a few minutes after noon. Katerina reclined on the bed and dozed intermittently until half past three, when she checked out of the hotel and took a taxi to the P&O Ferries terminal. The
Pride of Rotterdam
, a 705-foot ferry capable of carrying 250 cars and more than a thousand passengers, was in the process of boarding. The SVR had reserved first-class accommodations for Katerina under the name Gertrude Berger. She left her suitcase in her assigned cabin, locked the door, and went upstairs to one of the bars. It was already packed with passengers, many of whom were in search of a little warm company to ease the loneliness of the ten-hour overnight passage. Katerina ordered a glass of wine and took a table on the vessel’s port side.

It did not take long for the men in the bar to notice the attractive young woman sitting alone with no company other than her phone. Eventually, one came over, two drinks in hand, and asked in English whether he could join her. Katerina could tell by his accent he was German. He was in his mid-forties, thinning hair, well dressed.
It was possible he was employed by one of the European security services. Nevertheless, she reckoned it was better to fence with him over a drink than to give him the cold shoulder. She accepted the glass of wine and with a glance invited him to sit.

As it turned out, he worked as an account manager for a firm in Bremen that manufactured high-quality machine tools—not exciting work, he said, but stable. It seemed his firm did a great deal of business in the north of England, which explained his presence on the Rotterdam-to-Hull ferry. He preferred the ferry to airplanes because it gave him much-needed time away from his marriage, which, not surprisingly, was in a less than optimal state. For two hours Katerina flirted with him in her impeccable German, occasionally delving into such arcane matters as deflation in the euro zone or the debt crisis in Greece. The businessman was obviously smitten. His only disappointment came at the end of the evening when she declined his offer to return to his cabin.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” he said, rising slowly in defeat. “It seems you have a secret admirer.”

“Who?”

He nodded toward the opposite side of the bar, where a man sat alone at a table. “He’s been staring at you since the minute I sat down.”

“Really?”

“Know him?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve never seen him before.”

The German man moved off in search of a more promising target. Katerina rose and went outside to the empty observation deck to smoke a cigarette. Quinn joined her a moment later.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked.

“A salesman with hopes of glory.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure.” She turned to look at him. He wore a businessman’s gray suit, a tan raincoat, and black-rimmed spectacles that seemed to alter the shape of his face. The transformation was remarkable. Even Katerina scarcely recognized him. It was no wonder he had managed to survive all these years.

“Why weren’t you at the hotel?” she asked.

“You’re a smart girl. You tell me.”

She turned to face the sea again. “You weren’t there,” she said after a moment of thought, “because you were afraid Alexei was going to kill you.”

“And why would I be afraid of that?”

“Because he’s refusing to pay you the money he owes you. And you’re convinced the second phase of the operation is actually a plot to get rid of you so there will be no links between you and the SVR.”

“Is it?”

“Get a grip, Quinn.”

His gaze was moving over her, back and forth, up and down. “Are you armed?” he asked finally.

“No.”

“Mind if I check for myself?”

Before she could answer, he had pulled her close in a seemingly romantic embrace and was running a hand over her body. It took him only a second or two to find the Makarov pistol concealed beneath her sweater. He slipped it into his coat pocket. Then he opened her handbag and plucked out the mobile phone. He powered it on and searched through the e-mail in-box.

“You’re wasting your time,” she said.

“When was your last contact with Alexei?”

“Midday.”

“What were his instructions?”

“Proceed as planned.”

“Who was the man who bought you a drink in the bar?”

“I told you—”

“Was he SVR?”

“You’re paranoid.”

“True,” said Quinn. “Which is why I’m still alive.”

He powered down the phone and, smiling, held it out to her. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent it hurtling toward the sea.

“You bastard,” said Katerina.

“Luck of the Irish,” said Quinn.

Quinn’s cabin was on the same level as Katerina’s, a few doors closer to the prow. He forced her inside and immediately dumped out the contents of her handbag on the bed. There was nothing outwardly electronic, only a wallet containing her German passport and credit cards and a bit of makeup. There was also a suppressor for the Makarov. Quinn slipped it into his pocket and instructed Katerina to remove her clothing.

“In your dreams,” she said.

“It’s not as if I haven’t seen you—”

“The only reason I ever slept with you is because Alexei ordered me to.”

“He ordered me to do the same thing. Now take off your clothes.” When she remained motionless, Quinn screwed the suppressor into the end of the Makarov’s barrel and pointed it at her face. “Let’s start with the coat, shall we?”

She hesitated before removing her coat and handing it to Quinn. He searched the pockets and the lining but found nothing other than her cigarettes and her lighter. The lighter was large enough to contain a tracking beacon. He pocketed it for later disposal.

“Now the sweater and the jeans.”

Again Katerina hesitated. Then she pulled the sweater over her head and wriggled out of the jeans. Quinn searched both articles of clothing, then, with a nod, instructed her to keep going.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Quinn.”

“Very,” he agreed.

“What are you trying to accomplish?”

“It’s quite simple, really. I want my money. And you’re going to make certain I get it.”

Quinn traced a finger along the curve of her breast while staring directly into her eyes. Her nipple firmed instantly to his touch. Her face, however, remained defiant.

“What did you expect would happen if you agreed to work for the SVR?”

“I expected Alexei to live up to his word.”

“How naive of you.”

“We had a deal. Promises were made.”

“When dealing with Russians,” she said, “promises mean nothing.”

“I realize that now,” said Quinn with a glance toward the Makarov.

“And if you get your money? Where will you go?”

“I’ll find a place. I always do.”

“Not even the Iranians would have you now.”

“Then I’ll go back to Lebanon. Or Syria.” He paused, then added, “Or maybe I’ll go home.”

“To Ireland?” she asked. “Your war is over, Quinn. The SVR is all you have left.”

“Yes,” he said, slipping the strap of Katerina’s bra from her shoulder. “And the SVR ordered you to kill me.”

Katerina said nothing.

“You don’t deny it?”

She folded her arms over her breasts. “What now?”

“I’m going to propose a simple deal. Twenty million dollars in exchange for one of the SVR’s most valuable agents. I’m quite confident Alexei will pay.”

“And where do you intend to hold me while you conduct the negotiations?”

“Somewhere Alexei and his goons will never find you. And in case you’re wondering,” he added, “the arrangements for your travel and indefinite confinement have already been made.” He smiled. “Alexei seems to have forgotten that I’ve done this sort of thing a time or two.”

Quinn offered Katerina her sweater, but she refused to accept it. Instead, she reached behind her back, loosened the clasp on her bra, and allowed it to fall from her body. She was perfect, thought Quinn—perfect except for the scar on the underside of her right wrist. He removed the magazine from the Makarov and switched off the light.