After an hour of this, she rises and puts on her coat. They shake hands formally. She allows her fingers to linger on his an instant too long. He asks her where she’s staying. The Dorchester. Can he give her a lift? No, that’s not necessary. Can he get her a taxi? No, I can manage. Could he see her again before she leaves London? Come back tomorrow night, and if you’re very lucky, darling, I’ll be here.
She walked quickly across the square, passing Delaroche, who was engrossed in his newspaper. She headed north, up Sloane Street. Delaroche watched Yardley hail a taxi and disappear inside. He stood up and strolled across the square to Sloane Street. Astrid was waiting for him.
“How did it go?”
“He would have fucked me right there at the bar if I had let him.”
“So he was interested?”
“He asked me to come to his place for a drink and a take-away curry. I told him my husband might be a little upset if I wasn’t back at the hotel by the time his meeting was over.”
“Good, I don’t want him to think you’re a whore. Besides, he can’t be as stupid as he looks. What about tomorrow night?”
“I left the strong impression I’d be back at the bar.”
“He’ll be back.”
“Please, Jean-Paul, I just don’t want to kiss him. His breath smells like shit.”
“That part of the operation is in your hands.”
“God, I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me. I swear if he tries to kiss me, I’ll kill him myself.”
Yardley arrived first the next night. Delaroche, watching from his bench in Sloane Square, stifled laughter as the highly trained British intelligence officer cast a series of expectant glances toward the door. After half an hour Delaroche decided Yardley had waited long enough for his reward. He signaled Astrid, who was sitting in the window of a wine bar across the square. Five minutes later she was striding through the door of the restaurant, straight into the arms of Colin Yardley.
She taunted him. She toyed with him. She hung on his every word. She ran her fingers through her hair. She allowed him to buy her too many glasses of Sancerre. She leaned forward so he could look down her blouse and see she was wearing no brassiere. She stroked the inside of his calf with the toe of her expensive Bruno Magli shoe. She tried several times to leave—my husband will want to know where I am, darling—but he would signal the bartender, and another glass of Sancerre would arrive, and somehow she just couldn’t find the willpower to drag herself away from this terribly interesting man, and be a love and get me another pack of cigarettes please. Marlboro Light 100s. Astrid the seductress. Astrid the needy. Astrid the silly sex-starved Dutch tart who would do anything for the attention of a middle-aged Englishman with a Savile Row suit and an expensive address. Delaroche admired her work from his vantage point in the square. He felt something else—a flash of tenderness. He reached inside his coat and felt for the butt of the Glock.
The next part went according to plan. Astrid leaned forward and whispered in his ear. Yardley paid the check and collected their coats. Two minutes later, they were climbing into a taxi.
Delaroche watched them go. He rose and walked slowly after them, across Sloane Square, westward along the King’s Road. He was not alarmed when the taxi disappeared from sight; he knew exactly where they were going, Yardley’s home in Wellington Square.
Get him inside the house, Astrid. Tell him you’re in a hurry. Tell him your husband will be crazy if you’re gone too long. Take him straight to bed. Don’t worry about the door. I’ll take care of the door.
Delaroche turned left off the King’s Road and entered the stillness of Wellington Square. The noise of the rush-hour traffic faded to a pleasant drone. A gentle rain began to fall. Delaroche walked quickly across the square, collar up, hands pushed deeply into his pockets.
Yardley’s house was dark, perfect. The front door lock provided little challenge, and after a few seconds he was inside. He heard the sound of voices upstairs in the bedroom. Astrid had done her job well.
When Delaroche entered the room he found Yardley resting against the headboard, stripped to his shirt and his socks, masturbating while Astrid performed a slow striptease for him at the foot of the bed. For an instant Delaroche actually felt sorry for the man. He was about to die a most humiliating death.
Delaroche removed the Glock from the waistband of his trousers and stepped inside the room. Alarm registered instantly on Yardley’s face. Astrid stopped dancing and stepped aside. Delaroche took her place at the end of the bed. Then his arm swung up, and he shot Colin Yardley rapidly, three times in the face.
The body tumbled from the bed onto the floor. Astrid stepped forward, kicked Yardley’s head with the toe of her Bruno Magli shoe, and spit on his face. Astrid the revolutionary.
Delaroche informed the management company that he would have to cut short his London vacation due to a family emergency. Before leaving the flat he logged on with the laptop and sent a brief encrypted message to his employers, informing them that the job had been carried out and please wire the specified funds to the specified account in Zurich. He and Astrid took a late train to Dover and spent the night in a quaint seaside bed and breakfast. In the morning they took the first ferry to Calais, where they hired a Renault car and drove northward along the Channel coast. By nightfall, they were back aboard the Krista, on the quiet Prinsengracht in Amsterdam.
The body of Colin Yardley was discovered early that afternoon, as Delaroche and Astrid were passing from France into Belgium. MI6 Personnel Security became alarmed when he did not arrive for work and when repeated calls to his Wellington Square residence went unanswered. An MI6 team broke into the house shortly after 1 p.m. and discovered the body in the upstairs bedroom. The Metropolitan Police, however, were not informed of the death until four-fifteen.
The BBC reported the shooting death of an unidentified man on its Nine O’Clock News. By the time ITN went on the air at ten, the corpse had a name and a job: Colin Yardley, a midlevel Foreign Office clerk. During the program, a telephone call arrived at the news desk. The caller said the Provisional Irish Republican Army had carried out Yardley’s murder. The caller provided the special recognition code to prove the claim was authentic.
By morning BBC reporters had uncovered Yardley’s true occupation—that he was a career member of the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6.
Jean-Paul Delaroche listened to the BBC aboard the Krista. He switched off the radio when it was over and then settled in with his maps and his computer, plotting the next killing.
He telephoned Zurich. Herr Becker confirmed one million dollars had been wired into the account that morning. Delaroche instructed him to transfer the money to four Bahamian accounts, a quarter million for each.
The sun came out at midday. He borrowed Astrid’s bicycle and spent the rest of the afternoon painting along the banks of the Amstel River, until the image of Yardley’s exploded face was erased from his conscience.
20
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
“I don’t know why Carter has to send you to London. Why the hell can’t someone else go?”
Elizabeth had picked Michael up at headquarters and was driving him to Dulles Airport, twenty miles from Washington on the western edge of northern Virginia’s suburban sprawl. It was 7 p.m. The rush hour was technically over, but traffic still jammed the Capital Beltway. Elizabeth tended to tailgate when she was tense. As a result they were riding two feet from the rear bumper of a hunter-green Ford Explorer, traveling forty-five miles per hour.
“I thought you talked to him about our situation, Michael. I thought he agreed to let you work from New York. I thought he was going to let you cut back for a couple of weeks.”
Michael thought, Maybe I should have taken an Agency car to the airport. The last thing he wanted to do was quarrel with his wife before boarding an international flight. He was not a superstitious man—nor was he a nervous flier—just realistic.
“I’ll only be a day,” he said. “Over and bac
k, with a couple of meetings in between.”
“If it’s so routine why can’t Carter send someone else?”
Elizabeth was not a litigator—she practiced law in the quiet of corporate shadows—but she was skilled at the art of cross-examination. She hammered on the horn. Michael knew he had just been declared a hostile witness.
“A British intelligence officer was murdered in London two nights ago,” Michael said calmly. “It may have something to do with a case I’ve been working for a long time.”
“I read about it in the Post this morning. The IRA claimed responsibility. Since when have you dealt with the IRA? I thought your portfolio was strictly Arab terrorism.”
“It is, but we think there may be a tie-in.”
Michael hoped she would let it drop. The trip to London was his idea, not Carter’s. Carter wanted the liaison work handled by an officer from London Station, but Michael convinced Carter to send him instead.
“In two days I have my eggs harvested. At that time they’ll be fertilized with sperm. Hopefully it will be yours, Michael.”
“I’ll be back. Don’t worry. And if something comes up we’ve got an ace in the hole. On ice.”
Because of the nature of his work and the possibility of sudden mandatory travel, the doctors at Cornell Medical Center had recommended that some of Michael’s sperm be frozen.
Elizabeth said, “I would like you there for emotional support, Michael. I thought you case officers were supposed to be good at that kind of thing. The least you could do is be there with me.”
“I’ll be there. I promise.”
“Be careful what you promise, Michael.”
She exited the Beltway, turning onto the Dulles access road. The traffic cleared away. Elizabeth accelerated to sixty-five. A full moon hung over the Virginia countryside, shrouded behind a transparent layer of cloud. Michael lit a cigarette and cracked the window. Elizabeth drove aggressively, changing lanes without signaling, tailgating, flicking her high beams at anyone who dared to drive under seventy in the passing lane. Michael knew the real reason for Elizabeth’s bad temper. He was going to London to investigate an act of terrorism, and she knew it would trigger thoughts of Sarah’s murder. Her stubborn pride would not allow her to say it aloud, but it was written in the anxious expression on her face. She would be more upset if he told her the truth: He suspected Sarah and the British officer were murdered by the same man.
Elizabeth said, “I gave Tom Logan the material from Susanna’s disk.”
“Is he going to publish the piece?”
“He says he can’t, not without confirming all the details first. He says the allegations are too explosive to print without being reviewed by their lawyers. And since the reporter who wrote it is now dead, there can’t be a thorough review.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“He’s assigned a team of his best reporters to match the story. Unfortunately, Susanna’s not going to be much help to them from the grave. Her notes don’t contain many clues about the identity of her sources. So Logan’s team has to basically start from scratch.”
“That could take a very long time.”
“It took Susanna three months to do it alone.”
They arrived at Dulles. Elizabeth drove to the departure level and pulled over to the curb. Michael climbed out and collected a lightly packed garment bag from the trunk. He closed it, then walked to the driver’s side of the Mercedes. Elizabeth had let down the window and was leaning her head out, waiting for a kiss good-bye.
“Be careful, Michael.”
“I will.”
He waited until her taillights vanished into the darkness; then he went inside the terminal.
Michael came awake as the jetliner slipped below the cloud cover and descended into the gray London morning. London Station had offered to send a car, but Michael wanted as little to do with London Station as possible, so he took a taxi instead. He pulled down the window. The raw air felt good against his face, despite the stink of diesel fumes. London had been his home for eight years; he had made the journey from Heathrow to central London a thousand times. The dreary western suburbs sweeping past him were more familiar than Arlington or Chevy Chase.
He checked into his hotel, a modest independent establishment on Knightsbridge, overlooking Hyde Park. He preferred it because each room came with a small sitting room in addition to the bedroom. He ordered a full English breakfast and picked at it until it was late enough to phone Elizabeth. He awakened her, and they had a disjointed two-minute conversation beffore she drifted back to sleep.
Michael was tired, so he slept until early afternoon. When he awoke, he dressed in a waterproof jogging suit. He hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and for insurance left a telltale, a tiny piece of paper, wedged between the door and the jamb. If it was still there when he returned, it was likely the room had not been entered. If it was gone, someone had probably been there.
He set out on the footpaths of Hyde Park under clouds the color of pewter, heavy with rain. Ten minutes into the run the skies opened up. The Londoners rushing past beneath windblown umbrellas glared at him as though he were an escaped mental patient. After fifteen minutes his breath turned ragged, and he stopped to walk. Over the years he had been able to maintain his physical fitness, despite being a moderate smoker. But now the cigarettes were taking their toll. And Elizabeth was right—he was getting thicker around the waist.
He ran back to the hotel. The telltale fell to the floor as he opened the door to his room. He showered and changed into a blue business suit. He took a taxi to Grosvenor Square and flashed his identification to the Marine guard at the entrance. Michael felt uncomfortable in embassies; he was a NOC, through and through. When he was based in London he came to the embassy only in emergencies and only “black,” meaning he arrived underground in the back of a van. He wished he didn’t have to come at all, but Center doctrine demanded a courtesy call to the local chief of station.
The COS in London was a man named Wheaton, an unabashed Anglophile with a pencil-thin mustache, a Savile Row chalk-stripe suit, and an annoying habit of toying with a tennis ball when he didn’t know quite what to say. Wheaton was old school: Princeton, Moscow, five years as head of the Russia desk before scoring the plum career-ending assignment in London. He said he had known Michael’s father, but he didn’t say he liked him. He also made it clear he didn’t think London Station needed any help from the CTC on this one. Michael promised to brief him on his findings. Wheaton politely told Michael he’d like him to get out of town as quickly as possible.
The taxi dropped Michael at the white Georgian terrace in Eaton Place. Helen and Graham Seymour owned a pleasant apartment, and from the street Michael could see them like actors on a multilevel stage—Graham upstairs in the drawing room, Helen below street level in the kitchen. He descended the steps and rapped on the paned-glass kitchen door. Helen looked up from her cooking and smiled broadly. Opening the door to him, she kissed his cheek and said, “God, Michael, it’s been too long.” She dumped Sancerre into a goblet and thrust it into his hand. “Graham’s upstairs. You boys can talk shop while I finish supper.”
Graham Seymour was fidgeting with the gas fire when Michael entered the room. It was wood-paneled and wood-floored, with an exquisite array of Oriental rugs and Middle Eastern decorations. Graham stood up, smiled, and stuck out his hand. They regarded each other as only men of identical size and shape can do. Graham Seymour was like Michael’s negative. Where Michael was olive complected, Graham was fair. Where Michael was dark-haired and green-eyed, Graham was blond and gray-eyed. Michael wore a blue business suit; Graham was dressed for safari in khaki trousers and a khaki bush shirt.
They sat down and talked about old times. They had lived nearly identical lives. Like Michael, Graham’s father had worked in intelligence—MI5’s Double Cross operation during the war, then MI6 for twenty-five years after that. Like Michael, Graham followed his father from posting to posting and joined t
he Secret Intelligence Service immediately after graduating from Cambridge. The two men had worked side by side over the years, though Graham always functioned under official cover. They had developed a professional respect and personal friendship. Indeed, they were closer than either of their services would prefer if they knew.
The smell of Helen’s cooking drifted upstairs into the drawing room.
“What’s she making?” Michael asked cautiously.
“Paella,” Graham said and frowned. “Perhaps you should run to the chemist’s now before it closes.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“You say that now, but you haven’t had Helen’s paella.”
“That bad?”
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Perhaps you should have some more wine.”
Graham went downstairs to the kitchen, returning a moment later with glasses filled with white Bordeaux.
“Tell me about Colin Yardley.”
Graham grimaced. “Curious thing happened a couple of months ago. A Lebanese arms dealer named Farouk Khalifa decided to set up shop in Paris. We found out about it and notified our French friends. They put Mr. Khalifa under watch.”
“That was nice of the French.”
“He sells weapons to people we don’t like.”
“He’s a bad man.”
“He’s a very bad man. He opens up the bazaar and starts receiving clients. The French photograph everyone who comes and goes.”
“I get the picture.”
“In September a man calls on Mr. Khalifa. The French are unable to identify him, but they suspect he’s a Brit, so they send us a copy of the photo by secure fax.”