She told Graham Seymour the story from the beginning—the same story she had told Gabriel on that frozen afternoon in St. Petersburg, in the cupola of St. Isaac’s Cathedral. Then, calmly, primly, she declared that she wished to defect to the United Kingdom and, if possible, to one day resume her old life.
As deputy director of MI5, Graham Seymour did not possess the authority to grant defector status to a Russian spy; the only person who could do that was Madeline’s former lover, Jonathan Lancaster. Which explained why, at two fifteen that afternoon, Seymour presented himself at Number Ten unannounced and demanded a word with the prime minister in private. Coincidentally, the encounter took place in the Study Room. There, beneath the same glowering portrait of Baroness Thatcher, Seymour told the prime minister everything he had learned. That the Russian president had ordered Volgatek to use any means possible to gain access to the oil of the North Sea. That Jeremy Fallon, Lancaster’s closest aide and confidant, had betrayed him for five million pieces of Russian silver. And that Madeline Hart, his former lover, was a Russian-born spy who was still very much alive and requesting asylum in Britain. To his credit, Lancaster, though visibly shaken, did not hesitate before giving his answer. Fallon had to go, Madeline had to stay, and let the chips fall where they may. He made only one request, that he be given the chance to break the news to his wife.
“I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you, Prime Minister.”
Lancaster reached slowly for the telephone. Seymour rose to his feet and slipped silently from the room.
Which left only the name of the reporter who would be granted the most sensational exclusive in British political history. Seymour suggested Tony Richmond at the Times or perhaps Sue Gibbons from the Independent, but Gabriel overruled him. He had made a promise, he said, and he planned to keep it. He rang her mobile, got her voice mail, and left a brief message. She rang him back right away. Four o’clock at Café Nero, he said. And this time don’t be late.
Much to Graham Seymour’s chagrin, Gabriel and Madeline insisted on taking one last walk together. They headed up Millbank through a gusty wind—past the Victoria Tower Gardens, Westminster Abbey, and the Houses of Parliament—and at ten minutes to four entered the café. Gabriel ordered black coffee; Madeline had milky Earl Grey tea and a digestive biscuit. She removed a compact from her handbag and checked her face in the mirror.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Very Israeli.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Put it away,” said Gabriel.
She did as Gabriel instructed. Then she looked out the window at the crowds moving along the pavements of Bridge Street. As though she had never seen them before, thought Gabriel. As though she would never see them again. He glanced around the interior of the café. No one recognized her. Why should they? She was dead and buried—buried in a churchyard in Basildon. A town without a soul for a girl without a name or a past.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said after a moment.
“Of course I do.”
“I have enough without you. I have the video of Zhirov.”
“The Kremlin can deny Zhirov,” she answered. “But it can’t deny me.”
She was still staring out the window.
“Take a good look,” Gabriel said, “because if you do this, it’s going to be a long time before they let you come back to London.”
“Where do you suppose they’ll put me?”
“A safe house in the middle of nowhere. Maybe a military base until the storm passes.”
“It doesn’t sound very appealing, does it?”
“You can always come back to Israel with me.”
She made no reply. Gabriel leaned forward across the table and took hold of her hand. It was trembling slightly.
“I keep a cottage in Cornwall,” he said quietly. “The town isn’t much, but it’s by the sea. You can stay there if you like.”
“Does it have a view?” she asked.
“A lovely view,” he answered.
“I might like that.”
She smiled bravely. Across the road Big Ben tolled four o’clock.
“She’s late,” Gabriel said incredulously. “I can’t believe she’s late.”
“She’s always late,” Madeline said.
“You made quite an impression on her, by the way.”
“She wasn’t the only one.”
Madeline laughed in spite of herself and drank some of her tea. Gabriel frowned at his wristwatch. Then he looked up in time to see Samantha Cooke rushing through the door. A moment later she was standing at their table, slightly out of breath. She looked at Gabriel for a moment before turning her gaze toward the beautiful dark-haired girl seated across from him. And then she understood.
“Dear God,” she whispered.
“Can we get you something to drink?” Madeline asked in her English accent.
“Actually,” stammered Samantha Cooke, “it might be better if we walked.”
60
LONDON