The English Girl: A Novel (Gabriel Allon)

by Silva, Daniel

  “And what do you think I told him?”

  “That Volgatek was a wholly owned subsidiary of the Kremlin, run by a former member of the KGB.”

  “And what do you think the secretary of state for energy did with Volgatek’s application to drill in territorial waters of Britain?”

  “He dropped it into his shredder.”

  “Right before my eyes,” added Orlov, smiling. “It was a most satisfying sound.”

  “Did the Kremlin know that you were the one who sabotaged the deal?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” replied Orlov. “But I’m sure Lazarev and the Russian president suspected I was somehow involved. They’re always willing to believe the worst about me.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Volgatek waited a year. Then it filed a second application for the drilling license. But this time, things were different. They had a friend inside Downing Street, a man who they’d spent a year cultivating.”

  “Who?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Fine,” responded Gabriel. “Then I’ll say it for you. Volgatek’s man inside Downing Street was Jeremy Fallon, the most powerful chief of staff in British history.”

  Orlov smiled. “Perhaps we should have a bottle of Pétrus after all.”

  They had sailed into dangerous waters. Gabriel knew it, and Orlov surely knew it, too, for his left eye was beating a furious rhythm. When he was a child, the twitch had made him the target of merciless teasing and bullying. It had made him burn with hatred, and that hatred had driven him to succeed. Viktor Orlov wanted to beat everyone. And it was all because of the twitch in his left eye.

  For now, the eye was staring into a goblet of dark-red Pomerol wine. Orlov had yet to drink from it. Nor had he answered the rather straightforward question that Gabriel had posed a moment earlier. Why Jeremy Fallon?

  “Why not Fallon?” the Russian said at last. “Fallon was Lancaster’s brain. Fallon was the puppet master. Fallon pulled a string, and Lancaster waved his hand. And better yet, he was vulnerable to an approach.”

  “How so?”

  “He didn’t have a pot to piss in. He was poor as a church mouse.”

  “Who suggested targeting him?”

  “I’m told it came from the SVR rezidentura here in London.”

  Rezidentura was the word used by the SVR to describe its operations inside local embassies. The rezident was the station chief, the rezidentura the station itself. It was a holdover from the days of the KGB. Most things about the SVR were.

  “How did they go about it?”

  “Lazarev and Fallon started bumping into each other in all the wrong places: parties, restaurants, conferences, holidays. Rumor has it Fallon spent a long weekend at Lazarev’s place in Gstaad and cruised the Greek islands on Lazarev’s yacht. I’m told they got along famously, but that’s not surprising. Gennady can be a charming bastard when he wants to be.”

  “But there was more than just a charm offensive, wasn’t there, Viktor?”

  “Much more.”

  “How much?”

  “Five million euros in a numbered Swiss bank account, courtesy of the Kremlin. Very clean. Completely untraceable. The SVR handled all the arrangements.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says I’d rather not say.”

  “Come on, Viktor.”

  “You obviously have your sources, Mr. Allon, and I have mine.”

  “At least tell me the direction your information comes from.”

  “It comes from the East,” said Orlov, meaning it came from one of his many sources in Moscow.

  “Go on,” said Gabriel.

  Orlov partook of the wine first. Then he explained how Volgatek filed a second application for a license to drill in the North Sea, this time with the backing of the second most powerful man in Whitehall. But the prime minister was still ambivalent at best, and the secretary of state for energy remained absolutely opposed. Fallon prevailed upon the secretary not to reject the application outright. It was technically alive, but just barely.

  “And then,” said Orlov, raising one arm toward the ceiling, “the secretary of state suddenly approves the license, Jonathan Lancaster jets off to Moscow for champagne toasts in the Kremlin, and the man who accepted five million euros in Russian money is about to become the next chancellor of the exchequer.”

  “I need to know your source for the five million.”

  “Asked and answered,” replied the Russian curtly.

  Gabriel changed the subject. “What’s the state of relations between Volgatek and your business here in London?”

  “As you might expect, we are in a state of war. It’s rather like the Cold War—undeclared but vicious.”

  “How so?”

  “Lazarev has outbid me on a number of acquisitions. It’s easy for him,” Orlov added resentfully. “He’s not playing with his own money. He also takes great pleasure in hiring away my best people. He throws a pile of money at them—Kremlin money, of course—and they bolt for greener pastures.”

  “Are you on speaking terms?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Orlov said. “When we encounter one another in public, we nod politely and exchange frozen smiles. Our war is conducted entirely in the shadows. I must admit Gennady’s gotten the better of me lately. And now he’s going to be drilling for oil in the waters of a country I’ve come to love. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

  “Then maybe you should do something about it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Help me blow up the deal.”

  Orlov stopped twirling his eyeglasses and stared directly at Gabriel for a moment without speaking. “What is your interest in this matter?” he asked finally.

  “It’s strictly personal.”

  “Why would someone like you care whether a Russian energy company gets access to North Sea oil?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Coming from you, I would expect nothing less.”

  Gabriel smiled in spite of himself. Then, quietly, he said, “I believe the Kremlin blackmailed Jonathan Lancaster into giving Volgatek those drilling rights.”

  “How?”

  Gabriel was silent.

  “I gave up a company worth sixteen billion dollars in order to get you and your wife out of Russia,” Orlov said. “I believe that entitles me to an answer. How did they do it?”

  “By kidnapping Lancaster’s mistress from the island of Corsica.”

  Orlov didn’t bat an eye. “Well,” he said again. “I’m glad someone finally noticed.”

  They talked until the windows in Viktor Orlov’s magnificent office turned to black, and then they talked a little longer. By the end of their conversation, Gabriel felt confident he understood how the game on the hillside had been played, but precisely how the players had sided themselves remained just beyond his grasp. He was certain of one thing, though; it was time to have a quiet word with Graham Seymour. He called him from a public phone in Sloane Square and confessed that he had once again entered the country without first signing the guestbook. Then he requested a meeting. Seymour recited a time and a place and rang off without another word. Gabriel replaced the receiver and started walking, with Christopher Keller running countersurveillance a hundred yards behind.

  38

  HAMPSTEAD HEATH, LONDON

  They walked to Hyde Park corner, boarded a Piccadilly Line train to Leicester Square, and then took the long slow ride on the Northern Line up to Hampstead. Keller entered a small café in the High Street and waited there while Gabriel made his way alone up South End Road. He entered the heath at the Pryors Field, skirted the banks of the Hampstead Ponds, and then climbed the gentle slope of Parliament Hill. In the distance, veiled by low cloud and mist, glowed the lights of the City of London. Graham Seymour was admiring the view from
a wooden park bench. He was alone except for a pair of raincoated security men who stood with the stillness of chess pieces along the footpath at his back. They averted their eyes as Gabriel slipped wordlessly past them and sat down at Seymour’s side. The MI5 man gave no sign he was aware of Gabriel’s presence. Once again, he was smoking.

  “You’ve really got to stop that,” said Gabriel.

  “And you really should have told me you were coming back into the country,” replied Seymour. “I would have arranged a reception committee.”

  “I didn’t want a reception committee, Graham.”

  “Obviously.” Seymour was still contemplating the lights of central London. “How long have you been in town?”

  “I came in yesterday afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “Unfinished business.”

  “Why?” asked Seymour again.

  “Madeline,” said Gabriel. “I’m here because of Madeline.”

  Seymour turned his head and looked at Gabriel for the first time. “Madeline is dead,” he said slowly.

  “Yes, Graham, I know that. I was there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Seymour said after a moment. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Forget about it, Graham.”

  The two men lapsed into an uneasy silence. It was the nature of this unfortunate case, thought Gabriel. They had both gotten into the intelligence business to protect their countries and their fellow citizens, not their politicians.

  “You must have discovered something important,” Seymour said finally. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called me.”

  “You were always good, Graham.”

  “Not good enough to keep you from entering my country anytime you please.”

  Gabriel was silent.

  “What have you got?”

  “I believe I know who kidnapped Madeline Hart. More important,” Gabriel added, “I believe I know why she was kidnapped.”

  “Who was it?”

  “KGB Oil and Gas,” answered Gabriel.

  Seymour’s head turned sharply. “What are you talking about?”

  “It was the Volgatek deal, Graham. Madeline was kidnapped so the Russians could steal your oil.”

  There is no worse feeling for a professional spy than to be told something by an officer from another service that he should have already known himself. Graham Seymour suffered this indignity with as much grace as possible, with his chin up and his head held high. Then, after carefully weighing the consequences, he asked for an explanation. Gabriel began by telling him everything he had learned about Jeremy Fallon. That Fallon had been in love with Madeline Hart. That Fallon had worn out his welcome at Downing Street and was due to be pushed out before the next election. That Fallon had accepted a secret payment of five million euros from one Gennady Lazarev and had then used his power to push through the deal over the objections of the secretary of state for energy. Finally, he told Seymour about the Russian-speaking woman he had first seen in an ancient church in the Lubéron and then in an abandoned council house in Basildon.

  “Who’s the source for Jeremy Fallon and the five million?” asked Seymour.

  “I’d like to claim a zone of exclusivity on that one, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m sure you would. But who’s the source?”

  Gabriel answered truthfully. Seymour shook his head slowly.

  “Viktor Orlov is genetically incapable of telling the truth,” he said. “He’s always offering MI6 bits of so-called intelligence about Russia, and none of it ever pans out.”

  “Chiara and I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Viktor Orlov,” Gabriel responded.

  “That doesn’t mean that everything he says is true.”

  “He knows more about the underside of the Russian oil industry than anyone else in the world.”

  Seymour did not challenge this assertion. “And you’re sure about the man and the woman who drove off in the Mercedes?” he asked. “You’re sure they were the same ones who followed you in the gallery?”

  “Graham,” said Gabriel wearily.

  “We all make mistakes from time to time.”

  “Some of us more often than others.”

  Seymour tossed his cigarette into the darkness in anger. “Why am I hearing about this only now? Why didn’t you call me last night while you had them under watch?”

  “And what would you have done? Would you have alerted the chief of your Russian counterintelligence division? Would you have informed your director?” Gabriel was silent for a moment. “If I had come to you last night, it would have set in motion a chain of events that would have led to the destruction of Jonathan Lancaster and his government.”

  “So why are you coming to me now?”

  Gabriel made no reply. Seymour started to light another cigarette, then stopped himself.

  “Rather ironic, don’t you think?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I asked you to find Madeline Hart because I was trying to protect my prime minister from scandal. And now you’re bringing me information that could destroy him.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “You can’t prove a word of it, you know. Not one word.”

  “I realize that.”

  Seymour exhaled heavily. “I am the deputy director of Her Majesty’s Security Service,” he said, more to himself than to Gabriel. “Deputy directors of MI5 do not bring down British governments. They protect them from enemies foreign and domestic.”

  “But what if the government is dirty?”

  “What government isn’t?” Seymour replied glibly.

  Gabriel didn’t answer. He was in no mood for a relativistic debate over ethics in politics.

  “And if I prevailed upon you to walk away and forget about it?” asked Seymour. “What would you do?”

  “I would abide by your wishes and go home to Jerusalem.”

  “And do what?”

  “It seems Shamron has plans for me.”

  “Anything you want to tell me about?”

  “Not yet.”

  Seymour was clearly intrigued but let it drop for now. “And what would you think of me?” he asked after a moment.

  “What does it matter what I think?”

  “It matters to me,” said Seymour earnestly.

  Gabriel made a show of thought. “I think you would spend the rest of your life wondering what the SVR was doing with all the money they were siphoning from the North Sea. And I think you would feel guilty that you’d done nothing to stop it.”

  Seymour made no reply.

  “We have a saying in our service, Graham. We believe that a career without scandal is not a proper career at all.”

  “We’re British,” Seymour answered. “We don’t have sayings, and we don’t like scandals. In fact, we live in fear of making even the slightest misstep.”

  “That’s why you have me.”

  Seymour looked at Gabriel seriously for a moment. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “Let me go to war against Volgatek on your behalf. I’ll find the proof that they stole your oil.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’ll steal it back.”

  Gabriel and Graham Seymour spent the next thirty minutes thrashing out the details of perhaps the most unorthodox operational accord ever reached between two sometimes-allied services. Later, it would come to be known as the Parliament Hill accord, though there were some inside British intelligence who referred to it as the Kite Hill accord, which was the other name for the knoll at the southern end of Hampstead Heath. Under the provisions of the agreement, Seymour granted Gabriel the license to operate on British soil as he saw fit, provided there was no violence and no threat to British national security. For his part, Gabriel pledged that any intelligence produced by the operation
would be turned over to Seymour and that Seymour and Seymour alone would decide how to use it. The deal was sealed with a handshake. Then Seymour departed, trailed by his bodyguards.

  Gabriel remained in the Heath for another ten minutes before walking back to Hampstead High Street to collect Keller. Together they rode the Underground to Kensington and then made their way on foot to the Israeli Embassy. The Office station was deserted except for a low-level clerk who leaped to attention when the legend came striding through the doorway unannounced. Gabriel deposited Keller in the anteroom, then made his way into the secure communications pod, which Office veterans such as himself referred to as the Holy of Holies. Shamron’s home number in Tiberias was still loaded into the directory of emergency contacts. He answered after the first ring, as though he had been sitting by the phone.

  Though the call was technically secure, the two men spoke in the terse patois of the Office, a language no translator or supercomputer could ever decipher. Gabriel quickly explained what he had discovered, what he planned to do next, and what he required to move forward. The resources for such an operation were not Shamron’s to provide. Nor did he retain any official authority to approve it. Only Uzi Navot could launch such an endeavor—and only with the blessing of the prime minister himself.

  And thus the groundwork was laid for a row that would go down in the annals as one of the worst in the storied history of the Office. It commenced at 10:18 p.m. Israel time, when Shamron rang Navot at home and told him that Gabriel intended to go to war against KGB Oil & Gas and that Shamron wanted the operation to proceed. Navot made it clear that such an undertaking was not in the cards. Not then. Not ever. Shamron hung up without another word and rang the prime minister before Navot had a chance to head him off.

  “Why am I starting a war with the Russian president?” the prime minister asked. “It’s only oil, for God’s sake.”

  “It’s not only about oil, not for Gabriel. Besides,” Shamron added, “do you want him to be the next chief or not?”