The Other Woman

“No.”

“In that case, I have no choice but to suspend our relationship.”

Seymour only smiled. “You’re not much of a poker player, are you?”

“I’ve never had much time for trivial pursuits.”

“There’s that card again.”

“Our relationship is like a marriage, Graham. It’s based on trust.”

“In my opinion, most marriages are based either on money or the fear of being alone. And if you divorce me, you won’t have a friend in the world.”

“I can’t operate with you or share intelligence if your Vienna Head is on the Russian payroll. And I’m quite sure the Americans will feel the same way.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me. In fact, I think I’ll tell my good friend Morris Payne about all this in time for your little meeting tomorrow.” Payne was the director of the CIA. “That should liven things up considerably.”

Seymour made no response.

Gabriel glanced at the camera lens above the video screen. “That thing isn’t on, is it?”

Seymour shook his head.

“And no one knows we’re in here?”

“No one but Helen. She adores him, by the way.”

“Who?”

“Alistair Hughes. She thinks he’s dishy.”

“So did the wife of an American diplomat who used to work in Vienna.”

Seymour’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”

“A little bird told me. The same little bird that told me about Alistair Hughes demanding to know the address of the safe flat where I was planning to debrief Kirov.”

“London Control wanted the address, not Alistair.”

“Why?”

“Because it was our responsibility to get Kirov out of Vienna and onto a plane safely. It’s not like ordering a car from Uber. You can’t press a button at the last minute. We had to plan the primary route and put in place a backup in case the Russians intervened. And for that, we needed the address.”

“How many people knew it?”

“In London?” Seymour glanced at the ceiling. “Eight or nine. And another six or seven in Vienna.”

“What about the Vienna Boys’ Choir?” Greeted by silence, Gabriel asked, “How much did the Americans know?”

“Our Head of Station in Washington informed them that Heathcliff was coming out and that we had agreed to grant him defector status. She didn’t tell them any of the operational details.”

“Not the location?”

“City only.”

“Did they know I would be there?”

“They might have.” Seymour made a show of thought. “I’m sorry, but I’m getting a bit confused. Are you accusing the Americans of leaking the information to the Russians, or us?”

“I’m accusing dishy Alistair Hughes.”

“What about the fourteen other MI6 officers who knew the address of your safe flat? How do you know it wasn’t one of them?”

“Because we’re sitting in this room. You brought me here,” said Gabriel, “because you’re afraid I might be right.”

14 (#ulink_56f9f345-4960-5399-a294-d3b7883d88ea)

EATON SQUARE, LONDON (#ulink_56f9f345-4960-5399-a294-d3b7883d88ea)

Graham Seymour sat for a long moment in a contemplative silence, his gaze averted, as though watching the countryside marching past the window of Gabriel’s imaginary train carriage. At last, he quietly spoke a name, a Russian name, that Gabriel struggled to make out over the howling of the ventilation system.

“Gribkov,” Seymour repeated. “Vladimir Vladimirovich Gribkov. We called him VeeVee for short. He masqueraded as a press attaché at the Russian diplomatic mission in New York. Rather badly, I might add. In reality, he was an SVR officer who trolled for spies at the United Nations. Moscow Center has a massive rezidentura in New York. Our station is much smaller, and yours is smaller still. One man, actually. We know his identity, as do the Americans.”

But that, added Seymour, was neither here nor there. What mattered was that Vladimir Vladimirovich Gribkov, during an otherwise tedious diplomatic cocktail party at a posh Manhattan hotel, approached MI6’s man in New York and intimated he wished to discuss something of a highly sensitive nature. The MI6 officer, whom Seymour did not identify, duly reported the contact to London Control. “Because, as any MI6 field officer knows, the surest route to the career ash heap is to conduct an unauthorized heart-to-heart with an SVR hood.” London Control formally blessed the encounter, and three weeks after the initial contact—enough time, said Seymour, to allow Gribkov to come to his senses—the two officers agreed to meet at a remote location east of New York, on Long Island.

“Actually, it was on a smaller island off the coast, a place called Shelter Island. There’s no bridge, only car ferries. Much of the island is a nature preserve, with miles of walking trails where it’s possible to never bump into another living soul. In short, it was the perfect place for an officer of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service to meet with a Russian who was thinking about betraying his country.”

Gribkov wasted little time on preliminaries or professional niceties. He said he had become disillusioned with the SVR and with Russia under the rule of the Tsar. It was his wish to defect to England along with his wife and two children, who were living with him in New York at the Russian diplomatic compound in the Bronx. He said he could provide MI6 with a treasure trove of intelligence, including one piece of information that would make him the most valuable defector in history. Therefore, he wanted to be well compensated in return.

“How much?” asked Gabriel.

“Ten million pounds in cash and a house in the English countryside.”

“One of those,” said Gabriel contemptuously.

“Yes,” agreed Seymour.

“And the piece of information that made him worthy of such riches?”

“The name of a Russian mole working at the pinnacle of the Anglo-American intelligence establishment.”

“Did he specify which service or which side of the divide?”

Seymour shook his head.

“What was your reaction?”