Geggel stood. He took the paper from the table, folded it neatly, and slipped it into his pocket. Aleksandrov stood, too, and Geggel took his hand and shook it.
“I’ll contact you as soon as I have word from London. Don’t contact her again unless you have to.”
Aleksandrov kept hold of his hand, clasping it in both of his. “Thank you. This is a very good thing that you do. My daughter will be grateful. As am I.”
Geggel smiled, and Aleksandrov released his hand.
“Be careful, Pyotr.”
“And you.”
7
Nataliya had taken up a position on the promenade. She could look north toward the pub where Aleksandrov and Geggel had met, or, by turning to the west, she could see the street where Geggel had parked his car. There was nothing out of place, and nothing that gave Nataliya any cause for concern.
She heard Mikhail’s voice in her ear. “They’re both coming out.”
She gazed up the street. Aleksandrov came out first, pausing beneath the pub’s sign until Geggel joined him. The handler extended a hand and Aleksandrov took it, drawing Geggel into a hug. They exchanged words—Nataliya was much too far away to be able to hear what was said—and then they parted. Aleksandrov turned right and Geggel turned left.
“They’ve split up,” Nataliya said, turning her head away from an approaching couple. “Aleksandrov has gone north. Geggel is heading to me.”
She saw Mikhail exit the pub. “Take Geggel,” he said. “I’ll take Aleksandrov.”
Nataliya pushed herself away from the railings and turned toward the car park. She followed the promenade as it traced its way along the top of the cliff. She glanced down at the row of beach huts, the lower promenade, the stony beach and then the sea, the high tide breaking over a set of wooden groynes. She walked quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention to herself, and, as she walked, she opened her handbag and reached her fingers inside until she could feel her lock pick.
She arrived at the common, an area of grass that had been yellowed by the hot summer’s sun. She crossed it and saw the line of painted parking spaces on Park Lane. She had been sent a picture of Geggel’s Citroën, and confirmed that the registration was the same. It was the large seven-seat Grand C4 SpaceTourer, with plenty of space in the back. She reached the vehicle, took out her pick and, after checking around her, knelt down by the lock. The pick had already been coded, and she slid it into the keyhole, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. The seats were arranged in a two-three-two pattern. She closed the door and dropped down into the footwell between the rear and middle rows.
She waited for Geggel to arrive.
Geggel hardly noticed his surroundings as he made his way back to his car. He had a spring in his step. Aleksandrov’s reason for the meeting had been unexpected, and Geggel found that he was more excited than he had been for years. He reached up and slid his fingers into the inside pocket of his jacket; he felt the sharp edge of the folded square of paper and thought of the schematic that was printed on it. He took the piece of paper out and unfolded it on the bonnet of the Citroën. He took out his phone and snapped it, taking two pictures to be sure, and then emailed both to himself. Better safe than sorry.
He knew what he would have to do: contact Raj Shah, get the intelligence checked out, and then work out how he could involve himself in the operation to exfiltrate Anastasiya Romanova. He was confident that he could do it. Aleksandrov had made it plain that he would only deal with him; he would make that very clear when he made contact. He knew that his replacement, Jessie Ross, would protest, and he had some sympathy for her, not that that would make any difference. This was his achievement. He would bring it in, and he would take the plaudits. It was remarkable. He was on the cusp of landing the biggest intelligence coup for years. It didn’t matter that he was retired; this would be the crowning moment of his career.
He opened the door and lowered himself onto the seat. He started the car, reversed out of the bay and set off, following Godyll Road as it sliced between the green space of the town common. He picked up the A1095 and followed it toward the main trunk road that would lead back to London.
He took out his phone, plugged it into the USB port and then took out his wallet. He removed the credit cards and tossed them onto the seat next to him until he found what he was looking for: a plastic card, like the credit cards he had just filleted, with a government logo on the back and a phone number beneath it. He typed the number into the phone three digits at a time, switching his attention between the screen and the road ahead. He finished, but didn’t dial the number. His finger hovered over the screen; he didn’t even know whether it was still current. He pressed dial.
“Vauxhall Cross,” the woman at the other end said over the speaker. “How can I help you?”
Geggel felt something hard pressed up flush against the side of his head. He looked up into the mirror and saw a woman behind him; the hard point he could feel against his temple was the muzzle of a handgun.
“End the call,” she said in a quiet, firm voice.
Geggel gripped the wheel a little tighter.
“Hello? This is Vauxhall Cross. How can I help you?”
The woman pushed the gun, hard enough that he had to put his head against his shoulder. “Now,” she said.
Geggel reached forward and pressed the screen, killing the call.
“Thank you,” she said.
Geggel looked back in the mirror. The woman was dark haired. She wore glasses, had earrings in both ears, and wore a Led Zeppelin t-shirt.
“Who are you?”
“Keep driving,” she said. “I want to ask you some questions.”
8
Aleksandrov made his way home, stopping in a delicatessen on the High Street to buy olives and cheese and then continuing on his way. Mikhail followed, leaving a sizeable distance between them. He knew where Aleksandrov was going; he didn’t need to see him every step of the way, and so he drifted into and out of shops, looking for all the world like an idling tourist enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. Aleksandrov turned onto Wymering Road and Mikhail turned, too; by the time Mikhail reached Aleksandrov’s house he was already inside. Mikhail saw movement through the sitting room window.
There was no reason to wait. Mikhail’s orders were clear. He checked that the road was empty and crossed the short path to the front door. It was set back in an arch that would hide him from the other houses on the street; he would only have been visible to those directly behind him, and the only thing there was the garden of a bungalow that was being refurbished. The builders were not there today; no one could see him.
He reached into his jacket and pulled the Beretta from its holster, hiding it against his hip as he knocked on the door with the knuckles of his left hand. He heard the sound of footsteps and then the sound of a key being turned. Mikhail took a step back, still within the shelter of the arch. The door opened enough for Aleksandrov to look outside.
“Hello?” he said.
Mikhail kicked the door, hard, and then followed immediately with his shoulder. Aleksandrov was caught off balance; the edge of the door slammed into his face and he stumbled back into the hall. Mikhail followed in quickly, the gun pointed ahead. Aleksandrov had tripped and fallen, and was on his backside, scrabbling to get away. Mikhail closed the door with his foot and then closed on Aleksandrov, the gun pointing down at him.