The train entered Regent’s Park station, took on and disgorged a few more passengers, and started moving again. Two minutes later it arrived at Baker Street, where the man in the mackintosh departed. Yuri Volkov remained on the train until Paddington Station. From there it was a short walk back to the Russian Embassy.

It stood at the northern edge of Kensington Palace Gardens, behind a cordon of British security. Volkov entered the building and made his way down to the rezidentura, where he slipped into the secure communications vault. He removed the device from his coat pocket. It was about three inches by five, the size of an average external hard drive. He plugged it into a computer and typed in the necessary password. Instantly, the device began to whir, and the file it contained flowed into the computer. Fifteen seconds elapsed while the material was decrypted. Then it appeared en clair on the screen. “My God,” was all Volkov said. Then he printed out a copy of the message and went in search of Dmitry Ulyanin.

Ulyanin was in his office, a phone to his ear, when Volkov entered without knocking and dropped the message on the desk. The rezident stared at it for a moment in disbelief before absently hanging up.

“I thought you saw Shamron at Vauxhall Cross.”

“I did.”

“What about the coffin they put on that plane?”

“It must have been empty.”

Ulyanin slammed his fist onto the desktop, spilling his afternoon tea. He held up the printout and asked, “Do you know what’s going to happen when this arrives in Moscow?”

“Alexei Rozanov is going to be very angry.”

“Alexei’s not the one I’m worried about.” Ulyanin flicked the printout across his desk. “Cable Yasenevo right away. It was Alexei’s operation, not mine. Let him clean up the mess.”

Volkov returned to the communications vault and drafted the cable. He showed the draft to Ulyanin for approval, and after a brief argument it was Ulyanin who pushed the button that fired the news securely to Moscow Center. He returned to his office while Volkov waited for confirmation that the cable had been received. It took fifteen minutes to arrive.

“What did he say?” asked Ulyanin.

“Nothing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Alexei’s not in Moscow.”

“Where is he?”

“On an airplane bound for Hamburg.”

“Why Hamburg?”

“A meeting. Something big, apparently.”

“Let’s just hope he checks his messages soon, because Gabriel Allon didn’t fake his death for no reason.” Ulyanin looked down at the sodden papers on his desk and shook his head slowly. “This is what happens when you send an Irishman to do a Russian’s job.”

52

FLEETWOOD, ENGLAND