“Let’s start with something simple,” said Gabriel calmly. “How did you get the number for my mobile phone?”

“It happened while you were in Omagh,” said the Russian. “At the memorial. A woman was following you. She pretended to take your picture.”

“I remember her.”

“She wirelessly attacked your BlackBerry. We were never able to decrypt any of your files, but we were able to get your number.”

“Which you gave to Quinn.”

“Yes.”

“It was Quinn who sent me that text message in London.”

“‘The bricks are in the wall.’”

“Where was he when he sent it?”

“Brompton Road,” said the Russian. “Safely out of the blast zone.”

“Why did you let him do it?”

“He wanted you to know it was him.”

“Professional pride?”

“Apparently, it had something to do with a man named Tariq.”

Gabriel felt his heart give a sideways lurch. “Tariq al-Hourani?”

“Yes, that’s him. The Palestinian.”

“What about Tariq?”

“Quinn said he wanted to repay an old debt.”

“By killing me?”

Rozanov nodded. “Evidently, they were quite close.”

It had to be true, thought Gabriel. There was no way Alexei Rozanov could have known about Tariq.

“Does Quinn know I’m still alive?”

“He was told earlier today.”

“So you do know where he is?”

Rozanov said nothing. Gabriel pressed the barrel of the Glock against the inside the Russian’s knee.

“Where is he, Alexei?”

“He’s back in England.”

“Where in England?”

“I don’t know.”

Gabriel ground the barrel of the gun painfully into the Russian’s knee.

“I swear to you, Allon. I don’t know where he is.”

“Why is he back in England?”

“The second phase of the operation.”

“Where will it happen?”

“Guy’s Hospital in London.”

“When?”

“Three p.m. tomorrow.”

“And the target?”

“It’s the prime minister. Quinn and Katerina are going to kill Jonathan Lancaster tomorrow afternoon in London.”

59

NORTHERN GERMANY

THE RUSSIAN WAS WEAKENING, losing blood, losing the will to live. Even so, Gabriel walked him through it all, step by step, deal by deal, betrayal by betrayal, from the operation’s sorry beginning to the e-mail that had arrived at Moscow Center earlier that evening. The e-mail that had been sent from an insecure device because the SVR-issue mobile phone belonging to one Katerina Akulova had transmitted its final watery signal from the bottom of the North Sea. Quinn, said Rozanov, had taken matters into his own hands. Quinn was outside Moscow Center’s control. Quinn had gone rogue.

“Where were they when they sent the e-mail?”

“We were never able to trace it back to the source.”

Gabriel stamped hard on Rozanov’s shattered right foot. The Russian, when he regained the ability to speak, said the e-mail had been sent from an Internet café in the town of Fleetwood.

“Do they have a car?” asked Gabriel.

“A Renault.”

“Model?”

“I believe it’s a Scénic.”

“What kind of attack is it going to be?”