The Other Woman. Daniel Silva

routine meeting at Langley to review current joint operations and set future priorities.”

      “My invitation must have been lost in the mail.”

      “There are some things we do without your knowledge. We’re family, after all.”

      “Distant family,” said Gabriel.

      “And getting more distant by the day.”

      “The alliance has been under strain before.”

      “Strain, yes, but this is different. We are facing the very real prospect of the collapse of the international order. The same order, I might add, that gave birth to your country.”

      “We can look after ourselves.”

      “Can you really?” asked Seymour seriously. “For how long? Against how many enemies at once?”

      “Let’s talk about something pleasant.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Like Vienna.”

      “It was a simple operation,” said Seymour after a moment. “Bring the agent in from the cold, have a word with him in private, put him on a plane to a new life. We do it all the time.”

      “So do we,” replied Gabriel. “But this operation was made more complicated by the fact my agent was blown long before he left Moscow.”

      “Our agent,” said Seymour pointedly. “We were the ones who agreed to take him in.”

      “Which is why,” said Gabriel, “he’s now dead.”

      Seymour was squeezing the tumbler so tightly his fingertips had gone white.

      “Careful, Graham. You’re liable to break that.”

      He placed the glass on the trolley. “Let us stipulate,” he said calmly, “that the available evidence suggests Kirov was blown.”

      “Yes, let’s.”

      “But let us also stipulate it was your responsibility to bring him in, regardless of the circumstances. You should have spotted the SVR surveillance teams in Vienna and waved him off.”

      “We couldn’t spot them, Graham, because there weren’t any. They weren’t necessary. They knew where Kirov was going and that I would be waiting there. That’s how they got the photograph of me leaving the building. That’s how they used their bots, trolls, message boards, and news services to create the impression we were the ones behind Kirov’s killing.”

      “Where was the leak?”

      “It didn’t come from our service. Which means,” said Gabriel, “it came from yours.”

      “I’ve got a Russian spy on my payroll?” asked Seymour. “Is that what you’re saying?”

      Gabriel went to the window and gazed at the darkened houses on the opposite side of the square. “Any chance you could put a Harry James record on the gramophone and turn the volume up very loud?”

      “I’ve got a better idea,” said Seymour, rising. “Come with me.”

       13

       EATON SQUARE, LONDON

      The door, while outwardly normal in appearance, was mounted within an invisible high-strength steel frame. Graham Seymour opened it by entering the correct eight numerical digits into the keypad on the wall. The chamber beyond was small and cramped, and raised several inches from the floor. There were two chairs, a telephone, and a screen for secure videoconferences.

      “An in-home safe-speech room,” said Gabriel. “What will they think of next?”

      Seymour lowered himself into one of the chairs and gestured Gabriel into the second. Their knees were touching, like passengers sharing a compartment on a train. The overhead lighting played havoc with Seymour’s handsome features. He looked suddenly like a man Gabriel had never met.

      “It’s all rather convenient, isn’t it? And entirely predictable.”

      “What’s that?” asked Gabriel.

      “You’re looking for a scapegoat to explain your failure.”

      “I’d be careful about tossing around the word scapegoat. It makes people like me uneasy.”

      Somehow, Seymour managed to maintain a mask of British reserve. “Don’t you dare play that card with me. We go back too far for that.”

      “We do indeed. Which is why I thought you might be interested to know that your Head of Station in Vienna is a Russian spy.”

      “Alistair Hughes? He’s a fine officer.”

      “I’m sure his controllers at Moscow Center feel the same way.” The chamber’s ventilation system roared like an open freezer. “Will you at least give me a hearing?”

      “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