“Perhaps we should ask Yuri where he’s planning to travel next.”
“The Russia House believes he was given his marching orders at that coffee shop in Lisbon yesterday. That said, we are inclined to leave him in circulation for the time being. The same goes for another Russian illegal we’ve identified,” added Graham. “She goes by the name Chloé Lamont.”
“Where did you find her?”
“London,” replied Graham. “Using CCTV and other surveillance tools, we reconstructed Yuri Ivanov’s movements the day before the art auction. He bumped into her in Leicester Square. In case you’re wondering, the real Chloé Lamont died in 2003 at the age of seven. But that didn’t stop the Canadians from issuing this Chloé Lamont a passport when she applied for one.”
“It can’t be that bloody easy,” groaned Christopher.
“It is,” replied Gabriel knowingly.
“I’m afraid it gets worse,” said Graham. “Ms. Lamont earned her undergraduate degree at McGill University in Montreal and is now pursuing a PhD at King’s College London. Russian history, if you can believe that.”
“Sounds like a future SIS officer to me.”
“Evidently the thought has crossed our mind.”
“Don’t tell me...”
“Our talent spotter at King’s thought rather highly of her and passed along her name to Personnel.”
“I don’t suppose you vetted her.”
“Fortunately it never got that far. For the moment, at least, Chloé Lamont is MI5’s problem. And Yuri Ivanov is ours.” Graham checked the time, then rose to his feet. “Sorry to be leaving so soon, but my prime minister needs me.”
“Bridge night at Number Ten?” asked Christopher.
“The Ukrainian president is coming to London for a meeting at Downing Street. The French, German, and Danish leaders are attending as well. If everything goes according to plan, they will announce a new multibillion-euro military and economic aid package for Ukraine. Needless to say, it’s going to be one of the most important meetings at Number Ten in years.”
“The Russians,” said Christopher, “will go positively apeshit.”
“So will the Americans, which is why we will make no announcement until the morning of the meeting.” Graham finished the last of his drink, then took a final look around the room. “Helen did a lovely job with it, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps the two of you should spend some time here,” said Gabriel.
“I’ll come back when the war is over or when they show me the door at Vauxhall Cross, whichever comes first.”
Graham placed his empty glass on the coffee table and drew his mobile phone from the breast pocket of his blazer. A few seconds later Christopher did the same. The two men pondered their devices in silence for a moment, each wearing the same grave expression.
“Is there a problem?” asked Gabriel.
Christopher handed over his phone. On the screen was a message from Lisbon Station via Vauxhall Cross. It appeared as though Captain Yuri Ivanov was on the move again. And wherever Yuri went, thought Gabriel, the drones were sure to follow.
46
The Borgen
The Kingdom of Denmark, a nation of just six million inhabitants with a gross domestic product of $450 billion annually, was arguably the West’s staunchest defender of Ukraine. In perhaps its most dramatic show of support, Denmark had provided the Ukrainians with nearly all of its available weaponry. It had also declared its intention to acquire long-range missiles capable of striking deep inside Russia, a move that raised tensions with the Kremlin to the boiling point. The drones appeared in Danish skies soon after. Copenhagen Airport was not the only target. Smaller airports around the country saw drone incursions as well, as did several Danish airbases and other military installations.
At the sharp end of Denmark’s shadow war with Russia was Lars Mortensen, director-general of the PET, the country’s small but capable security and intelligence service. Shortly before three o’clock that afternoon he learned, much to his alarm, that an illegal Russian intelligence operative linked to previous European drone incursions was headed his way. Even more troubling was the fact that this news had been delivered by none other than Gabriel Allon. Mortensen had worked with the legendary spy several times in the past, most recently on an operation in Moscow involving a Danish national named Ingrid Johansen.
“How is he traveling?” inquired the Danish spymaster.
“TAP Air Portugal.”
“Name?”
“Felix Serrano.”
