45 Costa de Prata
Costa de Prata
The villa stood a mile from the sea near the medieval town of óbidos, flanked on one side by a grove of olive trees and on
the other by a coppice of cork oak. Graham Seymour had acquired it as he was nearing the end of a sometimes tumultuous career
exotic cooking. But all that fell by the wayside when Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster chose him to be the sixteenth director-general
of the Secret Intelligence Service. He had now been in the post longer than anyone since Stuart Menzies, who had led SIS during
World War II and the early years of the Cold War. There were some in Whitehall who thought Graham had overstayed his welcome,
that it was time for him to go quietly into the night, but he was in no hurry to step from the stage. Indeed, at moments like
these, he dared to think of himself as irreplaceable.
He had traveled from London to Lisbon on a discount commercial flight, with a false British passport in his pocket and two plainclothes Metropolitan Police protection officers at his side.
They arrived at the villa in the glare of the early afternoon, in a rented Renault.
The air inside the house was stale, unbreathed.
Graham threw open the doors and windows, then went into the kitchen in search of something to serve his guests.
There were a few tins of soup, a jar of tomato sauce, and a half-drunk bottle of single malt, but otherwise the cupboard was bare.
He supposed the whisky would have to do.
He took down the bottle and three cut-glass tumblers and carried them into the great room. He scarcely recognized the furnishings—or
the view of the mutinous garden and the blue swimming pool, its surface covered in fallen leaves. Indeed he had the strange
sensation he had wandered into someone else’s Portuguese retreat by mistake. The sound of a car crunching over the gravel
drive dispelled that notion, as did the comforting sight of Christopher Keller and Gabriel Allon striding through the front
door. They were accompanied by Harry Wilson, a sapling from Lisbon Station.
Christopher, seeing the expression on Graham’s face, placed a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. “Why don’t you make yourself scarce
so the grown-ups can have a word in private?”
Wilson joined the two Met protection officers in the forecourt, and Graham poured two glasses of the whisky, one for himself
and the other for Christopher. Then he displayed the bottle to Gabriel and said, “I don’t suppose I can interest you in a
drop or two of this stuff.”
“I’m observing dry January.”
“It’s August.”
“Already?” Gabriel surveyed the unlived-in room around him. “I love what you’ve done with the place, Graham.”
“I don’t get here often.”
“When was your last visit?”
“The summer before the Russian invasion of Ukraine.”
“And what brings us here today?”
“The recent drone incidents at airports across Europe,” said Graham. “It turns out they all have one important factor in common.”
“And what’s that?”
Graham took up his glass. “Captain Yuri Ivanov.”
Helsinki was the most aggressive of the lot. Eight drones in all were involved, eight drones that relentlessly circled the
airport for nearly two hours. Seven of the drones eventually departed Finnish airspace, but the eighth did not.
“It was lying in pieces near the end of the airport’s main runway,” explained Graham. “Apparently it got caught up in the
wash of an inbound Lufthansa flight.”
“If memory serves,” said Gabriel, “the Finnish president said that none of the drones were recovered.”
“That’s because the Finnish president was lying through his teeth. Rather well, I might add. By the time he issued that statement,
the wreckage of the drone was already in the hands of a team of technical analysts at the Finnish security service. And they
came to a rather startling conclusion.”
“Which was?”
“That it was no ordinary over-the-counter commercial drone.”
“Military-grade?”
“Without question.”
“Russian?”
“The drone’s provenance,” said Graham, “could not be established with any degree of certainty. It was an FPV drone with a
high-resolution camera and satellite connectivity, which means it was probably operated by someone sitting at a computer terminal.
What’s more, it was powerful enough to carry a significant payload.”
“A kamikaze drone?” asked Christopher.
“That was the conclusion of our friends in Finland. They believe the Kremlin was trying to send them a clear signal to mind their own business when it comes to Ukraine. They’re also convinced the Russians used the incursion to probe Finnish air defenses.
The Dutch reached the same conclusion after the incident in Amsterdam.
But unlike the Finns, the Dutch actually tried to prove it. ”
“How?” asked Gabriel.
“As you no doubt recall, the Dutch intelligence service punches well above its weight. They were the ones who hacked the GRU
when it was meddling in the 2016 American presidential election. They burrowed their way right into the room at GRU headquarters
in downtown Moscow where the Russian hackers were working and recorded everything they were doing. It was a remarkable achievement.”
“Am I to understand the Dutch have made a return visit?”
“They’re inside GRU headquarters as we speak.”
“Have they seen anything interesting?”
“A room with twelve stations for Russian drone operators, or so it would appear. They’ve also been reviewing CCTV video recorded
in Amsterdam at the time of the attack. And you’ll never guess who they found.”
“Yuri Ivanov?”
Graham opened his attaché case and removed a large manila envelope. Inside were a dozen still images of the Russian intelligence
officer. “The Finns have confirmed that he was in Helsinki too. It seems that wherever Yuri goes, the drones are sure to follow.”
“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.