The Cellist by Daniel Silva

7Eaton Square, Belgravia

When Helen Liddell-Brown met Graham Seymour at a drinks party at Cambridge, he told her that his father worked for a very dull department of the Foreign Office. She did not believe him, for her uncle served in a senior position in the same department, which was known to insiders as the Firm and the rest of the world as MI6. She accepted Graham’s proposal of marriage on the condition he take a respectable job in the City. But a year after they wed, he surprised her by joining MI5, a betrayal for which Helen—and Graham’s father, for that matter—never quite forgave him.

She punished Graham by adopting stridently left-wing politics. She opposed the Falklands War, campaigned for a nuclear freeze, and was twice arrested outside the South African Embassy in Trafalgar Square. Graham never knew what horrors awaited him in the post each night when he returned home from the office. He once remarked to a colleague that if Helen were not his wife, he would have opened a file on her and tapped her phone.

If it was her secret strategy to derail his career, she failed miserably. After serving for several years in Northern Ireland, he took control of MI5’s counterterrorism division and was then promoted to the rank of deputy director for operations. It was his intention, at the conclusion of his term, to retire to his villa in Portugal. His plans changed, however, when Prime Minister Lancaster offered him the keys to his father’s old service—a move that surprised everyone in the intelligence trade except Gabriel, who had brought about the set of circumstances that led to Graham’s appointment. With the Americans turning inward and torn by political divisions, ties between the Office and MI6 had grown exceedingly close. The two services operated together routinely, and critical intelligence flowed freely between Vauxhall Cross and King Saul Boulevard. Gabriel and Graham saw themselves as defenders of the postwar international order. Given the current state of global affairs, it was an increasingly thankless task.

Helen Seymour’s acceptance of her husband’s ascent to the pinnacle of British intelligence had been grudging at best. At Graham’s request, she had toned down her politics and placed some distance between herself and some of her more heretical friends. She practiced yoga each morning and passed her afternoons in the kitchen, where she indulged her passion for exotic cooking. During Gabriel’s last visit to the Seymour residence, he had heroically consumed a plate of paella in violation of Jewish dietary laws. The chicken couscous was a rare triumph. Even Graham, who was skilled at moving food around his plate to create the illusion of consumption, helped himself to a second portion.

At the conclusion of the meal, he dabbed the corners of his mouth deliberately with his linen napkin and invited Gabriel to join him upstairs in his book-lined study. A draft blew through the open window overlooking Eaton Square. Gabriel was dubious as to the efficacy of such precautions, believing they simply facilitated the transfer of the virus from host to unwitting recipient. He glanced at the wall-mounted television, which was tuned to CNN. A panel of political experts was debating the American presidential election, now only three months away.

“Care to make a prediction?” asked Graham.

“I believe Christopher will propose marriage to Sarah sometime in the next year.”

“I was talking about the election.”

“It will be closer than the polls are predicting, but he cannot win.”

“Will he accept the outcome?”

“Not a chance.”

“And then what?”

Graham went to the window and effortlessly lowered the sash. He seemed unsuited for so mundane a task. With his even features and plentiful pewter-colored locks, he reminded Gabriel of one of those male models who appear in ads for gold fountain pens and expensive wristwatches, the sort of needless trinkets that went out of fashion with the pandemic. He made lesser beings feel inferior, especially Americans.

“Rumor has it you arrived in London on a fancy new Gulfstream,” he said, reclaiming his seat. “The registry is rather opaque.”

“With good reason. My many friends and admirers in the Islamic Republic are rather angry with me at the moment.”

“That’s what you get for blowing up their centrifuge factory. Frankly, I’m surprised you found time in your busy schedule to come here on such short notice.”

“A dear friend of mine was feeling under the weather. I thought I’d pay her a visit.”

“Your dear friend is just fine.”

“Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of Viktor Orlov.”

“Viktor is none of your affair.”

“He was my asset, Graham. And if it wasn’t for his money, I would be dead. So would my wife.”

“As I recall,” said Graham, “I was the one who talked Viktor into surrendering his oil company in exchange for your freedom. If he’d had any sense, he would have kept a lower profile. Instead, he purchased the Gazeta and deliberately placed himself in the Kremlin’s crosshairs. It was only a matter of time before they got to him.”

“With Nina Antonova?”

Graham made a face. “At some point, we might have to reestablish some boundaries between your service and mine.”

“You don’t really believe she’s a Moscow Center assassin, do you?”

“Sometimes two plus two does in fact equal four.”

“But sometimes it’s five.”

“Only in Room 101 of the Ministry of Love, Winston.”

“Sarah has an interesting theory,” replied Gabriel. “She believes Nina was deceived into delivering the contaminated documents.”

“And when did Sarah reach this conclusion? During the thirty seconds she was inside Viktor’s study?”

“She has excellent instincts.”

“That’s hardly surprising. After all, you were the one who trained her. But Moscow Center would never have entrusted such a dangerous weapon to someone who wasn’t fully under its control.”

“Why ever not?”

“What if she had opened the parcel on the British Airways flight from Zurich?”

“But she didn’t. She delivered the package to Viktor. And Viktor, who was justifiably paranoid about his security, waited until she had left before opening it. What does that tell you?”

“It tells me that Nina Antonova and her controllers at Moscow Center devised a rather cunning method of slipping a contaminated package past Viktor’s formidable defenses. They’re probably celebrating their latest success as we speak.”

“There’s no way she’s in Moscow, Graham.”

“Well, she isn’t in Zurich, and her phone is off the air.”

“What about her credit card?”

“No recent activity.”

“That’s because she knows the Russians are looking for her. Obviously, we need to find her first.”

“By midday tomorrow, she will be the world’s most wanted woman.”

“Unless you delay releasing her name and photograph long enough for me to find her.”

Graham was silent.

“Give me seventy-two hours,” said Gabriel.

“Not possible.” Graham paused, then added, “But you can have forty-eight.”

“That’s not much time.”

“It’s all you’re going to get.”

“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I’m sure you won’t mind if I borrow Sarah.”

“Not at all. Where do you intend to start?”

“I was hoping to have a word with someone who used to work with Nina at the Gazeta. Someone who might have an opinion as to whether she was a real journalist or a Moscow Center assassin.” Gabriel smiled. “You wouldn’t know where I could find someone like that, would you, Graham?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think I might.”