The Other Woman. Daniel Silva
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considerably during a posting in Baghdad. She had also served in Brussels, Paris, Cairo, Riyadh, and Amman, where she had been the Head of Station. It was Seymour, early in his tenure as chief, who had given her the job as H/Washington, as it was known in the lexicon of the service. In doing so, he had virtually anointed her as his successor. Washington would be Rebecca’s final overseas station; there was nowhere else for her to go. Nowhere but a final lap at Vauxhall Cross so that she might be formally introduced to the barons of Whitehall. Her appointment would be historic, and long overdue. MI5 had already had two female chiefs—including Amanda Wallace, the current director-general—but Six had never entrusted the reins of power to a woman. It was a legacy Seymour would be proud to leave.
Family ties aside, Washington Station observed the same security procedures as any other post in the world, especially when it came to sensitive conversations between senior officers. The conference room was impervious to electronic eavesdropping. A leather-bound briefing book had been left at Seymour’s place at the table. Inside was the agenda for the meeting with CIA director Morris Payne, along with summaries of current policies, future goals, and ongoing operations. It was one of the most valuable documents in the world of global intelligence. Moscow Center would surely have killed for it.
“Cream?” asked Rebecca Manning.
“Black.”
“That’s not like you.”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“Nothing serious, I trust.”
“My cholesterol is a bit too high. So is my blood pressure. It’s one of the fringe benefits of the job.”
“I gave up worrying about my health a long time ago. If I can survive Baghdad, I can survive anything.” She handed Seymour his coffee. Then she prepared one for herself and frowned. “Coffee without a fag. What’s the point?”
“You really should quit, you know. If I can do it, anyone can.”
“Morris tells me the same thing.”
“I didn’t realize you were on a Christian-name basis.”
“He’s not so bad, Graham.”
“He’s ideological, which makes me nervous. A spy should believe in nothing.” He paused, then added, “Like you, Rebecca.”
“Morris Payne isn’t a spy, he’s the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. There’s an enormous difference.” She opened her copy of the briefing book. “Shall we begin?”
Seymour had never doubted the wisdom of Rebecca Manning’s appointment to Washington, never less so than in the forty-five minutes of her briefing. She moved through the agenda swiftly and sure-footedly—North Korea, China, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, the global effort against ISIS and al-Qaeda. Her command of the policy issues was complete, as was her exposure to American covert operations. As MI6’s Head of Station in Washington, Rebecca Manning knew far more about the secret workings of the American intelligence community than most members of the Senate. Her thinking was subtle and sophisticated, and not given to hyperbole or rashness. For Rebecca, the world was not a dangerous place spinning rapidly out of control; it was a problem to be managed by men and women of competence and training.
The last item on the agenda was Russia. It was inherently treacherous ground. The new American president had made no secret of his admiration for Russia’s authoritarian leader and expressed a desire for better relations with Moscow. Now he was embroiled in an investigation into whether the Kremlin had provided covert assistance that helped him prevail in a close election against his Democratic opponent. Seymour and MI6 had concluded it was so, as had Morris Payne’s predecessor at the Central Intelligence Agency.
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