From St. James’s he traveled to a redbrick Victorian manor house in rural Hertfordshire. It had once served as a training facility for new MI6 recruits. Now Madeline Hart was its only occupant. Gabriel walked with her across the fog-shrouded grounds, trailed by a team of bodyguards. They were four in number—the same number who had died at the hands of Quinn and Katerina in Cornwall.
“Will you ever go back there again?” she asked.
“To Cornwall?”
Madeline nodded slowly.
“No,” said Gabriel. “I don’t think I will.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It seems I’ve ruined everything. None of this would have happened if you’d left me in St. Petersburg.”
“If you want to blame someone,” said Gabriel, “blame the Russian president. He sent your friend to kill you.”
“Where’s her body?”
“Graham Seymour has offered it to the SVR rezident in London.”
“And?”
“It seems the SVR isn’t interested. They claim not to know who she is.”
“Where will she end up?”
“An unmarked grave in a potter’s field.”
“A typically Russian ending,” said Madeline darkly.
“Better her than you.”
“She saved my life.” Madeline glanced at Gabriel and added, “Yours, too.”
He left Madeline in midafternoon and traveled to Highgate, where he repaid an outstanding debt to one of London’s most prominent political reporters. By the time the meeting concluded, it was approaching five o’clock. His flight home was at ten thirty. He hurried down the front walk and climbed into the back of his embassy car. He had one more errand to run. One last restoration.
81
VICTORIA ROAD, SOUTH KENSINGTON
IT WAS A STOUT LITTLE HOUSE, with a wrought-iron gate and a fine flight of steps rising to a white door. Potted flowers bloomed in the tiny forecourt, and in the drawing room window a light burned. The curtain was parted a few inches; through the gap Gabriel could see a man, Dr. Robert Keller, upright in a wing chair. He was reading a broadsheet newspaper. Gabriel could not discern which one because rain streaked the car windows and a pall of cigarette smoke clouded the interior. Keller had been smoking without a break since Gabriel had collected him from a street corner in Holborn, his temporary London address. Now he was staring at his father’s house as though it were the target of a close-observation surveillance operation. Gabriel realized suddenly that it was the first time he had ever seen Keller nervous.
“He’s old,” he said finally. “Older than I imagined he’d be.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Then I suppose it won’t matter if we just sit here for a minute or two.”
“Take as much time as you need.”
“What time is your flight?”
“It’s not important.”
Gabriel cast a discreet glance at his wristwatch.
“I saw that,” said Keller.
In the window across the street, an elderly woman was placing a cup and saucer at the elbow of the man reading the newspaper. Keller turned away—in shame or anguish, Gabriel could not tell.
“What’s she doing now?” asked Keller
“She’s looking out the window.”
“Did she make us?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is she gone?”
“She’s gone.”
Keller looked up again.
“What kind of tea does he drink?” asked Gabriel.
“It’s a special blend he gets from a man in New Bond Street.”
“Maybe you should join him.”
“In a minute.” Keller crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.
“Must you?”
“At this moment,” said Keller, “I most definitely must.”
Gabriel lowered the window a few inches to vent the smoke. The night wind blew rain against his cheek.
“What are you going to say to them?”
“I was wondering whether you had any suggestions.”
“You might start with the truth.”
“They’re old,” said Keller. “The truth might kill them.”
“Then give it in small doses.”
“Like medicine,” said Keller. He was still staring at the house. “He wanted me to be a doctor. Did you know that?”
“I think you mentioned it once.”
“Can you imagine me as a doctor?”
“No,” said Gabriel. “I cannot.”
“You didn’t have to say it like that.”
Gabriel listened to the rain drumming on the roof.
“What if they won’t take me back?” asked Keller after a moment. “What if they send me away?”
“Is that what you’re afraid of?”
“Yes.”
“They’re your parents, Christopher.”
“You’re obviously not English.” Keller rubbed a porthole in his fogged window and frowned at the rain. “I’ve been wet since the day I got back to this godforsaken country.”
“It rains in Corsica, too.”
“Not like this.”
“Have you decided where you’re going to live?”
“Somewhere close to them,” Keller replied. “Unfortunately, they’ll have to carry on as though I’m still dead. That’s part of my deal with MI6.”
“When do you start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What’s your first assignment?”
“Find Quinn.” Keller glanced at Gabriel and said, “I would appreciate any help your service can provide. Apparently, I have to play by MI6 rules.”
“Too bad.”
Keller’s mother appeared in the window again.
“What’s she looking for?” he asked.
“Could be anything,” said Gabriel.
“Do you think she’ll be proud?”
“Of what?”
“Of the fact that I work for MI6 now.”
“I know she will.”
Keller reached for the latch, then stopped. “I’ve gone into a lot of dangerous situations before . . .” His voice trailed off. “Can I sit here a little longer?”
“Take as much time as you need.”
“What time is your flight?”
“I’ll put a hold on it if I have to.”
Keller smiled. “I’m going to miss working with you.”
“Who says it has to stop?”
“You’ll be the chief soon. And chiefs don’t associate with plebes like me.” Keller placed his hand on the latch and raised his eyes toward the window of the house. “I know that look,” he said.
“What look?”
“The look on my mother’s face. She always looked like that when I was running late.”
“You are running late, Christopher.”
Keller turned sharply. “What have you done?”
“Go,” said Gabriel, offering his hand. “You’ve kept them waiting long enough.”
Keller climbed out of the car and hurried across the wet street. He fumbled for a moment with the garden gate, then bounded up the steps as the front door swung open. His parents stood in the entrance hall, leaning on each other for support, disbelieving of their eyes. Keller raised a finger to his lips and gathered them into his powerful arms before quickly closing the door. Gabriel saw him one last time as he passed before the window of the drawing room. Then a shade fell and he was gone.
82
NARKISS STREET, JERUSALEM
THAT SAME EVENING A CEASE-FIRE between Israel and Hamas collapsed and war resumed in the Gaza Strip. As Gabriel’s flight approached Tel Aviv, flares and tracer fire lit the southern horizon. One Hamas rocket streaked dangerously close to Ben-Gurion Airport but was blown from the sky by an Iron Dome antimissile battery. Inside the terminal all appeared normal except for a group of Christian package tourists who huddled transfixed around a television monitor. No one noticed the deceased future chief of Israeli intelligence as he moved though the concourse, an overnight bag over his shoulder. At passport control he bypassed the long line and slipped through a door reserved for Office field personnel returning from missions abroad. Four Office security agents were drinking coffee in the waiting room on the other side. They led him along a brightly lit corridor to a secure door, beyond which two American-made SUVs idled in the predawn dark. Gabriel slid into the back of one. The closing of the armor-plated door made his ears pop.