“How so?”
“Given your exploits, I imagined you’d be taller.”
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Quite the opposite. In fact, this is the first time I’ve felt safe in a very long time.”
“I’ll feel better when you’re on board my plane.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“The British would like to clear up a few details of your visit to Viktor’s home on the night of his death.”
“I’m sure they would. But what happens if they conclude that I was under the control of the opposition?”
“They won’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I won’t let them.”
“You have influence over the British?”
“You’d be surprised.” Gabriel looked at her phone. “Disposable?”
She nodded.
“Leave it behind. A colleague of mine is waiting outside. Try to walk at a normal pace. And whatever you do, don’t look back.”
“Moscow Rules,” said Nina.
By 2:05 p.m., Sarah was beginning to grow worried. Having operated against the Russians on numerous occasions, she was well aware of their enormous capabilities and, more important, their utter ruthlessness. Alone in the car, her hand wrapped around the grip of the Walther pistol, she conjured an image of a crowd gathered around a dying man lying at the foot of a Van Gogh masterpiece.
Finally, her phone pulsed.
On our way.
She left the car park and turned into the busy Van Baerlestraat. There was a single lane reserved for cars and absolutely nowhere to park, even for a moment or two. Sarah nevertheless pulled to the curb and switched on her hazard lamps. She looked to her right and glimpsed Gabriel and a woman who might have been Nina Antonova walking arm in arm across the Museumplein. Christopher was a few paces behind them, his hand in his coat pocket.
Just then, a car horn sounded, followed by another. Sarah glanced into her rearview mirror and saw an annoyed-looking policeman approaching on foot. The officer froze when Gabriel opened the rear passenger-side door and helped the woman into the backseat.
Christopher dropped into the front passenger seat and switched off the hazard lamps. “Drive.”
Sarah slipped the car into gear and pressed the accelerator.
“Next left,” said Christopher.
“I know.”
She made the turn without slowing and sped along a street lined with shops and gabled brick houses. Christopher plucked the Walther from her coat pocket and returned the Beretta to Gabriel. Nina Antonova was staring out her window, her face awash with tears.
“So much for jumping to conclusions,” said Sarah.
“Is there anything I can do to redeem myself?”
She smiled wickedly. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
12
Wormwood Cottage, Dartmoor
Wormwood Cottage was set upon a swell in the moorland and fashioned of Devon stone that had darkened with age. Behind it, across a broken courtyard, was a converted barn with offices and living quarters for the staff. The caretaker was a former MI6 fieldhand called Parish. As was often the case, he was given only a few hours’ warning of the pending arrival. It was Nigel Whitcombe—the chief’s boyish acolyte, notetaker, food taster, henchman, and primary runner of off-the-record errands—who made the call. Parish took it on the secure line in his office. His tone was that of a maître d’ from a restaurant where tables were impossible to come by.
“And the size of the party?” he wondered.
“Seven, myself included.”
“No Covid, I take it.”
“Not a speck.”
“I assume the chief will be joining us?”
Whitcombe mumbled something in the affirmative.
“Arrival time?”
“Early evening, I should think.”
“Shall I ask Miss Coventry to prepare dinner?”
“If she wouldn’t mind.”
“Traditional English fare?”
“The more traditional the better.”
“Dietary restrictions?”
“No pork.”
“Might I infer, then, that our friend from Israel will be joining us?”
“You might indeed. Mr. Marlowe, as well.”
“In that case, I’ll ask Miss Coventry to make her famous cottage pie. Mr. Marlowe adores it.”
Owing to the pandemic, it had been many weeks since the cottage had last seen company. There were rooms to open, carpets to vacuum, surfaces to disinfect, and a depleted pantry to restock. Parish helped Miss Coventry with the shopping at the Morrisons in Plymouth Road, and at half past seven he was standing in the twilit forecourt as the chief’s sleek Jaguar came nimbly up the long drive. Nigel Whitcombe arrived soon after in an anonymous service van with blacked-out windows. He was accompanied by a beautiful Slavic-featured woman who bore a passing resemblance to a famous Russian journalist who had been resettled in Britain several years earlier. What was her name? Sukhova . . . Yes, that was it, thought Parish. Olga Sukhova . . .
Whitcombe gave Parish the woman’s phone—mobile devices were forbidden in the cottage, at least where company was concerned—and led her inside. The sun dipped below the horizon, darkness gathered over the moor. Parish noted the appearance of the evening’s first stars, followed soon after by a waning gibbous moon. How fitting, he thought. These days everything seemed to be in decline.
He marked the time on his old Loomes wristwatch as another service van came bumping up the drive. Mr. Marlowe emerged first, looking as though he had just returned from a holiday in the sun. Next came two women. Parish reckoned they were in their mid-forties. One was fair-haired and pretty, an American perhaps. The other had hair like a raven’s wing, with peculiar blue streaks. Parish pegged her for another Russian.
Finally, the Israeli popped from the van like a cork from a bottle. Parish, who could scarcely rise from his bed without rupturing something, had always envied his agility and limitless stamina. His green eyes seemed to glow in the half-light.
“Is that you, Parish?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Aren’t you ever going to retire?”
“And do what?” Parish accepted the Israeli’s leaden mobile phone. “I assigned you to your old room. Miss Coventry found some clothing you left behind after your last visit. I believe she placed it in the bottom drawer of the dresser.”
“She’s too kind.”
“Unless you cross her, sir. I have the scars to prove it.”
Like Parish, Miss Coventry was old service; she had worked as a listener during the final years of the Cold War. Powdered and churchy and vaguely formidable, she was standing before the stove, an apron tied around her ample waist, when the woman with peculiar black-and-blue hair entered the cottage. The Slavic-looking woman who might or might not have been the famous Olga Sukhova was waiting anxiously in the entrance hall, next to the chief. One of the women let out a joyous shriek—which one, Miss Coventry couldn’t say. The man she knew as Peter Marlowe had planted himself in the passageway and was blocking her view.
“Miss Coventry, my love.” He gave her a roguish smile. “You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes.”