“Your witnesses are correct,” said Gabriel.

The detective turned away from the map. “Who is she?”

“An assassin from Russian intelligence.”

“And the man driving the car?”

“He used to be the Real IRA’s best bomb maker, which means you’re wasting time with those roadblocks. You need to be concentrating your resources on the west coast. You should also be checking the trunk of every car rolling onto the Irish ferries tonight.”

“Does the Real IRA man have a name?”

“Eamon Quinn.”

“And the Russian?”

“Her name is Katerina. But in all likelihood, she’s posing as a German. Don’t be fooled by her appearance,” added Gabriel. “She put twenty rounds through the heart of that security guard in the cove.”

“And the woman they kidnapped?”

“It’s not important who she is. She’ll be the one with a bag over her head.”

The detective turned again and studied the map. “Do you know how long the Cornish coast is?”

“More than four hundred miles,” answered Gabriel, “with dozens of small coves. Which is why it was a smuggler’s paradise.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“There’s tea in the pantry,” said Gabriel. “And a sleeve of McVitie’s, too.”

69

GUNWALLOE COVE, CORNWALL

AT EIGHT THAT EVENING THEY brought the body up from the cove by torchlight and laid it out in the drive next to the others. The dead did not remain there long; within an hour a procession of vans arrived to transport them to the medical examiner’s office in Exeter. There a highly trained professional would declare the obvious, that four men of secret employment had perished of bullet wounds to their vital organs. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, the medical examiner would never see the bodies. Perhaps Graham Seymour and Amanda Wallace would manage to sweep the whole bloody mess under the rug. Quinn had managed to deliver yet another scandal to the doorstep of British intelligence—a scandal that would have been avoided if the MI5 computer lab had found an e-mail exchange a few minutes earlier than it had. Gabriel couldn’t help but feel he bore some of the responsibility. None of it would have happened, he thought, if he hadn’t laid a copy of A Room with a View on the lap of a beautiful young woman in the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg.

I believe this belongs to you . . .

There would be time for recriminations later. For now, finding Madeline was Gabriel’s only concern. The Devon and Cornwall Police were watching every beach and cove in the region—anywhere a small craft might put ashore. In addition, Graham Seymour had quietly asked the Coast Guard to step up patrols along the southwest of England. All prudent steps, thought Gabriel, but probably too little too late. Quinn was gone. And so was Madeline. But why kidnap her? Why not leave her dead with her guardians as a warning to any other Russian spies pondering defection?

Gabriel couldn’t bear to be inside the cottage—not with the police making a mess of the place, not with the bullet holes in the door and the memories stalking him at every turn—so he and Keller sat outside on the terrace, bundled in their coats. Gabriel watched the lights of a big freighter far out in the Atlantic and wondered whether Madeline was on it. Keller smoked a cigarette and stared down at the Sea King. No one intruded on their silence until shortly after ten, when the detective informed them a Renault Scénic had been found at the edge of a remote cove near West Pentire, on Cornwall’s northern coast. The vehicle had been empty except for a shopping bag from Marks & Spencer.

“I don’t suppose there was a receipt?” asked Gabriel.

“Afraid not.” The detective was silent for a moment. “My DCI has been in touch with the Home Office,” he said finally. “I know who you are.”

“Then you’ll accept our apologies for the way we spoke to your men earlier.”

“None necessary. But you may want to remove any valuables from the cottage before you leave. Apparently, MI6 is sending a team to clean out the place.”

“Ask them to handle my easel with care,” said Gabriel. “It has sentimental value.”

The detective withdrew, leaving Gabriel and Keller alone. The lights of the freighter had disappeared into the night.

“Where do you suppose he took her?” asked Keller.

“Somewhere he feels comfortable. Somewhere he knows the terrain and the players.” Gabriel looked at Keller. “Know any place like that?”

“Unfortunately, only one.”

“Bandit Country?”

Keller nodded. “And if he manages to get her there, he’ll have a distinct home-field advantage.”

“We have an advantage, too, Christopher.”

“What’s that?”

“Number Eight Stratford Gardens.”

Keller was staring at the Sea King again. “Have you considered the possibility that this is exactly what Quinn wants?”

“Another shot at us?”

“Yes.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“No,” said Keller. “But it might not be something you should be getting involved in. After all . . .”

Keller left the thought unfinished because it was obvious that Gabriel was no longer listening. He had pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket and was in the process of dialing Graham Seymour at Vauxhall Cross. Their conversation was brief, two minutes, no more. Then Gabriel returned the phone to his pocket and pointed toward the cove, where thirty seconds later the turboshaft engine of the Sea King began to whine. Slowly, he rose to his feet and followed Keller numbly down the path to the beach. He saw the cottage for the last time as he had seen it for the first, from a mile out to sea, knowing he would never set foot there again. Quinn had destroyed it for him, as surely as he had helped Tariq destroy Leah and Dani. It was personal now, he thought. And it was going to be very messy.

70

COUNTY DOWN, NORTHERN IRELAND

AT THAT SAME MOMENT the Catherine May, a Vigilante 33 commercial fishing vessel, was making twenty-six knots through St. George’s Channel. Jack Delaney, a former member of the IRA who specialized in weapons smuggling and the movement of explosive devices, was at the helm. Delaney’s younger brother Connor was leaning in the companionway, smoking a cigarette. By three in the morning they were due east of Dublin, and by five they had reached the mouth of Carlingford Lough, the glacial inlet that forms the border between the Republic of Ireland and Ulster. The ancient fishing port of Ardglass was approximately twenty miles to the north. Quinn waited until he could see the first flash of the Ardglass lighthouse before firing up his mobile. He composed a brief text message and with considerable reluctance fired it insecurely into the ether. Ten seconds later came the reply.

“Shit,” said Quinn.

“What’s the problem?” asked Jack Delaney.

“Ardglass is too hot for us to put in there.”

“What about Kilkeel?”

Kilkeel was a fishing port located about thirty miles to the south of Ardglass. It was a majority Protestant town where loyalist sentiment ran deep. Quinn suggested it in a second text. When the reply came a few seconds later, he looked at Delaney and shook his head.

“Where does he want us to go?”

“He says Shore Road is quiet.”

“Where?”

“Just north of the castle.”

“It’s not one of my favorite spots.”

“Can you get in and out before sunrise?”

“No problem.”

Jack Delaney increased the speed and set a course for the southern tip of the Ards Peninsula. Quinn peered into the forward cabin and saw Madeline lying bound and hooded on one of the two berths. She had passed the journey quietly. Katerina, who had made several emergency visits to the head to be sick, was smoking a cigarette at the galley table.