But even Miss Coventry, who occupied the lowliest rung on the ladder of Western intelligence, knew that it was possible. And so she was not at all surprised to find, on the front page of Sunday’s edition of the Telegraph newspaper, a lengthy exposé regarding the operation that had led to the killing of the ISIS terror mastermind known as Saladin. It seemed Jean-Luc Martel, the now-deceased French drug trafficker and former companion of Wormwood Cottage’s current occupant, was connected to the case after all. In fact, in the opinion of the Telegraph, he was the operation’s unsung hero.
Miss Coventry placed the newspaper outside the woman’s bedroom door, along with her coffee. And later that morning, while straightening the room, she found the article, intact and neatly clipped, resting on the bedside table. That evening, as a gale blew hard across Dartmoor, a man scaled the security gate without a sound and hiked up the gravel drive to the front door of the cottage. Entering, he wiped his feet and hung his sodden coat on the rack.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked.
“Cottage pie,” said Miss Coventry, smiling. “A nice cup of tea, Mr. Marlowe? Or would you like something stronger?”
She served them dinner at the little table in the alcove and then pulled on her raincoat and knotted a scarf beneath her chin. “You’ll see to the dishes, won’t you, Mr. Marlowe? And use soap this time, my love. It helps.” A moment later the front door closed with a gentle thump and they were finally alone. Olivia smiled for the first time in many days.
“Mr. Marlowe?” she asked incredulously.
“I’ve grown rather fond of it.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Peter, apparently.”
“It’s not the name you were born with?”
He shook his head.
“And Nicolas Carnot?” she asked.
“He was just a part I played briefly to moderate acclaim.”
“You played him well. Very well, actually.”
“I take it you’ve met others like him.”
“Jean-Luc seemed to attract them like flies.” She studied Keller carefully. “So how did you do it? How did you get the part so right?”
“It’s the little touches that count.” He shrugged. “Hair, wardrobe, that sort of thing.”
“Or maybe it’s a part you’ve played before,” suggested Olivia. “Maybe you simply reprised it.”
“Your dinner is getting cold,” said Keller evenly.
“I’ve never liked cottage pie. It reminds me of home,” she said with a frown. “Of cold and rainy nights like this.”
“They’re not so bad.”
She took an exploratory bite of the food.
“Well?” asked Keller.
“It’s not like eating in the south of France, but I suppose it will do.”
“Maybe this will help.” Keller poured her a glass of Bordeaux.
She raised it to her lips. “This is definitely a first.”
“What’s that?”
“Having dinner with the man who killed my . . .”
She faltered. Even she seemed at a loss over how to refer to Jean-Luc Martel.
“You fooled him at first. But once you told him you were British, it didn’t take him long to figure out who you really were. He said you were a former SAS officer who had spent several years hiding out on Corsica. He said you were a professional—”
“That’s quite enough,” interrupted Keller.
“I’m glad we cleared that up.” After a silence she said, “We’re not so different, you and I.”
“You’re much more virtuous than I am.”
She smiled. “You never judged me?”
“Never.”
“And your Israeli friend?”
“People in glass houses.”
“I saw him in that video,” said Olivia. “You, too. He was the one who killed the dirty bomber. And you were the one who held on to the detonator. For three hours,” she added softly. “It must have been awful.”
Keller said nothing.
“No denials?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Why not, indeed? he thought. He watched the rain hurling itself against the windows of the snug little alcove.
Olivia drank some of the wine. “Did you have a chance to read the papers today?”
“Could you believe that story about Victoria Beckham in the Mail?”
“How about the one in the Telegraph about the killing of Saladin? The one about how Jean-Luc Martel helped British and Israeli intelligence penetrate Saladin’s network and locate him in Morocco.”
“Interesting reading,” said Keller. “And true, for a change.”
“Not all of it.”
“Reporters,” said Keller dismissively.
“I assume your Israeli friend was responsible.”
“He usually is.”
“Why did he do it? Why rehabilitate Jean-Luc’s image after the way he acted at the camp in the Sahara?”
“Perhaps you didn’t read the rest of the article,” said Keller. “The part about how Jean-Luc’s beautiful British girlfriend didn’t know how he really made his money. The part about how the French authorities have no interest in investigating her in light of Jean-Luc’s role in eliminating the world’s most dangerous terrorist.”
“I did read that part,” she said.
“Then surely you realize he didn’t do it for Jean-Luc’s sake, he did it for yours. You’re clean now, Olivia.” Keller paused, then added, “You’re restored.”
“Just like you?”
“Much better, actually. You have your entire professional inventory of paintings plus the fifty million we gave you for the Basquiat and the Guston. Not to mention the loose change we found lying under the couch cushions in the gallery. The building alone is worth at least eight million. Needless to say,” said Keller, “you’re a very wealthy woman.”
“With a blackened name.”
“The Telegraph doesn’t seem to think so. And neither will the rest of the London art world. Besides, they’re nothing but a pack of thieves. You’ll fit right in.”
“A gallery?”
“That was the promise my friend made to you that afternoon at the villa in Ramatuelle,” said Keller. “A blank canvas upon which to paint any picture you want. A life without Jean-Luc Martel.”
“Without anyone,” she said.
“Something tells me you’ll have no shortage of suitors.”
“Who would want to be with someone like me? I’m JLM’s—”
“Eat,” said Keller, cutting her off.
She tried another bite of the pie. “How long will I have to stay here?”
“Until Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service determines that it’s safe for you to leave. Even then, it might be wise for you to retain the services of a professional security firm. They’ll assign some nice ex-SAS lads to look after you, the kind Jean-Luc always hated.”
“Any chance you can serve on my detail?”
“I’m afraid I have other commitments.”
“So I’ll never see you again?”
“It’s probably better if you don’t. It will help you forget the things you saw that night in Morocco.”
“I don’t want to forget. Not yet.” She pushed away her plate and lit a cigarette. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Marlowe.” And then, almost as an afterthought, Keller added, “Peter Marlowe.”
“It sounds as though someone made it up.”
“Someone did.”
“Tell me your real name, Peter Marlowe. The name you were born with.”
“I’m not allowed to.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand atop Keller’s. Quietly, she asked, “And are you allowed to stay here so I won’t have to be all alone on this cold and dreary English night?”
Keller turned away from Olivia’s blue eyes and watched the rain lashing against the windows.
“No,” he said. “No such luck.”
72
King Street, London