“Never mind, Nigel. But would you slow down a bit? I’d rather not be the first chief of the Office to die in the line of duty.”
“I thought you were dead,” said Whitcombe. “Died on the Brompton Road outside Harrods. That’s what they wrote in the Telegraph.”
Whitcombe eased off the throttle, but only slightly. He followed Grosvenor Road along the Thames and then headed north through Chelsea and Kensington to Queen’s Gate Terrace, where finally he drew to a stop outside a large Georgian house the color of clotted cream.
“Is all that his?” asked Gabriel.
“Only the bottom two floors. It was a steal at eight million.”
Gabriel checked the window on the first floor. The curtains were drawn and there appeared to be no light burning within. “Where do you suppose he is?”
“I’d rather not hazard a guess.”
“Try his mobile.”
“He’s still figuring out how to use it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll let him explain.”
Whitcombe dialed the number. It rang several times without answer. He dialed it a second time with the same result.
“Think there’s a key under the doormat?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to use mine instead.”
Gabriel climbed out of the car and descended the short flight of steps that led to the basement entrance of the maisonette. He tried the latch; it was locked. Whitcombe frowned.
“I thought you had a key.”
“I do.” Gabriel drew a thin metal tool from the breast pocket of his overcoat.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“You might find this difficult to believe,” said Whitcombe, “but ‘C’ never carries a lock pick.”
“Perhaps he should.”
Gabriel slid the tool into the lock and worked it gently back and forth until the mechanism gave way.
“What if there’s an alarm?” asked Whitcombe.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Gabriel turned the latch and opened the door a few inches. There was only silence.
“Tell Graham I’ll find my own way home tonight. Tell him I’ll call him from Paris as soon as I’ve cleaned up the mess with the French.”
“What about your security detail?”
“I’m carrying more than a lock pick,” said Gabriel, and went inside.
The doorway gave onto a kitchen that was the stuff of Chiara’s dreams. An acre and a half of tastefully lit counter space, an island with a chef’s sink, a pair of convection ovens, a Vulcan gas stove with a professional-grade hood. The refrigerator was a stainless steel Sub-Zero. Inside were several bottles of Corsican rosé and a lump of cheese flavored with rosemary and lavender and thyme. It seemed the owner’s transition was still a work in progress.
Gabriel took down a wineglass from the cabinet and filled it with some of the rosé. Then he switched off the kitchen lights and carried the wine upstairs to the drawing room. It was furnished with only a single chair and ottoman and a billboard-size television. Gabriel moved to the window and, parting the curtains, peered into the street, where an expensively overcoated man was at that moment stepping from the back of a taxi. The man started up the front steps of the house but froze suddenly and shot a glance toward the window where Gabriel stood. Then he turned abruptly and descended the flight of steps toward the basement entrance.
A few seconds later Gabriel heard the sound of a door opening and closing, the flip of a switch, and a curse whispered in the dialect of those native to the island of Corsica. It was the foil wrapper from the bottle of rosé. Gabriel had left it in plain view on the counter. An amateur’s mistake, he thought.
A bit of light was leaking up the stairwell from the kitchen, enough to silhouette the man who appeared in the entrance of the drawing room a moment later, a gun in his outstretched hands. At the end of the room where Gabriel stood, however, the darkness was absolute. He watched as the man pivoted left and then right with the compact movements of one who knew how to clear a room of well-armed adversaries. Then the man crept forward and with a flip of a switch flooded the room with light. He pivoted one final time, aiming the gun in Gabriel’s direction, before quickly lowering the barrel toward the floor.
“You damn fool,” said Christopher Keller. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel, smiling. “Not for the first time.”
15
Kensington, London
“A Walther PPK,” said Gabriel, admiring Keller’s gun. “How Bond-like of you.”
“It’s easy to conceal and packs quite a punch.” Keller smiled. “A brick through a plate-glass window.”
“I didn’t realize MI6 officers were allowed to carry firearms.”
“We’re not.” Keller filled a wineglass with the rosé and then offered the bottle to Gabriel. “You?”
“I’m driving.”
Keller frowned and filled Gabriel’s glass to within a centimeter of the rim. “How did you get in here?”
“You left the door unlocked.”
“Bullshit.”
Gabriel answered truthfully.
“Someday,” said Keller, “you’re going to have to teach me how to do that.”
He removed his Crombie overcoat and tossed it carelessly onto the countertop. His suit was charcoal, his necktie was the color of tarnished silver. He almost looked respectable.
“Where were you?” asked Gabriel. “A funeral?”
“A meeting with my investment adviser. He took me to lunch at the Royal Exchange and informed me that the value of my portfolio had fallen by more than a million pounds. Thanks to Brexit, I’ve been taking quite a beating lately.”
“The world is a dangerous and unpredictable place.”
“Tell me about it,” said Keller. “Your neck of the woods is starting to look like an island of peace and tranquillity, especially now that you’re the one running the place. Sorry I couldn’t make it to your little swearing-in party. I was tied up at the time and couldn’t get away.”
“The IONEC?”
Keller nodded. “Three months of unremitting boredom by the sea.”
“But successful,” said Gabriel. “Ran the watchers of A4 ragged. Record scores on the final exam. Too bad about France, though. That was no way to start a career.”
“You’re one to talk. Your career has been a series of disasters interspersed with the occasional calamity. And look what it got you. You’re the chief now.”
“Shamron always said that a career without controversy is not a proper career at all.”
“How is the old man?”
“He endures,” said Gabriel.
“He’s rather like Israel, isn’t he?”
“Shamron? He is Israel.”
Keller lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.
“A new lighter?” asked Gabriel.
“You don’t miss much.”
Gabriel took the lighter from Keller’s hand and read the inscription. “He must have worked very hard on that one.”