Читать книгу The English Spy - Daniel Silva - Страница 16

OR IS HE?”

Seymour retrieved two photographs from his briefcase and placed one on the coffee table. It showed a man of medium height and build walking through passport control at Heathrow Airport.

“Recognize him?” asked Seymour.

Gabriel said nothing.

“It’s you, of course.” Seymour pointed to the time code at the bottom of the image. “It was taken last winter during the Madeline Hart affair. You slipped into the United Kingdom unannounced to do a little digging.”

“I was there, Graham. I remember it well.”

“Then you’ll also recall that you began your search for Madeline Hart on the island of Corsica, a logical starting place because that’s where she disappeared. Shortly after your arrival, you went to see a man named Anton Orsati. Don Orsati runs the island’s most powerful organized crime family, a family that specializes in murder for hire. He gave you a valuable piece of information regarding her kidnappers. He also allowed you to borrow his best assassin.” Seymour smiled. “Does any of this ring a bell?”

“Obviously, you were watching me.”

“From a discreet distance. After all, you were searching for the mistress of the British prime minister at my behest.”

“She wasn’t just his mistress, Graham. She was—”

“This Corsican assassin is an interesting fellow,” Seymour interrupted. “In truth, he’s not Corsican at all, though he certainly speaks like one. He’s an Englishman, a former member of the Special Air Service who walked off the battlefield in western Iraq in January 1991 after an incident involving friendly fire. The British military believes he’s dead. Sadly, so do his parents. But then, you already knew that.”

Seymour placed the second photograph on the coffee table. Like the first, it showed a man walking through Heathrow Airport. He was several inches taller than Gabriel, with short blond hair, skin the color of saddle leather, and square, powerful shoulders.

“It was taken on the same day as the first photo, a few minutes later. Your friend entered the country on a false French passport, one of several he has in his possession. On that particular day he was Adrien Leblanc. His real name is—”

“You’ve made your point, Graham.”

Seymour gathered up the photographs and offered them to Gabriel.

“What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Keep them as a memento of your friendship.”

Gabriel tore the photographs in half and placed them next to the shreds of the Office memo. “How long have you known?”

“British intelligence heard rumors for years about an Englishman working in Europe as a professional assassin. We were never able to learn his name. And never in our wildest dreams did we imagine he might be a paid asset of the Office.”

“He’s not a paid asset.”

“How would you describe him?”

“An old adversary who’s now a friend.”

“Adversary?”

“A consortium of Swiss bankers once hired him to kill me.”

“Consider yourself fortunate,” said Seymour. “Christopher Keller rarely fails to fulfill the terms of a contract. He’s very good at what he does.”

“He speaks highly of you, too, Graham.”

Seymour sat silently while a siren rose and faded in the street below. “Keller and I were close,” he said finally. “I fought the IRA from the comfort of my desk, and Keller was at the sharp end of my stick. He did the sort of things that were necessary to keep the British homeland safe. And in the end he paid a terrible price for it.”

“What’s his connection to Quinn?”

“I’ll let Keller tell you that part of the story. I’m not sure I can do it justice.”

A gust of wind hurled rain against the windows. The room lights flickered.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet, Graham.”

“But you will. Otherwise,” Seymour added, “I’m going to drag your friend back to Britain in chains and hand him over to Her Majesty’s Government for prosecution.”

“On what charges?”

“He’s a deserter and a professional killer. I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Gabriel only smiled. “A man in your position shouldn’t make idle threats.”

“I’m not.”

“Christopher Keller knows far too much about the private life of the British prime minister for HMG to ever put him on trial for desertion or anything else. Besides,” Gabriel added, “I suspect you have other plans for Keller.”

Seymour said nothing. Gabriel asked, “What else have you got in your briefcase?”

“A thick file on the life and times of Eamon Quinn.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“What we should have done years ago. Take him off the market as quickly as possible. And while you’re at it, find out who ordered and financed the operation to murder the princess.”

“Maybe Quinn’s returned to the fight.”

“The fight for a united Ireland?” Seymour shook his head. “That fight is over. If I had to guess, he killed her at the behest of one of his patrons. And we both know the cardinal rule when it comes to assassinations. It’s not important who fires the shot. It’s who pays for the bullet.”

Another gust of wind slammed against the windows. The lights dimmed and then died. The two spies sat in darkness for several minutes, neither man speaking.

“Who said that?” Gabriel asked finally.

“Said what?”

“That business about the bullet.”

“I believe it was Ambler.”

There was silence.

“I have other plans, Graham.”

“I know.”

“My wife is pregnant. Very pregnant.”

“So you’ll have to work quickly.”

“I suppose Uzi’s already approved it.”

“It was his idea.”

“Remind me to give Uzi a lousy assignment the moment after I’m sworn in as chief.”

A flash of lightning illuminated Seymour’s Cheshire cat grin. Then the darkness returned.

“I think I saw some candles in the kitchen when I was looking for a corkscrew.”

“I like the darkness,” said Gabriel. “It clarifies my thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about what I’m going to say to my wife.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “I’m wondering how Quinn knew the princess was going to be on that boat.”