by Daniel Silva
“You should have taken Uzi up on his offer.”
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” replied Seymour. “But I wouldn’t be so glib. After all, Uzi would have probably given the job to you.”
Gabriel methodically tore the document to tiny shreds.
“That’s not good enough,” said Seymour.
“I’ll burn it later.”
“Do me a favor, and burn Eamon Quinn while you’re at it.”
Gabriel was silent for a moment. “My days in the field are over,” he said finally. “I’m a deskman now, Graham, just like you. Besides, Northern Ireland was never my neck of the woods.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to find you a partner. Someone who knows the turf. Someone who can pass for a local if need be. Someone who actually knows Eamon Quinn personally.” Seymour paused, then added, “Do you happen to know anyone who fits that description?”
“No,” said Gabriel pointedly.
“I do,” replied Seymour. “But there’s one small problem.”
“What’s that?”
Seymour smiled and said, “He’s dead.”
8
VIA GREGORIANA, ROME
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.”
9
BERLIN–CORSICA
THE SAVOY HOTEL STOOD at the unfashionable end of one of Berlin’s most fashionable streets. A red carpet stretched from its entrance; red tables stood beneath red umbrellas along its facade. The previous afternoon Keller had spotted a famous actor drinking coffee the
re, but now, as he emerged from the hotel’s entrance, the tables were deserted. The clouds were low and leaden and a cold wind was plucking the last leaves from the trees lining the pavements. Berlin’s brief autumn was receding. Soon it would be winter again.
“Taxi, monsieur?”
“No, thank you.”
Keller slipped a five-euro note into the valet’s outstretched hand and set out along the street. He had registered at the hotel under a French alias—management was under the impression he was a freelance journalist who wrote about films—and stayed only a single night. He had spent the previous evening at a modest hotel called the Seifert, and before that he had passed a sleepless night in a grim little pension called the Bella Berlin. All three establishments had one thing in common: they were near the Kempinski Hotel, which was Keller’s destination. He was going there to meet a man, a Libyan, a former close associate of Gaddafi who had fled to France after the revolution with two suitcases filled with cash and jewels. The Libyan had invested $2 million with a pair of French businessmen after receiving assurances of a substantial profit. The French businessmen were already weary of their association with the Libyan. They were worried, too, about his past reputation for violence, for it was said of the Libyan that he used to enjoy pounding spikes through the eyes of the regime’s opponents. The French businessmen had turned to Don Anton Orsati for help, and the don had given the assignment to his most accomplished assassin. Keller had to admit he was looking forward to the fulfillment of the contract. He had never cared for the now-deceased Libyan dictator or the thugs who had kept his regime in power. Gaddafi had allowed terrorists of every stripe to train at his desert camps, including members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. He had also supplied the IRA with arms and explosives. Indeed, nearly all the Semtex used in IRA bombs came directly from Libya.
Keller crossed the Kantstrasse and headed down the ramp of an underground parking garage. On the second level, in a part of the garage untouched by security cameras, was a black BMW that had been left for him by a member of the Orsati organization. In the trunk was a Heckler & Koch 9mm pistol with a suppressor; in the glove box was a cardkey that would open the door of any guest room at the Kempinski Hotel. The key had been acquired for the price of five thousand euros from a Gambian who worked in the hotel’s laundry department. The Gambian had assured the man from the Orsati organization that the cardkey would remain operational for another forty-eight hours. After that, the codes would undergo a routine change, and hotel security would issue new passkeys to all essential employees. Keller hoped the Gambian was telling the truth. Otherwise, there would soon be an opening in the Kempinski’s laundry department.
Keller slipped the gun and the cardkey into his briefcase. Then he placed his overnight bag in the trunk of the BMW and headed up the ramp to the street. The Kempinski was a hundred meters farther along the Fasanenstrasse, a big hotel with Vegas-bright lights over the entrance and a Parisian-style café overlooking the Kurfürstendamm. At one of the tables sat the Libyan. He was accompanied by a man of perhaps sixty and a once-beautiful woman with coal-black hair and Cleopatra makeup. The man looked like an old comrade from the court of Gaddafi; the woman looked well cared for and very bored. Keller assumed she belonged to the Libyan’s friend, for the Libyan liked his women blond, professional, and pricey.
Keller entered the hotel, aware of the fact that several surveillance cameras were now watching him. It didn’t matter; he was wearing a dark wig and heavy false spectacles. Five hotel guests, new arrivals, judging by the look of them, were waiting for an elevator. Keller allowed them to board the first available carriage and then rode to the fifth floor alone, his head lowered in such a way that the surveillance camera could not clearly capture the features of his face. When the doors opened, he stepped out of the carriage with the air of a man who was not looking forward to returning to the loneliness of yet another hotel room. A single member of the housekeeping staff gave him a drowsy nod, but otherwise the corridor was empty. The cardkey was now in the breast pocket of his overcoat. He removed it as he approached Room 518 and inserted it into the slot. The green light shone, the electronic lock disengaged. The Gambian would live another day.
The room had been recently serviced. Even so, the stench of the Libyan’s appalling cologne persisted. Keller moved to the window and looked into the street. The Libyan and his two companions were still at their table at the café, though the woman appeared restless. In the time since Keller had seen them last, their plates had been cleared and coffee had been served. Ten minutes, he reckoned. Maybe less.
He turned from the window and calmly surveyed the room. The Kempinski thought it superior, but it was really quite ordinary: a double bed, a writing desk, a television console, a royal-blue armchair. The walls were thick enough to smother all sound from the adjoining rooms, though not thick enough to withstand a normal bullet, even a bullet that had penetrated a human body. As a result, Keller’s HK was loaded with 124-grain hollow-point rounds that would expand on impact. Any round that struck the intended target would remain there. And in the unlikely event Keller somehow missed, the round would lodge harmlessly in the wall with a dull thud.
He returned to the window and saw that the Libyan and his two companions were on their feet. The man of perhaps sixty was shaking the Libyan’s hand; the once-beautiful woman with coal-black hair was gazing longingly at the parade of exclusive shops lining the Ku-Damm. Keller drew the heavy curtains, sat down in the royal-blue armchair, and removed the HK from his briefcase. From the corridor came the squeak of a housekeeper’s trolley. Then all was silent. He glanced at his wristwatch and marked the time. Five minutes, he thought. Maybe less.
A benevolent sun shone brightly upon the island of Corsica as the overnight ferry from Marseilles eased into the port of Ajaccio. Keller filed off the vessel with the other passengers and made his way to the car park, where he had left his battered old Renault station wagon. A powdery dust covered the windows and the hood. Keller thought the dust a bad omen. In all likelihood the sirocco had carried it from North Africa. Instinctively, he touched the small red coral hand hanging around his neck by a strand of leather. The Corsicans believed the talisman had the power to ward off the occhju, the evil eye. Keller believed it, too, though the presence of North African dust on his car the morning after he had killed a Libyan suggested the talisman had failed to protect him. There was an old woman in his village, a signadora, who had the power to draw the evil from his body. Keller was not looking forward to seeing her, for the old woman also had the power to glimpse both the past and the future. She was one of the few people on the island who knew the truth about him. She knew his long litany of sins and misdeeds, and even claimed to know the time and circumstances of his death. It was the one thing she refused to tell him. “It is not my place,” she would whisper to him in her candlelit parlor. “Besides, to know how life ends would only ruin the story.”
Keller climbed behind the wheel of the Renault and set out down the island’s rugged western coastline, the turquoise-blue sea to his right, the high peaks of the interior to his left. To pass the time he listened to the news on the radio. There was nothing about a dead Libyan at a luxury hotel in Berlin. Keller doubted the body had even been discovered yet. He had committed the act in silence and upon leaving the room had hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the latch. Eventually, the Kempinski’s management would take it upon themselves to knock on the door. And upon receiving no response, management would enter the room and find a valued guest with two bullet holes over his heart and a third in the center of his forehead. Management would immediately telephone the police, of course, and a hasty search would commence for the dark-haired, mustachioed man seen entering the room. They would manage to track his movements immediately after the killing, but the trail would go cold in the wooded gloom of the Tiergarten. The police would never establish his identity. Some would suspect him of being a Libyan like his victim, but a few of the wiser veterans would speculate
that he was the same high-priced professional who had been killing in Europe for years. And then they would wash their hands of it, for they knew that murders carried out by professional assassins were rarely solved.
Keller followed the coastline to the town of Porto and then turned inland. It was a Sunday; the roads were quiet, and in the hill towns church bells tolled. In the center of the island, near its highest point, was the small village of the Orsatis. It had been there, or so it was said, since the time of the Vandals, when people from the coasts took to the hills for safety. Time seemed to have stopped there. Children played in the streets at all hours because there were no predators. Nor were there any illegal narcotics, for no dealer would risk the wrath of the Orsatis by peddling drugs in their village. Nothing much happened there, and sometimes there was not enough work to be done. But it was clean and beautiful and safe, and the people who lived there seemed content to eat well, drink their wine, and enjoy time with their children and their elders. Keller always missed them when he was away from Corsica for long. He dressed like them, he spoke the Corsican dialect like them, and in the evening, when he played boules with the men in the village square, he gave the same disgusted shake of his head whenever someone spoke of the French or, heaven forbid, the Italians. Once the people of the village had called him “the Englishman.” Now he was merely Christopher. He was one of them.
The historic estate of the Orsati clan lay just beyond the village, in a small valley of olive trees that produced the island’s finest oil. Two armed guards stood watch at the entrance; they touched their Corsican flat caps respectfully as Keller turned through the gate and started up the long drive toward the villa. Laricio pine shaded the forecourt, but in the walled garden bright sunlight shone upon the long table that had been laid for the family’s traditional Sunday lunch. For now, the table was unoccupied. The clan was still at mass, and the don, who no longer set foot in church, was upstairs in his office. He was seated at a large oaken table, peering into an open leather-bound ledger, when Keller entered. At his elbow was a decorative bottle of Orsati olive oil—olive oil being the legitimate business through which the don laundered the profits of death.