On the sixth day—the day of the Guardian article, the day that would later be remembered as the day British intelligence tore itself asunder—the younger of the two men set off toward the tor, a hike of ten miles, twenty if the bloody fool insisted on walking both ways. Five miles into the journey, while crossing a windswept highland, he paused suddenly, as if alerted to the presence of danger. His head rose and snapped to the left with an animal swiftness. Then he stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the target.

It was an unmarked panel van bumping along the road from Postbridge. He watched it turn into the road without a name. Watched it shoot into the hedgerows like a steel ball in a maze. Then he lowered his head and set off again. He walked with a heavy pack on his back and at a pace the bodyguards found hard to match. He walked like he was running away from something. He walked like he was coming home.

The gate was open by the time the van reached the end of the road. Only Parish was there to greet it. A dreadful sight, he thought, watching the chief of Her Majesty’s Secret Service crawling from the back of an ordinary van—crawling, he told the others that night, like some jihadi who’d been plucked from the battlefield and subjected to God knows what. Parish respectfully shook the chief’s hand while the wind played havoc with his plentiful gray locks.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Which one, sir?”

“Our friend from Israel.”

“In his room, sir.”

“And the other one?”

“Out there,” said Parish to the moorland.

“How long until he returns?”

“Hard to say, sir. Sometimes I’m not sure he’s coming back at all. He strikes me as the sort of chap who could walk a very long way if he set his mind to it.”

The chief gave the faintest trace of a smile.

“Shall I tell the security team to bring him home, sir?”

“No,” said Graham Seymour as he entered the cottage. “I’ll see to that.”

30

WORMWOOD COTTAGE, DARTMOOR

THE WALLS OF WORMWOOD COTTAGE contained a sophisticated audio-and-video surveillance system capable of recording every word and deed of its guests. Graham Seymour ordered Parish to switch off the system and to remove all staff save for Miss Coventry, the cook, who served them a pot of Earl Grey tea and freshly baked scones with Devonshire clotted cream. They sat at the small table in the kitchen, which was set in a snug alcove with windows all around. Spread on one chair like an uninvited guest was a copy of the Guardian. Seymour looked at it with an expression as bleak as the moors.

“I see you’ve been keeping up with the news.”

“I didn’t have much else to do.”

“It was for your own good.”

“Yours, too.”

Seymour drank his tea but said nothing.