For several days after her murder, he continued, British intelligence had been unaware of Quinn’s involvement. Then Uzi Navot came to London with a piece of intelligence from an important Iranian source. Seymour traveled to Rome; Gabriel, to Corsica. Then, with Keller as his guide, he went trolling through Quinn’s murderous past. They found a secret family in West Belfast and a small apartment in the hills of Lisbon, where a woman called Anna Huber spent a single night, watched over by three men. Two of the men boarded an airplane with her, and the next act of the plot commenced. A blue BMW, stolen, repainted, fitted with false license plates, was left at Heathrow Airport. The woman collected the car and drove it to Brompton Road. She parked across the street from a London landmark, armed the bomb, and melted into the crowd while the two men tried desperately to save as many lives as possible. They knew the bomb was about to explode because Quinn had told them so. With a cryptic text message, Quinn had signed his name. And all the while, the men who had hired him were watching. Perhaps, added Gabriel, they still were.

“You think my service has been penetrated?” asked Seymour.

“Your service was penetrated a long time ago.”

Seymour paused and looked over his shoulder at the fading lights of Wormwood Cottage. “Is it safe for you here?”

“You tell me.”

“Parish knew my father. He’s as loyal as they come. Even so,” Seymour added, “we should probably move you soon, just to be on the safe side.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Graham.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m already dead.”

Seymour stared at Gabriel for a moment, bewildered. And then he understood.

“I want you to contact Uzi over your usual link,” said Gabriel. “Tell him I’ve succumbed to my injuries. Express your deepest condolences. Tell him to send Shamron to collect the body. I can’t do this without Shamron.”

“Do what?”

“I’m going to kill Eamon Quinn,” said Gabriel coldly. “And then I’m going to kill the man who paid for the bullet.”

“Leave Quinn to me.”

“No,” said Gabriel. “Quinn is mine.”

“You’re in no shape to go chasing after anyone, let alone one of the world’s most dangerous terrorists.”

“Then I suppose I’ll need someone to carry my bags. He should probably be someone from MI6,” Gabriel added quickly. “Someone to look after British interests.”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“I do,” replied Gabriel. “But there’s one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s not MI6.”

“No,” said Seymour. “Not yet.”