“You don’t intend to stay dead, do you?”

“There’s one major advantage,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“No one will ever try to kill me again.”

She placed her drink on the end table and rose. “Is there anything special you want me to say about you?”

“Say that I loved my country and my people. And say that I was very fond of England, too.”

Gabriel helped her into her coat. She slung her handbag over her shoulder and extended her hand. “It was a pleasure almost getting to know you,” she said. “I think I’m going to miss you.”

“No more tears now, Samantha.”

“No,” she said. “We will think upon revenge.”

37

WORMWOOD COTTAGE, DARTMOOR

WHEN GABRIEL RETURNED TO Wormwood Cottage that evening, he found an official-looking sedan parked in the drive. In the kitchen Miss Coventry was clearing dinner from the table, and in the study two men were hunched over a heated game of chess. Both combatants were smoking. The pieces looked like soldiers lost in the fog of war.

“Who’s winning?” asked Gabriel.

“Who do you think?” replied Ari Shamron. He looked at Keller and asked, “Are you ever going to move?”

Keller did. Shamron exhaled sadly and added Keller’s second knight to his tiny prisoner-of-war camp. The pieces stood in two neat rows next to the ashtray. Shamron had always imposed a certain discipline on those unfortunate enough to fall into his hands.

“Eat something,” he said to Gabriel. “This won’t take long.”

Miss Coventry had left a plate of lamb and peas in a warm oven. He ate alone at the kitchen table and listened to the game unfolding in the next room. The click of the chess pieces, the snap of Shamron’s old Zippo lighter: it was oddly comforting. From Keller’s agonized silence he inferred the battle was not going well. He washed his plate and cutlery, placed them on the rack to dry, and returned to the sitting room. Shamron was warming his hands against the coal-and-wood fire in the grate. He wore pressed khaki trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and an old leather bomber jacket with a tear in the left shoulder. Firelight reflected in the lenses of his ugly steel spectacles.

“Well?” asked Gabriel.

“He fought hard, but to no avail.”

“How’s his game?”

“Courageous, skillful, but lacking in strategic vision. He takes great pleasure in killing, but hasn’t the sense to realize that sometimes it’s better to let an enemy live than put him to the sword.” Shamron glanced at Gabriel and smiled. “He’s an operator, not a planner.”

Shamron returned his gaze to the fire. “Is this how you imagined it would be?”

“What’s that?”

“Your last night on earth.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “This is exactly how I imagined it would be.”