He hauled a fish from the sea, placed it in a yellow bucket at the tide line, and baited his hook. Then, after acknowledging Katerina with a nod, he waded into the breakers again and cast his line. Smiling, Katerina lifted the flap of the rucksack, exposing the stock of the Skorpion. It was set to full automatic mode, which meant it would be capable of firing twenty rounds in less than a second with minimal muzzle climb. Quinn was identically armed.

Just then, the Samsung mobile vibrated and a text message appeared on the screen: THE BRICKS ARE IN THE WALL . . . He had to do it, she thought. He had to let the British know it was him. She dropped the mobile phone into the rucksack, wrapped her hand around the grip of the Skorpion, and stared at the man in the breakers. Suddenly, his head snapped sharply upward and to the left, toward the cliff tops. Too late, he turned, only to find Katerina advancing toward him across the sand, the Skorpion in her outstretched hands.

Twenty rounds in less than a second, minimal muzzle climb . . .

The next waves that broke across the sand were red with the blood of the dead MI6 security man. Katerina calmly reloaded the Skorpion and climbed the steep path to the car park. It was deserted except for the Renault. She slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and headed down the drive toward the cottage.

66

THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

NOTHING IN THE LANGUAGE OF the exchange was outwardly suspicious, but to the experienced eye of the MI5 tech it stank of inauthenticity. So did the addresses of the two participants. He showed the printout to his superior, and the superior in turn brought it to the attention of Miles Kent. Kent was most intrigued by a street address that appeared in the final e-mail. The address seemed familiar, so he quickly ran it through an MI5 database and there discovered an alarming match. His next stop was the operations room where Amanda Wallace was monitoring the prime minister’s visit to Guy’s Hospital. He placed the printout in front of her. Amanda read it and frowned.

“What does it mean?”

“Look at the address carefully.”

Amanda did. “Isn’t that the cottage where Allon used to live?”

Kent nodded.

“Who lives there now?”

“You should probably ask Graham Seymour.”

Amanda reached for the phone.

Five seconds later, on the opposite bank of the Thames, in yet another operations room, Graham Seymour picked up the call.

“What do you have?”

“A problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Is anyone staying at Allon’s cottage in West Cornwall?”

Seymour hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry, Amanda, but it’s not something I can talk about.”

“My God,” she whispered gravely. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”