“What about footprints near the shell casings.”

The detective nodded. “Whoever did the shooting was wearing hiking boots.”

“What size?”

“Small.”

“Was it a woman?”

“Could have been.”

Without another word, Gabriel led Keller up the footpath to the cottage. They entered through the French doors off the terrace. Gabriel’s living room had been converted into a field command post. The broken front door hung ajar on one hinge, and through the opening he observed two more bodies lying in the drive. A tall detective approached and introduced himself as DI Frazier. Gabriel accepted the detective’s hand, but did not identify himself. Neither did Keller.

“Which one of you is MI6?” asked the DI.

Gabriel looked at Keller.

“And you?” the detective asked Gabriel.

“He’s a friend of the service,” said Keller.

The detective’s disdain for irregulars was written clearly on his face. “We’ve got four fatalities that we know of,” he said. “One in the cove, two outside the cottage, and a fourth on the coastal path. He was hit once in the chest and once in the head. Never had a chance to draw his sidearm. The ones in the drive were hit multiple times, like the bloke in the cove.”

“And the woman who lives here?” asked Gabriel.

“She’s unaccounted for.”

The detective walked over to Gabriel’s easel, upon which he had hung a map of West Cornwall. “We have two witnesses from the village who noticed a Renault driving at high speed shortly after three this afternoon. The car was headed north. We’ve established roadblocks here, here, and here,” he added, touching the map in three places. “Neither witness managed to see the driver, but both said the passenger was a woman.”

“Your witnesses are correct,” said Gabriel.

The detective turned away from the map. “Who is she?”

“An assassin from Russian intelligence.”

“And the man driving the car?”

“He used to be the Real IRA’s best bomb maker, which means you’re wasting time with those roadblocks. You need to be concentrating your resources on the west coast. You should also be checking the trunk of every car rolling onto the Irish ferries tonight.”

“Does the Real IRA man have a name?”

“Eamon Quinn.”

“And the Russian?”

“Her name is Katerina. But in all likelihood, she’s posing as a German. Don’t be fooled by her appearance,” added Gabriel. “She put twenty rounds through the heart of that security guard in the cove.”

“And the woman they kidnapped?”

“It’s not important who she is. She’ll be the one with a bag over her head.”

The detective turned again and studied the map. “Do you know how long the Cornish coast is?”

“More than four hundred miles,” answered Gabriel, “with dozens of small coves. Which is why it was a smuggler’s paradise.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”