“There’s tea in the pantry,” said Gabriel. “And a sleeve of McVitie’s, too.”

69

GUNWALLOE COVE, CORNWALL

AT EIGHT THAT EVENING THEY brought the body up from the cove by torchlight and laid it out in the drive next to the others. The dead did not remain there long; within an hour a procession of vans arrived to transport them to the medical examiner’s office in Exeter. There a highly trained professional would declare the obvious, that four men of secret employment had perished of bullet wounds to their vital organs. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, the medical examiner would never see the bodies. Perhaps Graham Seymour and Amanda Wallace would manage to sweep the whole bloody mess under the rug. Quinn had managed to deliver yet another scandal to the doorstep of British intelligence—a scandal that would have been avoided if the MI5 computer lab had found an e-mail exchange a few minutes earlier than it had. Gabriel couldn’t help but feel he bore some of the responsibility. None of it would have happened, he thought, if he hadn’t laid a copy of A Room with a View on the lap of a beautiful young woman in the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg.

I believe this belongs to you . . .

There would be time for recriminations later. For now, finding Madeline was Gabriel’s only concern. The Devon and Cornwall Police were watching every beach and cove in the region—anywhere a small craft might put ashore. In addition, Graham Seymour had quietly asked the Coast Guard to step up patrols along the southwest of England. All prudent steps, thought Gabriel, but probably too little too late. Quinn was gone. And so was Madeline. But why kidnap her? Why not leave her dead with her guardians as a warning to any other Russian spies pondering defection?

Gabriel couldn’t bear to be inside the cottage—not with the police making a mess of the place, not with the bullet holes in the door and the memories stalking him at every turn—so he and Keller sat outside on the terrace, bundled in their coats. Gabriel watched the lights of a big freighter far out in the Atlantic and wondered whether Madeline was on it. Keller smoked a cigarette and stared down at the Sea King. No one intruded on their silence until shortly after ten, when the detective informed them a Renault Scénic had been found at the edge of a remote cove near West Pentire, on Cornwall’s northern coast. The vehicle had been empty except for a shopping bag from Marks & Spencer.

“I don’t suppose there was a receipt?” asked Gabriel.

“Afraid not.” The detective was silent for a moment. “My DCI has been in touch with the Home Office,” he said finally. “I know who you are.”

“Then you’ll accept our apologies for the way we spoke to your men earlier.”