“None necessary. But you may want to remove any valuables from the cottage before you leave. Apparently, MI6 is sending a team to clean out the place.”

“Ask them to handle my easel with care,” said Gabriel. “It has sentimental value.”

The detective withdrew, leaving Gabriel and Keller alone. The lights of the freighter had disappeared into the night.

“Where do you suppose he took her?” asked Keller.

“Somewhere he feels comfortable. Somewhere he knows the terrain and the players.” Gabriel looked at Keller. “Know any place like that?”

“Unfortunately, only one.”

“Bandit Country?”

Keller nodded. “And if he manages to get her there, he’ll have a distinct home-field advantage.”

“We have an advantage, too, Christopher.”

“What’s that?”

“Number Eight Stratford Gardens.”

Keller was staring at the Sea King again. “Have you considered the possibility that this is exactly what Quinn wants?”

“Another shot at us?”

“Yes.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“No,” said Keller. “But it might not be something you should be getting involved in. After all . . .”

Keller left the thought unfinished because it was obvious that Gabriel was no longer listening. He had pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket and was in the process of dialing Graham Seymour at Vauxhall Cross. Their conversation was brief, two minutes, no more. Then Gabriel returned the phone to his pocket and pointed toward the cove, where thirty seconds later the turboshaft engine of the Sea King began to whine. Slowly, he rose to his feet and followed Keller numbly down the path to the beach. He saw the cottage for the last time as he had seen it for the first, from a mile out to sea, knowing he would never set foot there again. Quinn had destroyed it for him, as surely as he had helped Tariq destroy Leah and Dani. It was personal now, he thought. And it was going to be very messy.

70

COUNTY DOWN, NORTHERN IRELAND

AT THAT SAME MOMENT the Catherine May, a Vigilante 33 commercial fishing vessel, was making twenty-six knots through St. George’s Channel. Jack Delaney, a former member of the IRA who specialized in weapons smuggling and the movement of explosive devices, was at the helm. Delaney’s younger brother Connor was leaning in the companionway, smoking a cigarette. By three in the morning they were due east of Dublin, and by five they had reached the mouth of Carlingford Lough, the glacial inlet that forms the border between the Republic of Ireland and Ulster. The ancient fishing port of Ardglass was approximately twenty miles to the north. Quinn waited until he could see the first flash of the Ardglass lighthouse before firing up his mobile. He composed a brief text message and with considerable reluctance fired it insecurely into the ether. Ten seconds later came the reply.

“Shit,” said Quinn.

“What’s the problem?” asked Jack Delaney.

“Ardglass is too hot for us to put in there.”

“What about Kilkeel?”