But he was not dead, of course. In fact, with a bit of luck, the British press might have caught a glimpse of him in London during the tense forty-eight hours immediately following the killings in Crossmaglen. His movements were swift and his time was tightly budgeted, for he had pressing personal matters to attend to at home. He cleared up a few outstanding affairs at Vauxhall Cross and mended fences across the river at Thames House. He had a working dinner with the staff of the Office’s London Station, and late the next morning he appeared unannounced at an art gallery in St. James’s to tell a trusted old friend he was still very much among the living. The old friend was relieved to see him alive but angry that he had been among those deceived. It was, thought Gabriel remorsefully, a heartless thing to have done.

From St. James’s he traveled to a redbrick Victorian manor house in rural Hertfordshire. It had once served as a training facility for new MI6 recruits. Now Madeline Hart was its only occupant. Gabriel walked with her across the fog-shrouded grounds, trailed by a team of bodyguards. They were four in number—the same number who had died at the hands of Quinn and Katerina in Cornwall.

“Will you ever go back there again?” she asked.

“To Cornwall?”

Madeline nodded slowly.

“No,” said Gabriel. “I don’t think I will.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It seems I’ve ruined everything. None of this would have happened if you’d left me in St. Petersburg.”

“If you want to blame someone,” said Gabriel, “blame the Russian president. He sent your friend to kill you.”

“Where’s her body?”

“Graham Seymour has offered it to the SVR rezident in London.”

“And?”

“It seems the SVR isn’t interested. They claim not to know who she is.”

“Where will she end up?”

“An unmarked grave in a potter’s field.”

“A typically Russian ending,” said Madeline darkly.

“Better her than you.”

“She saved my life.” Madeline glanced at Gabriel and added, “Yours, too.”

He left Madeline in midafternoon and traveled to Highgate, where he repaid an outstanding debt to one of London’s most prominent political reporters. By the time the meeting concluded, it was approaching five o’clock. His flight home was at ten thirty. He hurried down the front walk and climbed into the back of his embassy car. He had one more errand to run. One last restoration.

81

VICTORIA ROAD, SOUTH KENSINGTON