The English Spy. Daniel Silva

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       8

       VIA GREGORIANA, ROME

       OR IS HE?”

      Seymour retrieved two photographs from his briefcase and placed one on the coffee table. It showed a man of medium height and build walking through passport control at Heathrow Airport.

      “Recognize him?” asked Seymour.

      Gabriel said nothing.

      “It’s you, of course.” Seymour pointed to the time code at the bottom of the image. “It was taken last winter during the Madeline Hart affair. You slipped into the United Kingdom unannounced to do a little digging.”

      “I was there, Graham. I remember it well.”

      “Then you’ll also recall that you began your search for Madeline Hart on the island of Corsica, a logical starting place because that’s where she disappeared. Shortly after your arrival, you went to see a man named Anton Orsati. Don Orsati runs the island’s most powerful organized crime family, a family that specializes in murder for hire. He gave you a valuable piece of information regarding her kidnappers. He also allowed you to borrow his best assassin.” Seymour smiled. “Does any of this ring a bell?”

      “Obviously, you were watching me.”

      “From a discreet distance. After all, you were searching for the mistress of the British prime minister at my behest.”

      “She wasn’t just his mistress, Graham. She was—”

      “This Corsican assassin is an interesting fellow,” Seymour interrupted. “In truth, he’s not Corsican at all, though he certainly speaks like one. He’s an Englishman, a former member of the Special Air Service who walked off the battlefield in western Iraq in January 1991 after an incident involving friendly fire. The British military believes he’s dead. Sadly, so do his parents. But then, you already knew that.”

      Seymour placed the second photograph on the coffee table. Like the first, it showed a man walking through Heathrow Airport. He was several inches taller than Gabriel, with short blond hair, skin the color of saddle leather, and square, powerful shoulders.

      “It was taken on the same day as the first photo, a few minutes later. Your friend entered the country on a false French passport, one of several he has in his possession. On that particular day he was Adrien Leblanc. His real name is—”

      “You’ve made your point, Graham.”

      Seymour gathered up the photographs and offered them to Gabriel.

      “What am I supposed to do with these?”

      “Keep them as a memento of your friendship.”

      Gabriel tore the photographs in half and placed them next to the shreds of the Office memo. “How long have you known?”

      “British intelligence heard rumors for years about an Englishman working in Europe as a professional assassin. We were never able to learn his name. And never in our wildest dreams did we imagine he might be a paid asset of the Office.”

      “He’s not a paid asset.”

      “How would you describe him?”

      “An old adversary who’s now a friend.”

      “Adversary?”

      “A consortium of Swiss bankers once hired him to kill me.”

      “Consider yourself fortunate,” said Seymour. “Christopher Keller rarely fails to fulfill the terms of a contract. He’s very good at what he does.”

      “He speaks highly of you, too, Graham.”

      Seymour sat silently while a siren rose and faded in the street below. “Keller and I were close,” he said finally. “I fought the IRA from the comfort of my desk, and Keller was at the sharp end of my stick. He did the sort of things that were necessary to keep the British homeland safe. And in the end he paid a terrible price for it.”

      “What’s his connection to Quinn?”

      “I’ll let Keller tell you that part of the story. I’m not sure I can do it justice.”

      A gust of wind hurled rain against the windows. The room lights flickered.

      “I haven’t СКАЧАТЬ