The English Spy. Daniel Silva

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СКАЧАТЬ glanced around the interior of the café. “I wonder why.”

      The girl walked over to the table and deposited a plate of chips and two Styrofoam cups of milky tea. As she was leaving, the door opened and two pale men in their mid-twenties hurried in out of the weather. A woman in a damp coat and downtown shoes entered a moment later. The two men took a table near Keller and Gabriel and began speaking in a dialect that Gabriel found almost impenetrable. The woman sat at the back of the shop. She had only tea to drink and was reading a worn paperback book.

      “What’s going on outside?” asked Gabriel.

      “Four men standing in front of a betting parlor. One man looking like he’s had enough of the rain.”

      “Where does he live?”

      “Not far,” answered Keller. “He likes to live among the people.”

      Gabriel drank some of the tea and made a face. Keller pushed the plate of chips across the table. “Eat some.”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “I want to live long enough to see my children born.”

      “Good idea.” Keller smiled, then added, “Men of your age really should be careful about what they eat.”

      “Watch yourself.”

      “How old are you, exactly?”

      “I can’t remember.”

      “Problems with memory loss?”

      Gabriel drank some of the tea. Keller nibbled at the chips.

      “They’re not as good as the fries in the south of France,” he said.

      “Did you get a receipt?”

      “Why would I need a receipt?”

      “I hear the bookkeepers at MI6 are very picky.”

      “Let’s not get carried away about MI6 just yet. I haven’t made any decisions.”

      “Sometimes our best decisions are made for us.”

      “You sound like the don.” Keller ate another chip. “Is it true about MI6 bookkeepers?”

      “I was just making conversation.”

      “Are yours tough?”

      “The worst.”

      “But not with you.”

      “Not so much.”

      “So why didn’t they get you something better than a Škoda?”

      “The Škoda is fine.”

      “I hope he’ll fit in the trunk.”

      “We’ll slam the lid on him a few times if we have to.”

      “What about the safe house?”

      “I’m sure it’s lovely, Christopher.”

      Keller didn’t appear convinced. He picked up another chip, thought better of it, and dropped it onto the plate.

      “What’s going on behind me?” he asked.

      “Two lads speaking no known language. One woman reading.”

      “What’s she reading?”

      “I believe it’s John Banville.”

      Keller nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on Ballyfermot Road.

      “What do you see?” asked Gabriel.

      “One man standing outside a betting parlor. Three men getting into a car.”

      “What kind of car?”

      “Black Mercedes.”

      “Better than a Škoda.”

      “Much.”

      “So what do we do?”

      “We leave the fries and take the tea.”

      “When?”

      Keller rose to his feet.

       13

       BALLYFERMOT, DUBLIN

       THEY DROPPED THE STYROFOAM CUPS into a rubbish bin in the Tesco parking lot and climbed into the Škoda. This time, Keller drove; it was his turf. He eased into Ballyfermot Road and worked his way through the traffic until there were two cars separating them from the Mercedes. He drove calmly, one hand balanced atop the steering wheel, the other resting on the automatic shift. His eyes were straight ahead. Gabriel had commandeered the side-view mirror and was watching the traffic behind them.

      “Well?” asked Keller.

      “You’re very good, Christopher. You’re going to make a fine MI6 officer.”

      “I was asking whether we’re being followed.”

      “We’re not.”

      Keller removed his hand from the shift and used it to extract a cigarette from his coat pocket. Gabriel tapped the black-and-yellow notice on the visor and said, “This is a no-smoking car.”

      Keller lit the cigarette. Gabriel lowered his window a few inches to vent the smoke.

      “They’re stopping,” he said.

      “I can see that.”

      The Mercedes turned into an angled parking space outside a newsagent. For a few seconds no one got out. Then Liam Walsh stepped from the rear passenger-side door and entered the shop. Keller drove about fifty meters farther along the road and parked outside a takeaway pizza parlor. He killed the lights but left the engine running.

      “I suppose he needed to pick up a few things on his way home.”

      “Like what?”

      “A Herald,” suggested Keller.

      “No one reads newspapers anymore, Christopher. Haven’t you heard?”

      Keller glanced toward the pizza parlor. “Maybe you should go inside and get us a couple of slices.”

      “How do I order without speaking?”

      “You’ll think СКАЧАТЬ