House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(11)

The town of Coldeast was noteworthy only in that it lay at the edge of Dartmoor National Park. The skies were pouring with rain on the day in question and it was prematurely dark. As a result, no one noticed Christopher Keller as he set off along the Old Liverton Road, a rucksack over one shoulder. By the time he reached the Liverton Village Hall, the night was as black as India ink. It was no matter; he knew the way. He turned into a hedgerowed track and followed it due north, past the Old Leys Farm. Once, he had to step onto the verge to allow a rattletrap farm truck to pass, but otherwise it seemed as though he were the last man on the face of the earth.

Britain is better off now that you are here to look after her . . .

At Brimley he tacked to the west and followed a series of footpaths to Postbridge. Beyond the village was a road that appeared on no map, and at the end of the road was a gate that whispered quiet authority. Parish, the caretaker, had neglected to unlock it. Keller scaled it without a sound and hiked up the long gravel drive toward the limestone cottage that stood atop a swell in the bleak moorland. A yellow light burned like a candle over the unlocked front door. Entering, Keller wiped his feet carefully on the mat. The air smelled of meat and aromatics and potato. He peered into the kitchen and saw Miss Coventry, powdered and vaguely formidable, standing before an open oven, an apron tied around her ample waist.

“Mr. Marlowe,” she said, turning. “We were expecting you earlier.”

“I got a bit of a late start.”

“No trouble, I hope.”

“None at all.”

“But look at you! Poor lamb. Did you walk all the way from London?”

“Not quite,” said Keller with a smile.

“You’re dripping water all over my clean floor.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“Unlikely.” She relieved him of his sodden coat. “I’ve made up your old room for you. There’s clean clothing and some kit. You’ve time for a nice hot bath before ‘C’ arrives.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Cottage pie.”

“My favorite.”

“That’s why I made it. A nice cup of tea, Mr. Marlowe? Or would you like something stronger?”

“Perhaps a little whiskey to warm the bones.”

“I’ll see to it. Now go upstairs before you catch your death.”

Keller left his shoes in the entrance hall and climbed the stairs to his room. A change of clothing was laid out neatly on the bed. Corduroy trousers, an olive-drab sweater, undergarments, a pair of suede brogues, all appropriately sized. There was also a pack of Marlboros and a gold lighter. Keller read the engraving. To the future . . . No salutation, no name. None was necessary.

Keller stripped off his wet clothing and stood for a long time beneath a scalding shower. When he returned to his room, a tumbler of whiskey stood on the nightstand, atop a white MI6 doily. Dressed, he carried the drink downstairs to the drawing room, where he found Graham Seymour sitting before the fire, elegantly draped in tweed and flannel. He was listening to the news on the ancient Bakelite radio.

“The stolen car,” he said, rising, “was a nice touch.”

“Better to make a bit of noise in a case like this, isn’t that what you taught me back in the day?”

“Did I?” Seymour gave a mischievous smile. “I’m only glad it was accomplished without resort to violence.”

“An MI6 officer,” said Keller with mock severity, “never resorts to violence. And if he does feel the need to draw a weapon or throw a punch, it’s only because he hasn’t done his job properly.”

“We might have to rethink that approach,” said Seymour. “I’m only sorry to lose a man like Peter Marlowe. I hear his IONEC scores were rather impressive. Andy Mayhew was so distraught over your disappearance he offered his resignation.”

“But not Quill?”

“No,” answered Seymour. “Quill’s made of sterner stuff.”

“I hope you weren’t too hard on poor Andy.”

“I took the blame myself, though I did order a full review of the Fort’s perimeter security.”

“Who else knows about our little ruse?”

“The controller for Western Europe and two of his most senior desk officers.”

“What about Whitehall?”

“The Joint Intelligence Committee,” said Seymour, shaking his head, “is totally in the dark.”

The JIC were the overseers and taskmasters of MI5 and MI6. They set priorities, assessed the product, advised the prime minister, and made certain the spies played by the rules. Graham Seymour had reached the conclusion that the Secret Intelligence Service needed room to maneuver, that in a dangerous world, with threats all around, it had to get a bit of chalk on its cleats from time to time. Thus his renewed relationship with Christopher Keller.

“You know,” said Seymour, his eyes moving over Keller’s sturdy frame, “you almost look like one of us again. It’s too bad you have to leave.”

They went into the kitchen and sat down at the table in the snug little alcove, with its leaded windows overlooking the moorland. Miss Coventry served them the cottage pie with a claret from the well-stocked cellar, and a green salad for their digestion. Seymour spent much of the meal interrogating Keller about the IONEC. Of particular interest was the quality of the other members of the intake.