Page 130 of A Death in Cornwall

“This might come as a surprise, but I’ve done this sort of thing a time or two.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“West Belfast, South Armagh, and other assorted garden spots in the province of Northern Ireland.” He lit another cigarette. “There’s where I acquired this terrible habit. One of several, as a matter of fact.”

Peel made a left turn into Churchill Lane and headed north.

“Switch off your headlamps,” said Christopher.

Peel did as he asked.

“The sidelights, too.”

“I won’t be able to see.”

“Don’t talk, just listen.”

Peel killed the lights and reduced his speed. Clouds obscured the moon and the stars, and sunrise was still three hours away. It was like driving with his eyes closed.

“A little faster, Timothy. I’d like to get there before they kill them.”

Peel pressed the throttle, and a hedgerow clawed at the left side of the Vauxhall.

“Try to keep the damn thing on the road, will you?”

“What road?”

Christopher looked down at his phone. “You are approaching Hill Lane.”

Peel managed to make the right turn without further damaging the Vauxhall and started up the slope of the highland for which the road was named. As they were approaching the summit, Christopher instructed Peel to find a spot to leave the car. He turned through the open gate of a pasture and rolled to a stop. A flock of sheep, invisible in the inky darkness, bleated in protest.

Christopher climbed out of the car and pulled on the rucksack, then barged through another hedgerow and struck out across a pasture. Peel followed after him, the unauthorized Glock 19 in his right hand. The grass was knee-deep, the soil saturated and unstable. Peel’s Wellingtons squished noisily beneath him, but somehow Christopher flowed across the pasture without a sound.

They breached another hedgerow and crossed a second pasture, this one populated by cows. A thick wood marked its northern border. Christopher turned to Peel in the pitch-darkness and said quietly, “Please charge your firearm, Detective Sergeant.”

Peel racked the slide, chambering the first round.

“Keep your finger on the side of the trigger guard and the weapon pointed toward the ground. And don’t say another word unless I speak to you first.”

Christopher turned and disappeared into the trees. Peel followed a step behind, both hands on the Glock, the barrel angled safely downward. The darkness was absolute. He could see nothing but the faint outline of Christopher’s powerful shoulders.

The SIS man froze suddenly and raised his right hand. Peel stood like a statue behind him, unaware of what had provoked the reaction. There was nothing to see, and the only sound Peel heard was the kettledrum beating of his own heart.

Christopher lowered his hand and resumed his methodical advance. When he froze a second time, he shed his rucksack and removed the Zeiss field glasses. He peered into the darkness for a long moment, then handed the glasses to Peel. They revealed to him the large property he had seen a few minutes earlier while standing at the foot of the cellular mast. The lights were still burning on the lower floor of the redbrick Georgian manor, and the Mercedes transit van was still parked outside the collection of farm buildings. There appeared to be no one behind the wheel.

Christopher returned the glasses to his rucksack and slung it over his shoulders, then led Peel out of the wood and onto the grounds of the estate. Unlike the surrounding pastures, there was no livestock to warn of their presence. A manicured gravel drive stretched from the manor to the outbuildings at the rear of the property. Christopher walked soundlessly along the verge, Glock at eye level, forefinger on the trigger. Peel’s weapon remained pointed at the ground.

There were three outbuildings in all, also redbrick and Georgian in style, arranged around a walled central court. To reach the entrance required a journey of about twenty yards across the gravel. Christopher chose speed over stealth and entered the courtyard at a dead sprint with the Glock in his outstretched hand. Peel braced himself for the sound of gunfire, but there was only silence. He entered the courtyard to find Christopher swinging through the open door of one of the three buildings. He emerged a moment later carrying two black hoods, one of which was crusted with dried blood.

Peel snapped a photograph of the van’s registration plate, then opened the rear door. An overhead dome light illuminated the cargo hold. Christopher stared at the bloodstains, then closed the door without a sound. A moment later he was creeping across a darkened meadow toward the Georgian manor, a Glock in his outstretched hands, Timothy Peel a step behind.

***

The table was circular and fashioned of rosewood. Arrayed upon it were a pile of documents, a Montblanc fountain pen, a Faraday pouch, a mobile phone, and a SIG Sauer P320 pistol. Gabriel and Ingrid sat shoulder to shoulder in a pair of matching George VI coronation chairs. Hoodless, they were able to get a look at one another for the first time. There was a large bruise on the right side of Ingrid’s face, and her eye was bright red with a subconjunctival hemorrhage. Gabriel was confident he looked far worse. Even Trevor Robinson seemed embarrassed by his appearance.

He walked over to a drop leaf end table and extracted a cigarette from an antique silver box. “I trust you’ve come to your senses, Allon.”

“I don’t want your money, Trevor.”

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