Page 94 of A Death in Cornwall

His unique combination of skills did not escape the notice of an ambitious young officer from T Branch, the Irish terrorism department of MI5. The officer, whose name was Graham Seymour, was unimpressed by the quality of intelligence he was receiving from MI5’s informants in Northern Ireland and was eager to insert an agent of his own. Christopher accepted the assignment, and two months later he slipped into West Belfast posing as a Catholic named Michael Connelly. He took a two-room flat in the Divis Tower apartment complex on the Falls Road and found work as a deliveryman for a laundry service. His neighbor, with whom he shared a cordial relationship, was a member of the IRA’s West Belfast Brigade.

An Anglican by birth, Christopher attended mass regularly at St. Paul’s Church, the IRA’s favorite house of worship. It was there, on a wet Sunday during the holy season of Lent, that he met Elizabeth Conlin, daughter of Ronnie Conlin, the IRA’s field commander for Ballymurphy. Their brief love affair would end with Elizabeth’s brutal murder and Christopher’s abduction. His interrogation took place at a farmhouse in South Armagh and was conducted by a senior IRA man called Eamon Quinn. Faced with the prospect of an appalling death, Christopher decided he had no recourse but to fight his way out. By the time he made his escape, four hardened terrorists from the Provisional Irish Republican Army were dead. Two had been virtually cut to pieces.

He returned to SAS headquarters at Hereford for what he thought would be a long rest, but his stay was cut short in August 1990 when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. He quickly rejoined his old Sabre unit and by January 1991 was in the western desert of Iraq, searching out the Scud missile launchers that were raining terror on Tel Aviv. On the night of January 28, his team located a launcher a hundred miles northwest of Baghdad and radioed the coordinates to their commanders in Saudi Arabia. Ninety minutes later a formation of Coalition fighter-bombers streaked low over the desert. But in a disastrous case of friendly fire, the aircraft attacked the SAS squadron instead of the Scud site. British officials concluded the entire unit was lost, including Christopher.

In truth, he had survived the incident without a scratch. His first instinct was to radio his base and request extraction. Instead, enraged by the incompetence of his superiors, he started walking. Concealed beneath the robe and headdress of a desert Arab, and highly trained in the art of clandestine movement, he made his way through the Coalition forces and slipped undetected into Syria.

He continued westward across Turkey and Greece and eventually washed ashore in Corsica, where he fell into the waiting arms of Don Anton Orsati. With his northern European looks and SAS training, Christopher was a valuable addition to the don’s stable of Corsican-born assassins. His prophesized reunion with Gabriel occurred thirteen years after their first meeting. Gabriel survived the encounter only because Christopher declined a perfect opportunity to kill him. He returned the favor by convincing the director-general of the Secret Intelligence Service to give Christopher a job. Because the director was none other than Graham Seymour, the man who had sent Christopher into West Belfast, the negotiations went smoothly.

Under the generous terms of Christopher’s repatriation agreement, SIS provided him with a new identity and allowed him to keep the small fortune he had amassed working for the Orsati Olive Oil Company, a portion of which he had invested in his maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace. He acquired Sarah Bancroft soon after. Gabriel had initially opposed the relationship, but in the end he played a decisive role in their decision to marry. The wedding took place at an SIS safe house. Gabriel gave away the bride.

The SIS had also allowed Christopher to maintain possession of his comfortable villa on Corsica. Seated in a deck chair next to the swimming pool, Gabriel explained to his old friend the nature of the crime he was planning to perpetrate in the Principality of Monaco. Christopher, like Don Orsati before him, was deeply troubled by what he was hearing.

“You’ve placed me in a precarious situation.” He gave his glass of Johnnie Walker Black Label a shake, rattling the ice. “Very precarious, indeed.”

“With all due respect, Christopher, your entire life has been one long precarious situation.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that I am now obligated to inform my superiors about your findings regarding the murder of Professor Charlotte Blake, including the role played by a former MI5 officer named Trevor Robinson. If your hacker’s allegations are true, it’s going to be a scandal for the ages.”

“The allegations are true,” said Gabriel.

“Prove it.”

“I intend to.”

“By stealing the names of Harris Weber’s clients?”

Gabriel nodded.

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Depends on the names, I suppose.”

“Given the fact that Harris Weber & Company is, for all intents and purposes, a British firm, it is likely that many of its clients are British as well. It is also likely that some of them are public figures. People who’ve made a lot of money. Posh people with grand estates in Somerset and the Cotswolds. You see my point?”

“I don’t believe you’ve made one.”

“Those files, in the wrong hands, can do a lot of damage.”

“Or in the right hands,” replied Gabriel.

Christopher ignited a Marlboro with a gold Dunhill lighter and exhaled a cloud of smoke. It was carried away by a sudden gust of wind that bent the laricio pine trees surrounding the terrace.

“The plan?” he asked.

“Sorry,” answered Gabriel. “That’s need-to-know only.”

Christopher laid a sledgehammer hand on Gabriel’s forearm. “You were saying?”

Gabriel complied with the request for an operational briefing.

“How did our old friend René Monjean get mixed up in this?” asked Christopher.

“It was the don’s idea, actually.”

“In my experience, René doesn’t work for free.”

“He expects to be paid at some point.”

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