The one called Sam was the first to raise his weapon. In the cavernous room the sound of the gunshot was deafening. A reply of three shots followed, and three tightly grouped rounds blew a large hole in Sam’s chest. The next two men went down like targets in a carnival shooting gallery, but the fourth managed to squeeze off several wild shots before a portion of his head vanished and his legs buckled.

Only then did Trevor Robinson reach for the SIG Sauer and point it once again toward Ingrid’s head. Gabriel hurled himself in front of her as several shots rang out. A moment later he saw a familiar face hovering over him, the face of the little boy who had lived in the cottage at the head of the tidal creek in Port Navas. But what was he doing here, of all places? And why was he holding a Glock 19 in his hand? Surely, thought Gabriel, the vision was illusory. It was only his disordered mind playing tricks on him again.

54

Vauxhall Cross

One and a half miles separated the opulent Georgian estate from the pasture where Peel had left the Vauxhall. He covered the distance in his Wellingtons in a little over ten minutes, pausing twice to be violently sick, and drove back to the estate with the headlamps doused. In the blood-spattered drawing room he found Christopher photographing the faces of the corpses. Peel had killed two of the men himself, including the gray-haired man in a suit and tie who had been preparing to shoot Gabriel and Ingrid.

He looked down at the dead man’s face. “Who is he?”

“Trevor Robinson. At least he used to be.” Christopher snapped a photo of the man, then, after scrutinizing the image, snapped a second. “He’s the chap who arranged for Professor Blake to be murdered. None of which you will ever mention to your superiors. After all, how could you? You weren’t here tonight.”

“I killed two people.”

“You did no such thing.”

Peel held up his right hand. “And when the Avon and Somerset Police swab me for gunshot residue?”

“I’m quite confident they won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we won’t be mentioning any of this to them, either.”

Peel stared at the five bodies. “We can’t just leave them here.”

“Of course we can.”

“For how long?”

“Until someone finds them, I suppose.”

Gabriel was shoving documents into a black overnight bag. The side of his neck was caked with dried blood, and his cheek was badly swollen. Ingrid appeared to have come through the ordeal with only a single contusion. She was clearing smashed computers and hard drives from a credenza as though oblivious to the carnage around her.

“And what about them?” asked Peel. “Were they here tonight?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied Christopher.

“Gabriel’s blood is in that outbuilding and in the back of the van.”

“Not to worry, he has plenty more.”

Peel turned to Gabriel and asked, “Did you touch anything?”

He held the Montblanc fountain pen aloft, then dropped it into the nylon bag.

Peel pointed toward the mobile phone lying on the circular table. “What about that?”

“It belonged to the late Trevor Robinson. The remains of my mobile device are in that Faraday pouch.” He added both items to the overnight bag.

“Passport and wallet?” inquired Peel.

Gabriel patted the front of his jacket. “And Ingrid has hers as well. There’s nothing to prove we were ever here.”

“Except for the video from the security system.”

“This property is owned by a corrupt Russian billionaire.” Gabriel pulled the zipper on the overnight bag. “There is no video.”

They switched off the lights and went out, closing the ruined front door behind them. Gabriel and Ingrid tossed their bags into the boot and crawled into the back seat. Christopher sat in front next to Peel. He rolled up the drive with his headlamps doused and stopped when they reached Hill Lane.

“Where to?”

“The Royal Navy air station in Yeovilton. I’ve arranged for a Sea King to take us back to London.”

“Us?”

“You don’t really think we would leave you here alone, do you?”

Peel turned into Hill Lane and immediately scraped against a hedgerow. “Request permission to turn on the bloody headlamps.”

“Permission granted,” replied Gabriel.

Peel met his gaze in the rearview. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened tonight?”

“You saved our lives. And for that, we are both very grateful.”

“What did they want from you?”

“The documents we acquired from Harris Weber & Company in Monaco.”

“Which would explain why they smashed your computers and phones.”

“And the two external hard drives,” added Gabriel.

“Too bad you didn’t stash a copy on the Cloud.”

“Yes,” said Ingrid with a smile. “Too bad.”

*  *  *

It was approaching 5:00 a.m. when Peel guided the Vauxhall past the sentry post at the naval air station. The Sea King waited on the tarmac, its Rolls-Royce Gnome turboshaft engines whining. It ferried them eastward to the heliport in Battersea, where they climbed into a dark gray van with blacked-out windows. Twenty minutes later, after a harrowing ride up Battersea Park Road, it turned into the garage of SIS Headquarters on the Albert Embankment.

Peel and Ingrid were immediately shown to an underground holding room. But Gabriel, a frequent visitor to the building in his previous life, was allowed to accompany Christopher upstairs to Graham Seymour’s magnificent office overlooking the Thames. The SIS chief was seated behind his mahogany desk, the same desk used by each of his predecessors. Nearby stood a stately longcase clock constructed by Sir Mansfield Smith-Cumming, the first “C” of the Secret Intelligence Service. The hands showed half past six.

Graham rose slowly to his feet and regarded Gabriel at length. “Who did that to you?”

“A fellow named Trevor Robinson and four hired goons.”