Free The English Spy by Daniel Silva Page B

the Real IRA after the Good Friday peace accords, and I knew he was the one who planted that bomb in the middle of Omagh.”
    “And when he fled Ireland?”
    “I made polite inquiries as to his whereabouts. Impolite inquiries, too.”
    “Any of them bear fruit?”
    “Most definitely.”
    “But you never tried to kill him?”
    “No,” said Keller, shaking his head. “The don forbade it.”
    “But now you’ve got your chance.”
    “With the blessing of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.” Keller gave a brief smile. “Rather ironic, don’t you think?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Quinn drove me out of the game, and now he’s pulling me back in.” Keller looked at Gabriel seriously for a moment. “Are you sure you want to be involved in this?”
    “Why wouldn’t I?”
    “Because it’s personal,” replied Keller. “And when it’s personal, it tends to get messy.”
    “I do personal all the time.”
    “Messy, too.” The shadows had reclaimed the terrace. The wind made ripples upon the surface of Keller’s blue swimming pool. “And if I do this?” he asked. “What then?”
    “Graham will give you a new British identity. A job, too.” Gabriel paused, then added, “If you’re interested.”
    “A job doing what?”
    “Use your imagination.”
    Keller frowned. “What would you do if you were me?”
    “I’d take the deal.”
    “And give up all this?”
    “It isn’t real, Christopher.”
    Beyond the rim of the valley a church bell tolled one o’clock.
    “What am I going to say to the don?” asked Keller.
    “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s personal,” replied Gabriel. “And when it’s personal, it tends to get messy.”

    There was a ferry leaving for Nice at six that evening. Gabriel boarded at half past five, drank a coffee in the café, and stepped onto the observation deck to wait for Keller. By 5:45 he had not arrived. Five additional minutes passed with no sign of him. Then Gabriel glimpsed a battered Renault turning into the car park and a moment later saw Keller trotting up the ramp with an overnight bag hanging from one powerful shoulder. They stood side by side at the railing and watched the lights of Ajaccio receding into the gloom. The gentle evening wind smelled of macchia , the dense undergrowth of scrub oak, rosemary, and lavender that covered much of the island.Keller drew the air deeply into his lungs before lighting a cigarette. The breeze carried his first exhalation of smoke across Gabriel’s face.
    “Must you?”
    Keller said nothing.
    “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
    “And let you go after Quinn alone?”
    “You don’t think I can handle him?”
    “Did I say that?”
    Keller smoked in silence for a moment.
    “How did the don take it?”
    “He recited many Corsican proverbs about the ingratitude of children. And then he agreed to let me go.”
    The lights of the island were growing dimmer; the wind smelled only of the sea. Keller reached into his coat pocket, removed a Corsican talisman, and held it out to Gabriel.
    “A gift from the signadora .”
    “We don’t believe in such things.”
    “I’d take it if I were you. The old woman implied it could get nasty.”
    “How nasty?”
    Keller made no reply. Gabriel accepted the talisman and hung it around his neck. One by one the lights of the island went dark. And then it was gone.

12
DUBLIN
    T ECHNICALLY , THE OPERATION upon which Gabriel and Christopher Keller embarked the following day was a joint undertaking between the Office and MI6. The British role was so black, however, that only Graham Seymour knew of it. Therefore, it was the Office that saw to the travel arrangements, and the Office that rented the Škoda sedan that was waiting in the long-term parking lot at Dublin Airport. Gabriel searched the undercarriage before climbing behind the wheel. Keller slid into the passenger seat and, frowning, closed the door.
    “Couldn’t they have