“Never,” replied Gabriel.
“A shame, don’t you think? After all, you and your friends Sarah and Ingrid were the ones who saved Number Ten.”
“With help from Christopher,” Gabriel pointed out.
“And the Dutch,” added Chiara.
“Let’s not forget Alice. If she hadn’t arranged for her own abduction, we never would have known about her husband’s involvement with the Russians.”
“It was a crime, you know.”
“Staging one’s own abduction? A very serious crime.”
“And yet for her punishment,” said Chiara, “she will receive immunity from prosecution and a new British identity.”
“But not housing. In fact, she’s about to be evicted from Wormwood Cottage.”
“Parish and Miss Coventry have finally had enough?”
“A new arrival,” said Gabriel.
“Where are they going to put her?”
“They’ve offered her temporary use of another safe house, but it wasn’t up to her standards.”
“Balmoral wasn’t available?”
“Apparently not.”
“Perhaps she can go stay with her fellow criminal Ingrid in Denmark.”
“Ingrid is back on Mykonos. And Alice doesn’t have a valid passport yet.”
“Well,” said Chiara, “I’m sure the great minds of the Secret Intelligence Service will think of something.”
“Yes,” agreed Gabriel. “They always do.”
Their flight departed Heathrow at half past four. Gabriel dropped them outside Terminal 5, then, after swearing that he would undertake no new assignments during their absence, bade them farewell. Alone, he drove into central London and settled into a corner table at the bar at Wiltons and watched the parade of art world figures traipsing through the door—tubby Oliver Dimbleby, tweedy Jeremy Crabbe, suntanned Simon Mendenhall, ravishing Olivia Watson, Amelia March ofARTnews, slick Nicky Lovegrove, art adviser to thevastly rich. Sarah and Julian arrived last. Julian took up his usual post at the end of the bar, and Sarah joined Gabriel at her usual table. A three-olive Belvedere martini, Saharan dry, Siberian cold, appeared as though it had been conjured out of thin air.
She raised the frosted glass to her lips. “Off safely, are they?”
“Venice bound,” he replied.
“So, I have you all to myself?”
“What about your husband?”
“The one who shot down the Russian drone?”
“Yes, that one.”
“He left London this morning. Evidently he’ll be gone for ages.”
“Mind if I crash at your place tonight?”
She raised an eyebrow provocatively. “I’d love nothing more.”
“I have an early call in the morning.”
