Outside, he dialed Gabriel’s number but once again received no answer. Then, with the radio in PC Tremayne’s cruiser, he raised DCI Fletcher in Exeter and gave him an update. Fletcher immediately asked the NPAS to get the helicopter back in the air, this time over the South West Coast Path between Gwennap Head and Land’s End. By the time the helicopter was finally airborne, Peel was passing the National Coastwatch Institution observation point, Glock 19 in hand, running as fast as his legs could carry him.
60
Land’s End
She pleaded with him to take her for a proper English tea at the Land’s End Hotel, and when he refused, she agreed to settle for a pasty from the Cornish Pantry instead. By the time they set off for the return trip to Gwennap Head, the weather had taken a turn for the worse and a veil of mist hung over the Coast Path, limiting visibility to a few hundred yards at most. For a time it seemed like they were the only two people in the world, lone survivors of some cataclysm that had claimed the lives of others like them. Then the mist parted and a lone figure appeared. He was wearing ordinary street clothes rather than the outdoor attire worn by most hikers along the footpath. His head was lowered against the sharp wind blowing from the sea. His pace was brisk, as though he were running late for an appointment.
“No,” said Alice suddenly. “It can’t possibly be him.”
“Who?”
“The man walking toward us. That’s bloody Hiccups.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Liam Higgins,” she said. “Edward’s old assistant.”
Gabriel eyed the man marching toward them through the mist. “It has to be someone else.”
“I’d recognize that walk anywhere. It’s definitely him.”
“But why on earth would he be here, of all places?”
“Edward must have sent him.”
“Edward doesn’t know where you are.”
But Edward knew the location of Gabriel’s remote Cornish retreat, and therefore so did his former assistant, Liam Higgins. After all, it was Higgins who had fetched Gabriel at Land’s End Airport after he agreed to look into Alice’s disappearance.
“Walk back to the hotel,” he told her. “And while you’re there, you should probably call nine-nine-nine.”
“Why?”
Higgins was upon them before Gabriel could answer. He bore little resemblance to the pressed and polished figure who had whispered into the ear of Edward Knight the evening of the Wickham House fundraiser. His clothing looked slept in, his hair was uncombed, his cheeks were unshaven, his eyes were red and raw with fatigue. And bloodlust, thought Gabriel.
“Allon!” he called out with counterfeit astonishment as he slowed to a stop. “Fancy meeting you here.” Then he looked at Alice and said, “You too, Ms. Winter. After all, aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
Gabriel answered on Alice’s behalf. “What’s that you have under your jacket, Higgins?”
He drew the gun in reply, an ugly old Makarov with a suppressor screwed into the end of the barrel.
“A Russian gun for a Russian agent,” said Gabriel. “So much for the GRU upping its game.”
“I fooled you, though, didn’t I?”
“You did,” admitted Gabriel.
He smiled with what appeared to be genuine satisfaction. His forehead seemed more prominent, his cheekbones harder and moredefined. Gabriel admonished himself for having missed what was now obvious.
“What’s your real name?” he asked.
“It’s not important.”
“Don’t I have the right to know the name of the man who’s about to kill me?”
“My name,” he answered in Russian-accented English, “is Valery Fedorov.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up.” Gabriel removed his eyes briefly from the Russian’s face and glimpsed a distant figure loping along the Coast Path near Mill Bay. “And your GRU rank?” he asked.
