With that Christopher rang Gabriel and told him they were a go. Then he repaired to the embassy canteen for a bite to eat. A few diplomats and clerks were huddled around the television. A swarm of drones had once again halted traffic at a European airport, this time in Helsinki. Finnish authorities had yet to identify the culprit, but the television analysts were all but certain it was Finland’s belligerent neighbor to the east.
There were no delays, however, at Bern’s small airport. Christopher traveled there by taxi and arrived at Alpine Sky Jets, the airport’s fixed-base operator, to find his four traveling companions relaxing inthe executive lounge. Their Gulfstream was taking on fuel outside on the tarmac. Christopher sat down next to Gabriel, who was typing something on his mobile phone.
“I’m just trying to save my marriage,” he explained.
“Thanks to you, I’m rather in the same boat.” Christopher looked at Alice Winter. “She’s not having second thoughts about going home, is she?”
“She doesn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Are you sure that fake Swiss passport of hers is going to work?”
“It better. Otherwise we’re not going anywhere.”
It was another twenty minutes before the FBO’s ground staff informed them that they had a departure slot. A Swiss Border Guard waited at the foot of the airstair, electronic passport reader in hand. He swiped the travel documents of the four pesky foreigners—Christopher and Gabriel, Peel and Ingrid—but waved Alice onto the aircraft with scarcely a glance at her Swiss passport.
“Is there any chance of a preflight drink?” she asked after settling into her seat. “I’m not sure I can face this sober.”
There was no cabin attendant, but the galley was provisioned with plenty of food and drink, including four bottles of decent French champagne. Alice remained in good spirits for most of the flight, but her mood darkened as they settled onto the runway at Luton Airport. In a distant corner of the airfield was a Sikorsky executive helicopter, and next to the Sikorsky was an unmarked SIS van with blacked-out windows. Five minutes later both were headed west. The helicopter contained four passengers, the van only one—a detective inspector from the Devon and Cornwall Police who, for the moment, at least, had outlived his usefulness. His phone rang as the van was approaching Slough. It was DCI Douglas Chapel of the Metropolitan Police. He slid the device into his pocket and let it ring.
The road had no name and appeared on no map. Viewed from space, it looked like a scratch in the moorland, perhaps the remnant of a brook that had run over the land in the days when men erected circles of stone. At its entrance was a sign, weathered and rusted, warning that the road was private. And at its end was a gate that whispered quiet authority.
The grounds beyond the gate were barren and bleak, an acquired taste. The man who built the cottage there had made his money in shipping. He had bequeathed it to his only son, and the son, who had no heirs, had entrusted it to the Secret Intelligence Service, where he had worked for the better part of a half century. He had served in many distant corners of the empire, under many different names, but mainly he was known as Wormwood. The service named the cottage in his honor. Those who stayed there found the name appropriate.
It stood atop a swell in the land and was fashioned of Devon stone that had darkened with age and neglect. Behind it, across a broken courtyard, was a converted barn with offices and living quarters for the staff. When Wormwood Cottage was unoccupied, a single caretaker called Parish kept watch over it. Parish was old service, old enough to have worked with some of the greats, including the father of the current director-general.
It was Nigel Whitcombe, the DG’s eternally boyish factotum and cupbearer, who informed Parish that a party of four—in the lexicon of the cottage, they were referred to as “company”—was headed his way. Two members of the party were return visitors, and the third was a Danish national who had pulled a black bag job in Moscow a couple of years ago that had spared the world a nuclear calamity.
“And the fourth?” asked Parish.
“She’s the guest of honor.”
“How shall we refer to her?”
“Miss Nobody.”
“Anticipated time of arrival?” inquired Parish as blandly as possible.
“Early evening. And by the way,” added Whitcombe, “they’re traveling by helicopter.”
A rarity, thought Parish, even for high-level company. He asked whether Miss Coventry, the staff cook, should prepare dinner.
“For five, please,” replied Whitcombe.
“I assume the chief will be joining them?”
“You assume correctly.”
Wormwood Cottage, like the Secret Intelligence Service itself, was a place of time-honored traditions, and Parish, as was his custom, was waiting in the forecourt when the helicopter settled onto the grounds. The cabin door opened and a ruggedly handsome SIS officer who went by the work name Peter Marlowe came bounding down the stairs, followed by the legendary former chief of Israeli intelligence and a petite woman with toffee-colored hair—the Dane, no doubt.
The last to emerge was the guest of honor, Miss Nobody. She was on the tallish side, late thirties, attractive, with short dark hair that in Parish’s opinion didn’t suit her. He had a strange feeling he had seen her somewhere before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where it had been. It would come to him eventually. Parish had been a watcher in his day. He never forgot a face.
Mr. Marlowe was now marching toward him across the forecourt, an arm raised in greeting. “Parish, you old scoundrel,” he called out. “What a sight for sore eyes, you are.”
“As are you, Mr. Marlowe.” Parish turned toward Mr. Marlowe’s old friend and occasional partner in crime. “It’s a pleasure to see you again as well, Mr. Allon. I’d heard a terrible rumor that you’d left the game.”
“You know what they say about old spies, Parish.” He gestured inthe general direction of the Danish woman. “This is my dear friend Ingrid. If any valuables happen to go missing during our stay, you’ll know where to find them.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Parish turned finally to Miss Nobody. “If there’s anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
