The English Spy. Daniel Silva
rooms were comfortably decorated in rustic furnishings covered in white, beige, and faded yellows. There were many shelves filled with serious books—Keller had briefly studied military history at Cambridge and was a voracious reader of politics and contemporary issues—and upon the walls hung a modest collection of modern and Impressionist paintings. The most valuable work was a small landscape by Monet, which Keller, through an intermediary, had acquired from Christie’s auction house in Paris. Standing before it now, one hand resting on his chin, his head tilted to one side, was Gabriel. He licked the tip of his forefinger, rubbed it over the surface, and shook his head slowly.
“What’s wrong?” asked the Englishman.
“It’s covered in surface grime. You really should let me clean it for you. It will only take—”
“I like it the way it is.”
Gabriel wiped his forefinger on the front of his jeans and turned to face Keller. The Englishman was ten years younger than Gabriel, four inches taller, and thirty pounds heavier, especially through the shoulders and arms, where he carried a lethal quantity of finely sculpted power and mass. His short hair was bleached blond from the sea; his skin was very dark from the sun. He had bright blue eyes, square cheekbones, and a thick chin with a chisel notch in the center of it. His mouth seemed permanently fixed in a mocking smile. Keller was a man without allegiance, without fear, and without morals, except when it came to matters of friendship and love. He had lived life on his own terms, and somehow he had won.
“I thought you were supposed to be in Rome,” he said.
“I was,” answered Gabriel. “But Graham Seymour dropped into town. He had something he wanted to show me.”
“What was it?”
“A photograph of a man walking through Heathrow Airport.”
Keller’s half-smile evaporated, his blue eyes narrowed. “How much does he know?”
“Everything, Christopher.”
“Am I in danger?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you agree to do a job for him.”
“What does he want?”
Gabriel smiled. “What you do best.”
Outside, the sun still held dominion over Keller’s terrace. They sat in a pair of comfortable garden chairs, a small wrought-iron table between them. On it lay Graham Seymour’s thick file on the professional exploits of one Eamon Quinn. Keller had yet to open it or even look at it. He was listening spellbound to Gabriel’s account of Quinn’s role in the murder of the princess.
When Gabriel finished, Keller held up the photograph of his recent passage through Heathrow Airport. “You gave me your word,” he said. “You swore that you would never tell Graham that we were working together.”
“I didn’t have to tell him. He already knew.”
“How?”
Gabriel explained.
“Devious bastard,” muttered Keller.
“He’s British,” said Gabriel. “It comes naturally.”
Keller looked at Gabriel carefully for a moment. “It’s funny,” he said, “but you don’t seem terribly upset about the situation.”
“It does present you with an interesting opportunity, Christopher.”
Beyond the rim of the valley a church bell tolled midday. Keller placed the photograph atop the file and lit a cigarette.
“Must you?” asked Gabriel, waving away the smoke.
“What choice do I have?”
“You can stop smoking and add several years to your life.”
“About Graham,” said Keller, exasperated.
“I suppose you can stay here in Corsica and hope he doesn’t decide to tell the French about you.”
“Or?”
“You can help me find Eamon Quinn.”
“And then?”
“You can go home again, Christopher.”
Keller raised his hand to the valley and said, “This is my home.”
“It isn’t real, Christopher. It’s a fantasy. It’s make-believe.”
“So are you.”
Gabriel smiled but said nothing. The church bell had fallen silent; the afternoon shadows were gathering at the edge of the terrace. Keller crushed out his cigarette and looked down at the unopened file.
“Interesting reading?” he asked.
“Quite.”
“Recognize anyone?”
“An MI5 man named Graham Seymour,” said Gabriel, “and an SAS officer who’s referred to only by his code name.”
“What is it?”
“Merchant.”
“Catchy.”
“I thought so, too.”
“What does it say about him?”
“It says he operated undercover in West Belfast for approximately a year in the late eighties.”
“Why did he stop?”
“His cover was blown. Apparently, there was a woman involved.”
“Does it mention her name?” asked Keller.
“No.”
“What happened next?”
“Merchant was kidnapped by the IRA and taken to a remote farmhouse for interrogation and execution. The farmhouse was in South Armagh. Quinn was there.”
“How did it end?”
“Badly.”
A gust of wind stirred the pine. Keller gazed upon his Corsican valley as though it were slipping from his grasp. Then he lit another cigarette and told Gabriel the rest of it.
IT WAS KELLER’S APTITUDE WITH language that set him apart—not foreign languages, but the various ways in which the English language is spoken on the streets of Belfast and the six counties of Northern Ireland. The subtleties of local accents made it virtually impossible for officers of the SAS to operate undetected within the small, tightly knit communities of the province. As a result, most SAS men were forced to utilize the services of a Fred—the Regiment’s term for a local helper—when tracking IRA members or engaging in street surveillance. But not Keller. He developed the ability to mimic the various dialects of Ulster with the speed and confidence of a native. He could even shift accents at a moment’s notice—a Catholic from Armagh one minute, a Protestant from Belfast’s Shankill Road the next, then a Catholic from the Ballymurphy housing estates. His unique linguistic skills did not escape the notice of his superiors. Nor was it long before they came to the attention of an ambitious young intelligence officer who ran the Northern Ireland account for MI5.
“I assume,” said Gabriel, “that the young MI5 officer was Graham Seymour.”
Keller nodded. Then he explained that Seymour, in the late 1980s, was dissatisfied with the level of intelligence he was receiving