53 Somerset

53 Somerset

Timothy Peel officially strayed onto the territory of the Avon and Somerset Police at 3:02 a.m., when his unmarked Vauxhall

Insignia rolled over the little humpback bridge spanning the River Batherm. To make matters worse, his passenger was giving

him a rapid tutorial on the basic operation of a Glock 19 pistol. Peel, who was not authorized to carry or discharge a firearm

regardless of the county, had no business being in the same car with it.

"The magazine holds fifteen rounds." Christopher pointed toward the bottom of the grip. "You insert it here."

"I know how to load a bloody gun."

"Don't talk, just listen." Christopher rammed the magazine into the grip. "When you are ready to fire your weapon, you must chamber the first round by racking the slide. A Glock has an internal safety mechanism that disengages automatically when you pull the trigger. If for some reason you feel the need to pull it fifteen times, the slide will lock in the open position. Eject your empty magazine by pressing the release on the left side of the grip, and insert your backup. Then rinse and repeat." He handed Peel the fully loaded weapon. "And do try not to shoot me, Timothy. It will greatly increase your chances of surviving the next few minutes."

"I never realized that SIS officers carried sidearms."

"I'm not a normal SIS officer."

"I gathered that." Peel pointed out the silhouette of a bell tower rising above the meadow on their left. "There's the church

of Saint Michael."

"You don't say."

"I was just trying to orient you."

"This might come as a surprise, but I've done this sort of thing a time or two."

"Anywhere in particular?"

"West Belfast, South Armagh, and other assorted garden spots in the province of Northern Ireland." He lit another cigarette.

"There's where I acquired this terrible habit. One of several, as a matter of fact."

Peel made a left turn into Churchill Lane and headed north.

"Switch off your headlamps," said Christopher.

Peel did as he asked.

"The sidelights, too."

"I won't be able to see."

"Don't talk, just listen."

Peel killed the lights and reduced his speed. Clouds obscured the moon and the stars, and sunrise was still three hours away.

It was like driving with his eyes closed.

"A little faster, Timothy. I'd like to get there before they kill them."

Peel pressed the throttle, and a hedgerow clawed at the left side of the Vauxhall.

"Try to keep the damn thing on the road, will you?"

"What road?"

Christopher looked down at his phone. "You are approaching Hill Lane."

Peel managed to make the right turn without further damaging the Vauxhall and started up the slope of the highland for which

the road was named. As they were approaching the summit, Christopher instructed Peel to find a spot to leave the car. He turned

through the open gate of a pasture and rolled to a stop. A flock of sheep, invisible in the inky darkness, bleated in protest.

Christopher climbed out of the car and pulled on the rucksack, then barged through another hedgerow and struck out across

a pasture. Peel followed after him, the unauthorized Glock 19 in his right hand. The grass was knee-deep, the soil saturated

and unstable. Peel's Wellingtons squished noisily beneath him, but somehow Christopher flowed across the pasture without a

sound.

They breached another hedgerow and crossed a second pasture, this one populated by cows. A thick wood marked its northern

border. Christopher turned to Peel in the pitch-darkness and said quietly, "Please charge your firearm, Detective Sergeant."

Peel racked the slide, chambering the first round.

"Keep your finger on the side of the trigger guard and the weapon pointed toward the ground. And don't say another word unless

I speak to you first."

Christopher turned and disappeared into the trees. Peel followed a step behind, both hands on the Glock, the barrel angled

safely downward. The darkness was absolute. He could see nothing but the faint outline of Christopher's powerful shoulders.

The SIS man froze suddenly and raised his right hand. Peel stood like a statue behind him, unaware of what had provoked the

reaction. There was nothing to see, and the only sound Peel heard was the kettledrum beating of his own heart.

Christopher lowered his hand and resumed his methodical advance. When he froze a second time, he shed his rucksack and removed the Zeiss field glasses. He peered into the darkness for a long moment, then handed the glasses to Peel. They revealed to him the large property he had seen a few minutes earlier while standing at the foot of the cellular mast. The lights were still burning on the lower floor of the redbrick Georgian manor, and the Mercedes transit van was still parked outside the collection of farm buildings. There appeared to be no one behind the wheel.

Christopher returned the glasses to his rucksack and slung it over his shoulders, then led Peel out of the wood and onto the

grounds of the estate. Unlike the surrounding pastures, there was no livestock to warn of their presence. A manicured gravel

drive stretched from the manor to the outbuildings at the rear of the property. Christopher walked soundlessly along the verge,

Glock at eye level, forefinger on the trigger. Peel's weapon remained pointed at the ground.

There were three outbuildings in all, also redbrick and Georgian in style, arranged around a walled central court. To reach

the entrance required a journey of about twenty yards across the gravel. Christopher chose speed over stealth and entered

the courtyard at a dead sprint with the Glock in his outstretched hand. Peel braced himself for the sound of gunfire, but

there was only silence. He entered the courtyard to find Christopher swinging through the open door of one of the three buildings.

He emerged a moment later carrying two black hoods, one of which was crusted with dried blood.

Peel snapped a photograph of the van's registration plate, then opened the rear door. An overhead dome light illuminated the cargo hold. Christopher stared at the bloodstains, then closed the door without a sound. A moment later he was creeping across a darkened meadow toward the Georgian manor, a Glock in his outstretched hands, Timothy Peel a step behind.

***

The table was circular and fashioned of rosewood. Arrayed upon it were a pile of documents, a Montblanc fountain pen, a Faraday

pouch, a mobile phone, and a SIG Sauer P320 pistol. Gabriel and Ingrid sat shoulder to shoulder in a pair of matching George

VI coronation chairs. Hoodless, they were able to get a look at one another for the first time. There was a large bruise on

the right side of Ingrid's face, and her eye was bright red with a subconjunctival hemorrhage. Gabriel was confident he looked

far worse. Even Trevor Robinson seemed embarrassed by his appearance.

He walked over to a drop leaf end table and extracted a cigarette from an antique silver box. "I trust you've come to your

senses, Allon."

"I don't want your money, Trevor."

"What about the Picasso?"

"I'll get it back one way or another."

"Not if you're dead, you won't." Robinson lit the cigarette and sat down at the table. "Besides, Allon, do you really want

to make a widow of your wife because of a painting that happened to belong to some Jew who died in the gas chambers?"

"Are you trying to get on my good side, Trevor?"

"I wouldn't dream of it. But I am interested in helping you reach the best decision for all parties involved." Robinson placed a document before Gabriel and laid the fountain pen atop it. "This gives Harris Weber full power of attorney to handle your affairs related to this matter, including the creation of a limited liability shell company registered in the British Virgin Islands. Please sign where indicated."

"That would be rather difficult, given the fact that my hands are bound behind my back."

Robinson nodded toward one of the men.

"Don't bother," said Gabriel. "I have no intention of signing it."

"Perhaps this will change your mind." Robinson took up the pistol and leveled it at Ingrid's head. "I'm not going to do it

in here, of course. That would make quite a mess. But you will watch her die unless you sign those documents."

"Put down the gun, Trevor."

"Wise choice, Allon."

Robinson laid the gun on the table, and one of the men cut the duct tape from Gabriel's wrists. His shoulders were stiff,

as if from rigor mortis, and the fingers of his right hand struggled to maintain their grip on the elegant fountain pen. It

was the gun he wanted, the SIG Sauer P320. But in his current condition he was not at all certain he could seize it before

Robinson. Besides, now that his hands were free, the four former elite soldiers had drawn their SIGs as well. Any attempt

by Gabriel to take possession of the weapon, even a successful attempt, would result in a bloodbath.

Robinson was pointing toward the red flag attached to the bottom of the page. "Sign here, please."

"I'd like to read it first, if you don't mind," said Gabriel, and focused his eyes on the document's opening line. It was

then that he heard something that sounded like the snapping of a tree limb. For an instant he thought it was only a mirage

brought about by his concussion. But the startled reaction of the four professional security men assured him that was not

the case.

The one called Sam was the first to raise his weapon. In the cavernous room the sound of the gunshot was deafening. A reply of three shots followed, and three tightly grouped rounds blew a large hole in Sam's chest. The next two men went down like targets in a carnival shooting gallery, but the fourth managed to squeeze off several wild shots before a portion of his head vanished and his legs buckled.

Only then did Trevor Robinson reach for the SIG Sauer and point it once again toward Ingrid's head. Gabriel hurled himself

in front of her as several shots rang out. A moment later he saw a familiar face hovering over him, the face of the little

boy who had lived in the cottage at the head of the tidal creek in Port Navas. But what was he doing here, of all places?

And why was he holding a Glock 19 in his hand? Surely, thought Gabriel, the vision was illusory. It was only his disordered

mind playing tricks on him again.