Daniel Silva - The English Spy

Gabriel glanced around the interior of the café. “I wonder why.”

The girl walked over to the table and deposited a plate of chips and two Styrofoam cups of milky tea. As she was leaving, the door opened and two pale men in their mid-twenties hurried in out of the weather. A woman in a damp coat and downtown shoes entered a moment later. The two men took a table near Keller and Gabriel and began speaking in a dialect that Gabriel found almost impenetrable. The woman sat at the back of the shop. She had only tea to drink and was reading a worn paperback book.

“What’s going on outside?” asked Gabriel.

“Four men standing in front of a betting parlor. One man looking like he’s had enough of the rain.”

“Where does he live?”

“Not far,” answered Keller. “He likes to live among the people.”

Gabriel drank some of the tea and made a face. Keller pushed the plate of chips across the table. “Eat some.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I want to live long enough to see my children born.”

“Good idea.” Keller smiled, then added, “Men of your age really should be careful about what they eat.”

“Watch yourself.”

“How old are you, exactly?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Problems with memory loss?”

Gabriel drank some of the tea. Keller nibbled at the chips.

“They’re not as good as the fries in the south of France,” he said.

“Did you get a receipt?”

“Why would I need a receipt?”

“I hear the bookkeepers at MI6 are very picky.”

“Let’s not get carried away about MI6 just yet. I haven’t made any decisions.”

“Sometimes our best decisions are made for us.”

“You sound like the don.” Keller ate another chip. “Is it true about MI6 bookkeepers?”

“I was just making conversation.”

“Are yours tough?”

“The worst.”

“But not with you.”

“Not so much.”

“So why didn’t they get you something better than a Škoda?”

“The Škoda is fine.”

“I hope he’ll fit in the trunk.”

“We’ll slam the lid on him a few times if we have to.”

“What about the safe house?”

“I’m sure it’s lovely, Christopher.”

Keller didn’t appear convinced. He picked up another chip, thought better of it, and dropped it onto the plate.

“What’s going on behind me?” he asked.

“Two lads speaking no known language. One woman reading.”

“What’s she reading?”

“I believe it’s John Banville.”

Keller nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on Ballyfermot Road.

“What do you see?” asked Gabriel.

“One man standing outside a betting parlor. Three men getting into a car.”

“What kind of car?”

“Black Mercedes.”

“Better than a Škoda.”

“Much.”

“So what do we do?”

“We leave the fries and take the tea.”

“When?”

Keller rose to his feet.

THEY DROPPED THE STYROFOAM CUPS into a rubbish bin in the Tesco parking lot and climbed into the Škoda. This time, Keller drove; it was his turf. He eased into Ballyfermot Road and worked his way through the traffic until there were two cars separating them from the Mercedes. He drove calmly, one hand balanced atop the steering wheel, the other resting on the automatic shift. His eyes were straight ahead. Gabriel had commandeered the side-view mirror and was watching the traffic behind them.

“Well?” asked Keller.

“You’re very good, Christopher. You’re going to make a fine MI6 officer.”

“I was asking whether we’re being followed.”

“We’re not.”

Keller removed his hand from the shift and used it to extract a cigarette from his coat pocket. Gabriel tapped the black-and-yellow notice on the visor and said, “This is a no-smoking car.”

Keller lit the cigarette. Gabriel lowered his window a few inches to vent the smoke.

“They’re stopping,” he said.

“I can see that.”

The Mercedes turned into an angled parking space outside a newsagent. For a few seconds no one got out. Then Liam Walsh stepped from the rear passenger-side door and entered the shop. Keller drove about fifty meters farther along the road and parked outside a takeaway pizza parlor. He killed the lights but left the engine running.

“I suppose he needed to pick up a few things on his way home.”

“Like what?”

“A Herald ,” suggested Keller.

“No one reads newspapers anymore, Christopher. Haven’t you heard?”

Keller glanced toward the pizza parlor. “Maybe you should go inside and get us a couple of slices.”

“How do I order without speaking?”

“You’ll think of something.”

“What kind of pizza do you like?”

“Go,” said Keller.

Gabriel climbed out and entered the shop. There were three people in the queue in front of him. He stood there waiting as the smell of warm cheese and yeast washed over him. Then he heard a brief burst of a car horn and, turning, saw the black Mercedes speeding off along Ballyfermot Road. He went back outside and lowered himself into the passenger seat. Keller reversed out of the space, slipped the car into drive, and accelerated slowly.

“Did he buy anything?” asked Gabriel.

“Couple of papers and a pack of Winstons.”

“How did he look when he came out?”

“Like he really didn’t need newspapers or cigarettes.”

“I assume the Garda watches him on a regular basis?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Which means he’s used to being followed from time to time by men in unmarked sedans.”

“One would think.”

“He’s turning,” said Gabriel.

“I can see that.”

The car had turned into a bleak, unlit street of small terraced houses. No traffic, no shops, no place where two outsiders might conceal themselves. Keller pulled to the curb and doused the headlamps. A hundred meters farther down the street, the Mercedes nosed into a drive. The lights of the car went dark. Four doors opened, four men climbed out.

“Chez Walsh?” asked Gabriel.

Keller nodded.

“Married?”

“Not anymore.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Could be.”

“What about a dog?”

“You have a problem with dogs?”

Gabriel didn’t answer. Instead, he watched the four men approach the house and disappear through the front door.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“I suppose we could spend the next several days waiting for a better opportunity.”

“Or?”

“We take him now.”

“There are four of them and two of us.”

“One,” said Keller. “You’re not coming.”

“Why not?”

“Because the future chief of the Office can’t get mixed up in something like this. Besides,” Keller added, patting the bulge beneath his jacket, “we only have one gun.”

“Four against one,” said Gabriel after a moment. “Not very good odds.”

“Actually, given my history, I like my chances.”

“How do you intend to play it?”

“The same way we used to play it in Northern Ireland,” answered Keller. “Big boys’ games, big boys’ rules.”

Keller climbed out without another word and soundlessly closed the door. Gabriel swung a leg over the center console and slid behind the wheel. He flicked the wipers and glimpsed Keller walking along the street, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders tilted into the wind. He checked his BlackBerry. It was 8:27 p.m. in Dublin, 10:27 p.m. in Jerusalem. He thought of his beautiful young wife sitting alone in their apartment in Narkiss Street, and of his two unborn children resting comfortably in her womb. And here he was on a desolate street in south Dublin, a sentinel on yet another night watch, waiting for a friend to settle an old score. The rain hammered against the windscreen, the bleak street became a watery dreamscape. Gabriel flicked the wipers a second time and saw Keller pass through a sphere of yellow sodium light. And when he flicked the wipers a third time, Keller was gone.