35 Wiltons
Wiltons
It was inevitable, perhaps even fated, that the bar of Wiltons would serve as the backdrop for what unfolded next. It was
the usual scene that evening, with the usual cast of characters arrayed upon the stage—tweedy Jeremy Crabbe from Bonhams,
suntanned Simon Mendenhall from Christie’s, slick Nicky Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly rich. Roddy Hutchinson, universally
regarded as the most unscrupulous dealer in all of St. James’s, was arguing politics with Niles Dunham, an unapologetic supporter
of the Labour Party, warts and all. Julian Isherwood had once again drawn the short straw and was stuck with Oliver Dimbleby.
Tubby Oliver was delivering a homily about the current Turner and Constable exhibit at the Tate Modern. Julian was peering
into his Chablis as though contemplating suicide.
Sarah Bancroft, for her part, was seated at her usual table in the corner, drinking her usual Belvedere martini, three olives,
Saharan dry, Siberian cold. Amelia March, with her insatiable need for art world gossip, had joined her uninvited. Amelia
was drinking Campari and soda, a fine concoction, surely, but Sarah had never really seen the point.
Heads turned as Olivia Watson made her entrance. Amelia eyed her enviously. “It’s really not fair, is it?”
“It won’t last forever.”
“I’m not so sure about that. She seems to be getting more beautiful by the day.” Amelia leaned across the table and adopted a conspiratorial tone. “I don’t mean to bring up a sore subject, but I was wondering whether—”
“The delicious rumor you heard about Olivia and my husband was true?”
“It was the talk of the Wickham House fundraiser.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Sarah morosely.
“Well?”
“I won’t dignify your question with a response.”
“There was another rumor making the rounds as well,” said Amelia. “It involved you and a rather well-known art conservator.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“A classic nondenial denial. Your second of the evening, in fact.”
“It isn’t true.”
“The rumor was started by the well-known art conservator’s lovely wife. Which begs the question,” said Amelia leadingly.
“And which question is that?”
“Are you or aren’t you?”
Sarah raised her martini to her lips. “Are you asking whether I once worked for the Central Intelligence Agency?”
“He’s a former spy, and you were once madly in love with him. The connection seems obvious.”
“To you, perhaps.” Sarah was spared an additional response by the ringing of her mobile. The name of the caller was displayed
on the screen.
“Speak of the devil,” said Amelia, and rose to her feet. “Do give him my best.”
Sarah accepted the call and placed the phone to her ear. “Your timing,” she murmured, “is impeccable as always.”
“I’m not interrupting anything important, I hope.”
“Amelia March was just wondering whether I was once madly in love with you. Having seen my caller ID, she’s now absolutely certain I was.”
“You really need to change my name in your contacts.”
“I’m doing so as we speak, Mr. Mud. But how can I be of service?”
“I need to borrow your husband.”
“You can’t have him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he just returned to London, and I was planning to spend the next several days doing unspeakable things to his body.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
She sighed. “Where are you this time?”
“Back in Switzerland.”
“You’re not planning to rob another Mafia-controlled bank, are you?”
“Something better.”
“Hard to imagine.”
“Just tell that husband of yours to get to Bern as quickly as possible,” said Gabriel before ringing off. “I promise he won’t
be disappointed. And neither will his friends from the Firm.”
The Firm was how insiders sometimes referred to His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.
Sarah’s husband was known there, and everywhere else in the overt world, as Peter Marlowe.
She had never cared for the name—it sounded like something invented by a novelist—and privately she referred to him only by the name bestowed upon him at birth, which was Christopher.
His surname was Keller, a remnant of his family’s German roots.
Sarah, though she was an American by birth, was English to the core—more English than her British husband.
His superiors at SIS, who were never thrilled with his decision to wed a retired officer from another service, even a friendly one, were of the opinion that Sarah should make it official and acquire a UK passport.
For now, at least, she intended to remain exclusively an American.
The maisonette they shared was located in Queen’s Gate Terrace in Kensington. Sarah arrived there at half past six to find
Christopher taking down a bottle of Johnnie Walker from the kitchen cabinet. He wore an elegant gray suit by Richard Green
of Savile Row and a shirt and tie by Turnbull & Asser. His hair was sun-bleached, his skin was taut and dark, his eyes were
bright blue. The notch in the center of his chin looked as though it had been cleaved with a chisel. His mouth seemed permanently
fixed in an ironic half smile.
He loosened the cap on the bottle and poured three fingers of the whisky into a cut-glass Baccarat tumbler, a wedding gift
from an old friend on the island of Corsica. His packet of Marlboro cigarettes was lying on the countertop. Sarah pinched
one, then told her husband about her phone conversation with their mutual friend Gabriel Allon.
“I wonder what it could be this time.”
“Knowing Gabriel,” replied Sarah, “it could be anything.”
“What’s he been up to lately?”
“He’s supposed to be restoring a Bellotto for me.”
“Riveting stuff.” Christopher returned the bottle of whisky to the cabinet. “Anything else?”
Having spent the better part of the summer in eastern Ukraine, Christopher was in desperate need of a few days of down time
in London. But after hearing his wife’s answer, he reserved a seat on the morning’s first flight from Heathrow to Geneva.
From there it was a pleasant two hours by train to Bern. Gabriel was waiting outside the station in a Mitsubishi SUV. Christopher
dropped into the passenger seat and ignited a cigarette.
“Must you?” asked Gabriel.
“I’m afraid so, old love.”
“This is a nonsmoking car.”
“Not anymore, it isn’t.”
Gabriel lowered his window to vent the smoke and pulled away from the station.
“Mind telling me where we’re going?” asked Christopher.
“The Bernese Oberland.”
“I wish you would have told me. I would have packed some kit.”
Despite a lifelong addiction to tobacco, Christopher was a world-class climber who had already bagged most of Switzerland’s
toughest mountains, including the Matterhorn and the North Face of the Eiger. The first mountain he ever climbed was the Pen
y Fan in South Wales. He had done so while carrying a fifty-five-pound rucksack and a ten-pound assault rifle provided to
him by his instructors at the Special Air Service, Britain’s elite commando regiment. He had come to the Secret Intelligence
Service later in life than most, and with a closet full of skeletons that would have sunk an ordinary recruit. It was Gabriel
who had vouched for him.
“How much did Sarah tell you?” he asked.
“Not much. But then you weren’t terribly forthcoming when you spoke to her.”
“I said as much as I could over an insecure phone.”
“Who were you worried about?”
Gabriel inclined his head toward the east.
“You have my full attention.”
“I have a source for you and your service,” said Gabriel.
“Russian?”
“British, actually.”
“Not another wayward SIS officer, I hope.”
“She’s wayward, all right, but she has no connection to Vauxhall Cross.”
“She?”
“You heard me correctly.”
No, thought Christopher. It wasn’t possible. “What sort of work does our wayward girl do?”
“She used to do a bit of journalism. Now she doesn’t do much of anything.”
“And what exactly do you want SIS to do with her?”
“Exfiltrate her back into Britain and stash her away somewhere nice and remote.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Because she’s dead, Christopher. And she needs to stay that way for a while.”
He smoked in silence for moment. “You were dead once, as I recall. You died in that car bombing on the Brompton Road.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel darkly. “Good times.”
During the drive up the valley, Christopher regaled Gabriel with tales of mountaineering derring-do. The Eiger, he said, had
been a snooze. He scaled the North Face in just under eighteen hours, then repaired to the outdoor bar at Kleine Scheidegg
and drank himself stiff on lager. His nearest brush with death had occurred on Mont Blanc’s Go?ter Pass. The culprit was a
rockslide, which missed him only by a meter or two. Four other climbers were not so fortunate. Christopher had carried one
of the bodies down to Chamonix.
“What on earth were you doing on that mountain in the first place?”
“I was climbing it, you idiot. What do you think?”
“Do you know how many people die on Mont Blanc each year?”
“More than on Everest.”
“Far more.”
Christopher only shrugged in reply.
“Perhaps you should take up another hobby,” suggested Gabriel.
“Like what?”
“Sailing is a fine pastime.”
“No one ever dies sailing,” quipped Christopher.
An hour after leaving the rail station in Bern they arrived in Lauterbrunnen. Gabriel made for the eastern side of the valley
and rolled to a stop outside the largest chalet in sight.
“Nice crib,” said Christopher. “How much did she pay for it?”
“Too much.” Gabriel indicated the BMW. “That’s hers too. Given her driving record, it’s a miracle the thing is still in one
piece.”
“We should probably lose it somewhere.” Christopher opened his door. “How much does she know about me?”
“It’s possible she heard about your torrid affair with Olivia Watson, but otherwise you’re a blank canvas.”
“Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
Christopher followed Gabriel across the garden to the entrance of the chalet. Inside, DI Timothy Peel of the Devon and Cornwall
Police was playing a game of Scrabble with Britain’s most famous missing woman. Ingrid was hunched over her laptop.
“What’s she doing?” asked Christopher.
“Downloading the entire database of the Knight Group Limited.”
Christopher looked at Alice Winter, who was placing lettered tiles upon the board. “Does Mr. Knight’s wife know?”
Gabriel smiled. “Where do you think Ingrid got Mr. Knight’s password?”