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“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.
54
Vauxhall Cross
One and a half miles separated the opulent Georgian estate from the pasture where Peel had left the Vauxhall. He covered the distance in his Wellingtons in a little over ten minutes, pausing twice to be violently sick, and drove back to the estate with the headlamps doused. In the blood-spattered drawing room he found Christopher photographing the faces of the corpses. Peel had killed two of the men himself, including the gray-haired man in a suit and tie who had been preparing to shoot Gabriel and Ingrid.
He looked down at the dead man’s face. “Who is he?”
“Trevor Robinson. At least he used to be.” Christopher snapped a photo of the man, then, after scrutinizing the image, snapped a second. “He’s the chap who arranged for Professor Blake to be murdered. None of which you will ever mention to your superiors. After all, how could you? You weren’t here tonight.”
“I killed two people.”
“You did no such thing.”
Peel held up his right hand. “And when the Avon and Somerset Police swab me for gunshot residue?”
“I’m quite confident they won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we won’t be mentioning any of this to them, either.”
Peel stared at the five bodies. “We can’t just leave them here.”
“Of course we can.”
“For how long?”
