The Cellist by Daniel Silva

12Wormwood Cottage, Dartmoor

Wormwood Cottage was set upon a swell in the moorland and fashioned of Devon stone that had darkened with age. Behind it, across a broken courtyard, was a converted barn with offices and living quarters for the staff. The caretaker was a former MI6 fieldhand called Parish. As was often the case, he was given only a few hours’ warning of the pending arrival. It was Nigel Whitcombe—the chief’s boyish acolyte, notetaker, food taster, henchman, and primary runner of off-the-record errands—who made the call. Parish took it on the secure line in his office. His tone was that of a maître d’ from a restaurant where tables were impossible to come by.

“And the size of the party?” he wondered.

“Seven, myself included.”

“No Covid, I take it.”

“Not a speck.”

“I assume the chief will be joining us?”

Whitcombe mumbled something in the affirmative.

“Arrival time?”

“Early evening, I should think.”

“Shall I ask Miss Coventry to prepare dinner?”

“If she wouldn’t mind.”

“Traditional English fare?”

“The more traditional the better.”

“Dietary restrictions?”

“No pork.”

“Might I infer, then, that our friend from Israel will be joining us?”

“You might indeed. Mr. Marlowe, as well.”

“In that case, I’ll ask Miss Coventry to make her famous cottage pie. Mr. Marlowe adores it.”

Owing to the pandemic, it had been many weeks since the cottage had last seen company. There were rooms to open, carpets to vacuum, surfaces to disinfect, and a depleted pantry to restock. Parish helped Miss Coventry with the shopping at the Morrisons in Plymouth Road, and at half past seven he was standing in the twilit forecourt as the chief’s sleek Jaguar came nimbly up the long drive. Nigel Whitcombe arrived soon after in an anonymous service van with blacked-out windows. He was accompanied by a beautiful Slavic-featured woman who bore a passing resemblance to a famous Russian journalist who had been resettled in Britain several years earlier. What was her name? Sukhova . . . Yes, that was it, thought Parish. Olga Sukhova . . .

Whitcombe gave Parish the woman’s phone—mobile devices were forbidden in the cottage, at least where company was concerned—and led her inside. The sun dipped below the horizon, darkness gathered over the moor. Parish noted the appearance of the evening’s first stars, followed soon after by a waning gibbous moon. How fitting, he thought. These days everything seemed to be in decline.

He marked the time on his old Loomes wristwatch as another service van came bumping up the drive. Mr. Marlowe emerged first, looking as though he had just returned from a holiday in the sun. Next came two women. Parish reckoned they were in their mid-forties. One was fair-haired and pretty, an American perhaps. The other had hair like a raven’s wing, with peculiar blue streaks. Parish pegged her for another Russian.

Finally, the Israeli popped from the van like a cork from a bottle. Parish, who could scarcely rise from his bed without rupturing something, had always envied his agility and limitless stamina. His green eyes seemed to glow in the half-light.

“Is that you, Parish?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Aren’t you ever going to retire?”

“And do what?” Parish accepted the Israeli’s leaden mobile phone. “I assigned you to your old room. Miss Coventry found some clothing you left behind after your last visit. I believe she placed it in the bottom drawer of the dresser.”

“She’s too kind.”

“Unless you cross her, sir. I have the scars to prove it.”

Like Parish, Miss Coventry was old service; she had worked as a listener during the final years of the Cold War. Powdered and churchy and vaguely formidable, she was standing before the stove, an apron tied around her ample waist, when the woman with peculiar black-and-blue hair entered the cottage. The Slavic-looking woman who might or might not have been the famous Olga Sukhova was waiting anxiously in the entrance hall, next to the chief. One of the women let out a joyous shriek—which one, Miss Coventry couldn’t say. The man she knew as Peter Marlowe had planted himself in the passageway and was blocking her view.

“Miss Coventry, my love.” He gave her a roguish smile. “You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes.”

“Welcome back, Mr. Marlowe.”

In the entrance hall the two women were now conversing in animated Russian. Mr. Marlowe was peering through the oven window. “What are they saying?” he asked quietly.

“One of them is relieved that the other is still alive. It seems they’re old friends. Evidently, it’s been several years since they’ve seen one another.”

“Are the microphones switched on?”

“That’s Mr. Parish’s province, not mine.” She took down a serving platter from the sideboard. Absently, she asked, “Does your pretty new girlfriend like cottage pie as well?”

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

Miss Coventry smiled. “American, is she?”

“Not too.”

“She’s one of us?”

“A former cousin.”

“We won’t hold that against her. Though I must admit, I had hopes for you and Miss Watson.”

“So did she.”

It had been Miss Coventry’s intention to serve a socially distant supper outside in the garden, but when a blustery wind blew suddenly from the northwest, she laid a formal table in the dining room instead. The first course was an onion tart with an endive and Stilton salad, followed by the cottage pie. She and Mr. Parish dined at the small table in the kitchen alcove. Occasionally, she overheard a snatch of conversation in the next room. It couldn’t be helped—eavesdropping, like cooking, came naturally to her. They were discussing the Russian billionaire who had been murdered at his home in Chelsea. Apparently, the black-and-blue-haired Russian woman was involved somehow. Mr. Marlowe’s American friend, too.

Miss Coventry served a bread-and-butter pudding with custard for dessert. Shortly before nine o’clock, she heard the scrape of chairs on the wooden floor, signaling the meal had concluded. It was a cottage tradition to serve coffee in the drawing room. The chief and the Israeli gentleman took theirs in the adjoining study and invited the black-and-blue-haired Russian woman to join them. The pleasantries were over. The time had come, as they used to say in the old days, to have a look beneath the bonnet.

In another lifetime, before the Wall fell and the West lost its way, Miss Coventry might well have been hunched over a reel-to-reel tape machine in the next room, a pencil in her fist. Now everything was done digitally, even the transcriptions. All it took was a flip of a switch. But that was Mr. Parish’s province, she thought as she filled the kitchen basin with water. Not hers.