purchase a copy of The Daily Telegraph, and would then march on to the Imperial War Museum, formerly Bedlam Asylum. There, he would sit on one of the grounds’ benches and read the paper cover to cover, before walking four miles to West Norwood cemetery, standing in front of his wife’s grave, and giving her headstone a briefing on the latest news from around the world.
Major Mountjoy believed that Will was a life insurance salesman and had made it clear on their first encounter that Will’s profession was inhabited by the scum of the earth. Will had agreed and told him that he wished he’d had the discipline and courage to be a guardsman.
The West Square converted house was now empty of all, save Will.
He placed his hand over the knife’s handle and scrutinized the front door.
He heard a man whistling, a stair ledge creak. He frowned.
The whistling grew louder, as did the footsteps.
Will pulled out the knife and stood. He estimated it would take him one second to reach the door to plunge his knife into the man’s gut.
Though he wouldn’t get halfway down the hall if the man was a professional and had a gun.
The whistling stopped. Right outside his front door.
Will dared not move, had to remain silent.
The man noisily stamped, scuffed his boots on wooden floorboards, made a rustling noise, and began whistling again.
Then there was a bang that caused Will to leap sideways.
But the bang was caused by a cluster of letters being forced through the metal mail slot.
The man walked away from the entrance, still whistling as he exited the communal downstairs doorway.
A postman.
Will breathed shallowly and noisily through his nose as adrenaline pumped through his body. He pushed himself away from the wall and muttered, “Shit.”
Because his all-night vigil had been a waste of time. Providing the Russian team remained in their Berlin hotel, he reckoned he had time to spend one more night in his home, meaning he’d have to do the same routine for another twenty-four hours.
He sighed, decided he could risk making coffee, and grabbed the pile of mail. Taking it into the kitchen, he flicked on the kettle and began leafing through the letters.
Junk.
His hand became motionless.
One of the letters wasn’t junk. Handwritten on a cream envelope was his name and address. The postal stamp showed that it had been mailed from London.
Nobody sent Will handwritten letters.
Carefully he lifted the letter between forefinger and thumb and held it in midair. It felt light, though Will knew how to make letters of similar weight that could blind or poison when opened. He rotated it, and as he did so he caught the hint of a fragrant scent. Holding the envelope close to his nose, he frowned once he recognized the smell. His frown remained as the saw a water seal on the rear flap bearing the name of the stationer.
The Letter Press of Cirencester
A thought suddenly occurred to him, and it was coupled with panic. He dashed to the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and pulled aside deodorants, toothpaste, shaving gear, mouthwash, and a hairbrush. His bottle of Chanel Platinum Égoïste eau de toilette was missing. He ran into the living room, placed the letter on the dining table, and moved to his leather-covered writing desk. Inside its drawer he kept his gold fountain pen, given to him two years ago on the grounds of Versailles Palace by a Czech intelligence officer who’d placed a note inside it telling him how a terrorist unit was planning to kill the Chief of MI6. Alongside the pen would be a bottle of blue ink, a pad of high-quality writing paper, and matching envelopes.
He used the stationery to write to his sister, though she never replied.
The paper and envelopes had been purchased from the Letter Press of Cirencester.
He yanked open the drawers.
They were empty.
Turning, he stared at the letter on the table.
A letter that had been written with his pen on his stationery, and had been squirted with his eau de toilette
Major Mountjoy believed that Will was a life insurance salesman and had made it clear on their first encounter that Will’s profession was inhabited by the scum of the earth. Will had agreed and told him that he wished he’d had the discipline and courage to be a guardsman.
The West Square converted house was now empty of all, save Will.
He placed his hand over the knife’s handle and scrutinized the front door.
He heard a man whistling, a stair ledge creak. He frowned.
The whistling grew louder, as did the footsteps.
Will pulled out the knife and stood. He estimated it would take him one second to reach the door to plunge his knife into the man’s gut.
Though he wouldn’t get halfway down the hall if the man was a professional and had a gun.
The whistling stopped. Right outside his front door.
Will dared not move, had to remain silent.
The man noisily stamped, scuffed his boots on wooden floorboards, made a rustling noise, and began whistling again.
Then there was a bang that caused Will to leap sideways.
But the bang was caused by a cluster of letters being forced through the metal mail slot.
The man walked away from the entrance, still whistling as he exited the communal downstairs doorway.
A postman.
Will breathed shallowly and noisily through his nose as adrenaline pumped through his body. He pushed himself away from the wall and muttered, “Shit.”
Because his all-night vigil had been a waste of time. Providing the Russian team remained in their Berlin hotel, he reckoned he had time to spend one more night in his home, meaning he’d have to do the same routine for another twenty-four hours.
He sighed, decided he could risk making coffee, and grabbed the pile of mail. Taking it into the kitchen, he flicked on the kettle and began leafing through the letters.
Junk.
His hand became motionless.
One of the letters wasn’t junk. Handwritten on a cream envelope was his name and address. The postal stamp showed that it had been mailed from London.
Nobody sent Will handwritten letters.
Carefully he lifted the letter between forefinger and thumb and held it in midair. It felt light, though Will knew how to make letters of similar weight that could blind or poison when opened. He rotated it, and as he did so he caught the hint of a fragrant scent. Holding the envelope close to his nose, he frowned once he recognized the smell. His frown remained as the saw a water seal on the rear flap bearing the name of the stationer.
The Letter Press of Cirencester
A thought suddenly occurred to him, and it was coupled with panic. He dashed to the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and pulled aside deodorants, toothpaste, shaving gear, mouthwash, and a hairbrush. His bottle of Chanel Platinum Égoïste eau de toilette was missing. He ran into the living room, placed the letter on the dining table, and moved to his leather-covered writing desk. Inside its drawer he kept his gold fountain pen, given to him two years ago on the grounds of Versailles Palace by a Czech intelligence officer who’d placed a note inside it telling him how a terrorist unit was planning to kill the Chief of MI6. Alongside the pen would be a bottle of blue ink, a pad of high-quality writing paper, and matching envelopes.
He used the stationery to write to his sister, though she never replied.
The paper and envelopes had been purchased from the Letter Press of Cirencester.
He yanked open the drawers.
They were empty.
Turning, he stared at the letter on the table.
A letter that had been written with his pen on his stationery, and had been squirted with his eau de toilette
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