The Final Crumpet (37 page)

“I’ll wager there’s not a level floor or a plumb wall in the whole structure,” he said.

“And I’ll wager that Nikolai Melnikov didn’t buy Briar Wood Farm with the wages of a humble Soviet bureaucrat.”

“An interesting observation. I’d say you’re right.”

Nigel drove across the small wooden bridge and stopped next to two large trees that stood as sentinels on either side of the driveway. They exited the BMW without slamming the doors and walked slowly toward the house.

“This is unquestionably not a working farm,” Flick said. “I don’t see any utility vehicles, and there’s not a cow or chicken in sight. I doubt there are any in the barn; it looks more decorative than real.”

“One should hardly expect live chickens this close to Tunbridge Wells in this day and age. A horse perhaps—that can add to the ambience of a proper gentleman’s farm.” He couldn’t help raising his voice. “And there’s the blasted Ford Transit van. How would you feel about slashing its tires?”

“Maybe later.” She added, “Where do you suppose Conan’s men are hiding?”

“Somewhere close to the house—I hope.”

“I think I see movement inside the living room, behind the curtains.”

“This is your plan,” he said, “do you have any last-minute advice?”

“Yes. Next time, please don’t listen to my ideas.”

“You’re having second thoughts?”

“And third and fourth and fifth.”

“It’s too late to retreat. I just saw a curtain flutter; someone inside has seen us.”

Nigel moved ahead of Flick to the front door. He lifted the heavy brass doorknocker and brought it down twice. He heard the thud reverberate through the old house, then the sound of shoes walking on a planked floor.

Nigel stepped backwards as the door swung inwards. He immediately recognized Nikolai Melnikov from the retouched image prepared by Hannah Kerrigan. She’d gotten the key points right: His head was shaven and his complexion leathery. Amazingly, Kolya in the flesh bore little resemblance to “Rupert Perry,” a sign of the man’s great skills at disguise.

“Yes?” The retired KGB officer offered a weak smile.

“How can I help you? I presume that you’ve lost your way.”

Nigel noticed a muscle twitch in Kolya’s jaw, but otherwise he gave no hint that he recognized them.

Flick pushed past Nigel into the house. “Playing dumb won’t work, Kolya, my boy. We know who you are, and you know who we are.”

That’s my Flick. Strong. Confident. Invincible.

What was left of Kolya’s smile vanished. “Stand still. Make no further attempt to enter my home.” He called to the next room. “Bertie, your attention is required. We have a lunatic female on our doorstep.”

Nigel could hear unmistakable vestiges of a Russian accent in Kolya’s speech, which probably meant that he was feeling stress.
Good.

Nigel moved alongside Flick into an Elizabethan version of a great room, although this particular example could easily have been mistaken for a Danish modern furniture showroom. Every piece in the room looked to be made of teak. The upholstery seemed a festival of strong primary colors. All in all, Nigel decided, an interior that had absolutely nothing in common with the exterior.

One can probably say the same thing about Kolya himself.

Nigel looked to his right as Bertrand Bartholomew entered the room. Because he hadn’t seen “Martin Maltby” in person, he couldn’t say how effective his disguise had been. But once again, Hannah’s rendering had been remarkably on-target.

“These people claim to know who we are,” Kolya said to Bertie.

“That’s hardly a matter worth bragging about. We’ve both been on the telly, and we make no secret of our identities.” He pointed to Kolya. “His name is Melnikov; my name is Bartholomew. He lives here; I live in Brighton. He used to work for the Soviet government; I used to work for Her Majesty’s government.”

Flick pressed on. “In fact you both have two names. Mr. Bartholomew, you sometimes call yourself Martin Maltby; and Mr. Melnikov, your occasional alias is Rupert Perry.”

Bertie made a face. “I truly have no idea what you’re talking about, young lady.”

Flick smiled. “Wow! That sounded
utterly
sincere. It’s tough to look another person in the eye and tell a barefaced lie. Is that a trick they taught you in spy school?”

“I think it’s time for you to be on your way,” Kolya said. Flick reached into a manila envelope. “Okay, but before I go, let me show you Exhibit 1. I have here a photograph of Martin Maltby taken two days ago at the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.” She let the picture slip between her fingers. It fell like a leaf at Bertie’s feet. She reached into the envelope again. “Here’s the very same picture after a skilled digital retoucher removed the wig, nose prosthesis, mouth prosthesis, and makeup you wore. Isn’t it amazing? It’s you.” She let the second picture flutter down to his feet.

Bertie shook his head. “You are mad.”

“Do you think so?” Flick smiled prettily, then dropped before and after images of “Rupert Perry” face up on the floor.

Nigel took a quick glance at Bertie and Kolya. Their self-assured expressions had faded considerably. Kolya in particular had a despondent look on his face. Nigel began to relax. With each passing minute, the two retired spies seemed more and more like two old gents living out their retirements in the bucolic English countryside.

But just because they’re harmless doesn’t mean they will tell us anything.

“Shall we sit down and talk about it?” Flick asked.

“Talk about what?” Bertie said. His voice had lost much of its previous confidence.

“About the quid pro quo we’re going to arrange. You are going to tell us your secrets, and we are going to pledge to keep them secret.”

“What
secrets
do you have in mind?” Kolya asked.

“The ones we haven’t figured out already that pertain to our chief topic of interest. Specifically, gentlemen, we are trying to understand Etienne Makepeace’s relationship with the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. We are convinced that you can illuminate this topic for us and answer many of our pressing questions.” Flick put her hand on the back of a teakwood rocking chair. “I’m sure that we’ll be more comfortable if we sit down; we’re going to be here for quite a while.”

“We know nothing about Etienne Makepeace other than what we’ve seen on the telly,” Bertie said.

“We certainly have no secrets about the man,” Kolya added. “What a pity,” Flick said. “If that’s true, we won’t be able to help each other.”

“What do you mean,
help each other?”
Kolya said. “First you talk about secrets, now you talk about help. You make no sense.”

“Ah. Then let me explain. You were going to help us by telling us secrets. We were going to help you by keeping you out of prison.”

“We have nothing more to talk about,” Kolya said. “You have no right to threaten us. Leave my house.”

“Nigel, can you see if Conan has finished his examination of the green minivan?”

Bertie dashed to a front window.
“What
examination?” Nigel moved to the front door and opened it. He made a showy wave and shouted, “Conan, how goes it?”

“I’m all finished, sir,” said a disembodied voice from outside. A moment later, Conan walked through the door. “There’s no doubt, it’s the very same van. They made no attempt to camouflage it. We’ve got them trussed up like pheasants in a butcher’s window. They’ll go down for common assault at a minimum, more likely attempted murder.”

“Who is he? And what is he talking about?”

“Oh no,” Flick said, “now you’re being silly. You certainly know that Conan Davies is chief of security at the museum.”

“Good afternoon, gents,” Conan said, “it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance after taking so many photographs of you.” Conan turned a Danish modern chair around to face them and sat down.

“I’ve been eager to ask you a question,” he said. “What game are you playing at? I can’t figure it out. Why would you commit felonies in public places when you know that you’ll be photographed doing the evil deeds? You’re not stupid men; that much I’m sure of. But yet, you threaten these people in a car park and then attempt to run them down on Frant Road, in broad daylight.”

Conan shook his head sadly. “There are only two possible answers that I’ve been able to come up with. The first is that you think I’m a fool and that I don’t know how to watch over the people I’m hired to protect. I agree, of course, that I
might
be a fool who doesn’t make use of the latest surveillance technologies. If this is what you think, you’ve made a serious mistake. I have high-resolution telly movies of everything you’ve done.”

Nigel caught a glimpse of Kolya’s face. His brow was sweating, and there was a definite look of panic in his eyes.

Conan went on. “My second answer is worse than the first. It’s that you gentlemen are locked in some sort of mental time warp, in which dismal condition you honestly believe that the spying tradecraft you learned during the 1950s and 1960s can still be used during the first decade of the twenty-first century.

He lifted his hands in an inquiring gesture. “Is it possible that you believe a disguise composed of a wig, some theatrical makeup, and a simple facial prosthesis can defeat a modern, multispectral surveillance camera and digital image correction? If so, you’re too much of a danger to yourselves to be allowed out on your own. I suggest, for your own safety, you hire a guardian to watch over you.”

Nigel held his breath. Flick and Conan had played their trump cards. If Bertie and Kolya refused to cooperate now—well, the good guys would have to slink away.

Nikolai Melnikov smiled. “If we’re going to have a chat, I’d best prepare some tea for Felicity and coffee, I suppose, for Nigel. Conan—what would you like?”

“Tea is perfect, sir.”

“Kolya, what are you doing?” Bertie growled.

Kolya smiled. “I’m being hospitable. That’s really the sort of person I am.”

“They’re bluffing.”

“I think not, Bertie. You can see the pictures they brought. We needed hours to build those disguises; their camera saw through them in seconds.” He heaved a deep sigh. “The world has changed. We are decades behind the times, my friend.”

Nigel glanced at Flick. The expression on her face hadn’t changed.
Good.
The slightest hint of gloating or self-satisfaction might cause Kolya to reverse course. Their “win” seemed exceptionally fragile; one could almost sense the brittle atmosphere in the room.

Bertie shrugged. “I don’t suppose it makes much difference, although I really wanted that knighthood. All the section heads I worked with have found their way to the
honors list
—and most of them are younger than I.”

“You know that I wish you well, Bertie; many late-age knighthoods are announced each year. But you also know how I feel. Becoming a knight is nothing but a decadent, bourgeois remnant of the failed English class system. The so-called honor is not worthy of you, my friend.”

“You’re saying that merely to cheer me up.”

“True—but my efforts should prove that I care about you.” He added, “Now, what would you like to drink?”

“Do you have any Ovaltine left?”

“For you, always.”

Flick chimed in. “Kolya, would you like me to help in the kitchen?”

“That would be most welcome, Felicity.”

Nigel exchanged stares with Conan. He could guess what his security chief was thinking.
When had their carefully orchestrated interrogation session become a tea party?

Flick placed one of the heavily laden trays on a low table near the great room’s large hearth, then stepped aside so Kolya could put his tray down. She surveyed the arrangements. The refreshments were in easy reach of five Danish armchairs Nigel and Conan had arrayed around the table: She, Nigel, and Conan would sit on one side, Kolya and Bertie on the other. Flick took her seat; the four men quickly followed.

“May I ask a preliminary question?” Bertie said.