The English Girl. Daniel Silva

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28. Pas-De-Calais, France

       Part Two: The Spy

       29. Audresselles, Pas-De-Calais

       30. Tiberias, Israel

       31. Corsica

       32. Corsica–London

       33. London

       34. Basildon, Essex

       35. Basildon, Essex

       36. Chelsea, London

       37. Cheyne Walk, Chelsea

       38. Hampstead Heath, London

       39. Grayswood, Surrey

       40. Grayswood, Surrey

       41. Mayfair, London

       42. Copenhagen, Denmark

       43. Copenhagen, Denmark

       44. Copenhagen, Denmark

       45. Zealand, Denmark

       46. Grayswood, Surrey

       47. Grayswood, Surrey

       48. Moscow

       49. Red Square, Moscow

       50. Café Pushkin, Moscow

       51. Tver Oblast, Russia

       52. Tver Oblast, Russia

       53. St. Petersburg, Russia

       54. Lubyanka Square, Moscow

       55. St. Petersburg, Russia

       56. Lubyanka Square, Moscow

       57. St. Petersburg, Russia

       Part Three: The Scandal

       58. London–Jerusalem

       59. London

       60. London

       61. Corsica

       62. Corsica

       Author’s Note

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       Also Written By Daniel Silva

       About the Publisher

PART ONE

       1

       PIANA, CORSICA

      THEY CAME FOR her in late August, on the island of Corsica. The precise time would never be determined—some point between sunset and noon the following day was the best any of her housemates could do. Sunset was when they saw her for the last time, streaking down the drive of the villa on a red motor scooter, a gauzy cotton skirt fluttering about her suntanned thighs. Noon was when they realized her bed was empty except for a trashy half-read paperback novel that smelled of coconut oil and faintly of rum. Another twenty-four hours would elapse before they got around to calling the gendarmes. It had been that kind of summer, and Madeline was that kind of girl.

      They had arrived on Corsica a fortnight earlier, four pretty girls and two earnest boys, all faithful servants of the British government or the political party that was running it these days. They had a single car, a communal Renault hatchback large enough to accommodate five uncomfortably, and the red motor scooter which was exclusively Madeline’s and which she rode with a recklessness bordering on suicidal. Their ocher-colored villa stood at the western fringe of the village on a cliff overlooking the sea. It was tidy and compact, the sort of place estate agents always described as “charming.” But it had a swimming pool and a walled garden filled with rosemary bushes and pepper trees; and within hours of alighting there they had settled into the blissful state of sunburned semi-nudity to which British tourists aspire, no matter where their travels take them.

      Though Madeline was the youngest of the group, she was their unofficial leader, a burden she accepted without protest. It was Madeline who had managed the rental of the villa, and Madeline who arranged the long lunches, the late dinners, and the day trips into the wild Corsican interior, always leading the way along the treacherous roads on her motor scooter. Not once did she bother to consult a map. Her encyclopedic knowledge of the island’s geography, history, culture, and cuisine had been acquired

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