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“It was a blazing row, as I recall. And as was often the case, you were right.” Graham walked over to his desk and removed a manila folder from the top drawer. “This is a copy of a confidential report that Amanda and I presented to Hillary Edwards last autumn. It recommended strict new anti-money-laundering laws and other reforms to flush the dirty money from our financial system and real estate markets, and from our politics as well. The prime minister, after reading our report, wanted to go even further. So did the chancellor of the Exchequer and the foreign secretary.”
“What about Hugh Graves?”
“The home secretary was concerned that the proposed legislation would weaken a key British industry and needlessly anger the Party’s deep-pocketed financial backers in the City of London. The prime minister disagreed and informed the Cabinet that she intended to move forward with a first reading of the bill as quickly as possible. Then the story appeared in the Telegraph, and she was finished.”
“Perhaps you can convince her to reconsider her decision to resign.”
“Impossible.” Graham looked at the face of the longcase clock. It was a few minutes after seven. “In approximately four hours’ time, Hillary Edwards will deliver her resignation to the King at Buckingham Palace. His Majesty will then invite Hugh Graves to form a new government in his name, at which point he becomes prime minister. There’s nothing that can stop him now.”
“And if His Majesty were to decline to meet with him?”
“It would send our political system into turmoil.”
“Perhaps you can intervene.”
“An even worse idea.” Graham offered Gabriel the manila folder. “You, however, are uniquely positioned to help us out of this unfortunate situation.”
Gabriel accepted the document. “That leaves the five dead bodies at Valentin Federov’s estate in Somerset.”
“A regrettable situation,” said Graham. “Who do you think was behind it?”
Gabriel smiled. “Surely it was the Russians.”
“Yes,” agreed Graham. “Ruthless bastards, aren’t they?”
55
Queen’s Gate Terrace
It had been Samantha Cooke’s ambition, having worked the previous evening until 2:00 a.m., to sleep until at least half past eight, which would leave her just enough time to get to Downing Street to witness the departure of one prime minister and the arrival of another. Her phone, however, awakened her at seven fifteen. She didn’t recognize the number but tapped accept nonetheless.
“What on earth do you want?”
“Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”
The old friend was Gabriel Allon.
“I called you about a thousand times last night. Where in God’s name were you?”
“Sorry, Samantha. But I was tied up and couldn’t come to the phone.”
“Care to explain?”
“I’d love nothing more. A car will appear outside your door in a few minutes. Please get in it.”
“Can’t, I’m afraid. I have to get to Downing Street to cover the changing of the guard.”
“There isn’t going to be one. Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“Really? And how are you going to manage that?”
“You,” he said, and the call went dead.
***
The car was an all-electric Mini Cooper, neon blue in color. The man behind the wheel had the benevolent demeanor of a country parson, but he drove like a demon.
“Haven’t we met somewhere before?” asked Samantha as they hurtled along the Westway.
