50 Garrick Street

50 Garrick Street

The technology that allowed Christopher Keller to determine the whereabouts of his automobile was nothing more sophisticated

or secretive than the Bentley app on his mobile phone. He had used the same software to monitor Gabriel and Ingrid's movements

during their visit to Cornwall. He knew, for example, that they had lunched at the Blue Ball Inn in Clyst Road in Exeter,

doubtless with Detective Sergeant Timothy Peel of the Devon and Cornwall Police. He also knew that they had spent the night

in Bath, probably at the Gainsborough hotel and spa in Beau Street. By eleven o'clock that morning the Bentley was in Old

Burlington Street in Mayfair, and shortly before noon it was moved to Garrick Street in Covent Garden. Christopher had no

idea why, as all attempts to reach Gabriel that evening had proven fruitless. Even more ominous, it now appeared as though

his phone was off the air.

The taxi dumped Christopher outside a Waterstones. He crossed Garrick Street, phone in one hand, the spare remote for his car in the other, and headed down the corkscrew ramp of the garage. He found the car crammed into a corner space on the lower level, its doors unlocked. There was no luggage or computer bags—and no external hard drives containing sensitive attorney-client documents from the law firm of Harris Weber & Company.

Christopher walked over to the metal door that gave onto the internal stairwell. On the tarmac there were dark droplets of

something that appeared to be dried blood. He found more droplets inside the stairwell itself, though he had to use his phone

to see them because someone had unscrewed the overhead light. This was the spot where they had made their move, he thought.

They were professionals, men such as himself. But because this was London, where the CCTV surveillance cameras never blinked,

it was all on video.

Christopher hurried over to the Bentley and slid behind the wheel. Five minutes later, after paying the exorbitant charge

for a ten-hour stay, he was speeding down Whitehall toward Parliament Square. The political drama unfolding at Conservative

Campaign Headquarters had brought Westminster to a standstill. He battled his way along Broad Sanctuary to Victoria Street

and continued west to Eaton Square in Belgravia, where, at ten fifteen, he arrived at the home of Graham Seymour, the director-general

of the Secret Intelligence Service.

His eccentric wife, Helen, answered the bell dressed in a flowing silk kaftan. Graham was upstairs in his study, watching

the news on television. He inclined a cut-glass tumbler of single malt toward the screen. Hugh Graves and Stephen Frasier

were standing shoulder to shoulder on the floodlit pavement outside Party Headquarters. Graves was all smiles. Frasier appeared

stoic in defeat.

"It seems we have a new prime minister," said Graham.

"I'm afraid we have a much bigger problem than that," replied Christopher.

Graham muted the television. "What now?"

Christopher fortified himself with some of the whisky before attempting to explain the situation.

"What on earth was he doing in Covent Garden?"

"Truth be told, I haven't a clue."

Frowning, Graham reached for his secure phone and dialed Amanda Wallace, his counterpart at MI5. "Sorry to be calling so late,

but I'm afraid we have a bit of a crisis on our hands. It seems something has happened to our friend Gabriel Allon... Yes,

I know. Why did it have to be tonight of all nights?"

***

Later it would be determined that Amanda Wallace rang the Operations Room at MI5's Millbank headquarters at 10:19 p.m. and

informed the duty officer that Gabriel Allon was missing and presumed kidnapped. She then gave the duty officer Allon's last

known location, which was a public car park in Garrick Street. He had arrived there at midday in a borrowed Bentley automobile.

MI5 was to make no effort to identify the owner of the vehicle, as he was a clandestine operative of the rival service based

on the opposite side of the Thames at Vauxhall Cross.

With an array of invasive surveillance tools at his disposal, the duty officer and his crack staff quickly determined that

the borrowed Bentley had entered the car park at 12:03 p.m. Allon emerged four minutes later, accompanied by an attractive

woman in her mid-thirties. They made their way on foot to the nearby Courtauld Gallery and remained there for a period of

forty-two minutes. Leaving, they engaged in an animated conversation as they walked along the Strand. After making the turn

into Bedford Street, Allon appeared to have composed and sent a single text message.

They returned to the car park in Garrick Street at one fifteen and were not seen again. The next vehicle to depart the facility, at 1:20 p.m., was a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter transit van, dark blue in color, driven by a large man wearing a dark coverall and a woolen watch cap. He headed across the Waterloo Bridge to Southbank and by three o'clock was approaching the cathedral city of Canterbury. The van's last known location was the Kent Downs, a 326-square-mile nature area where CCTV cameras were scarce. It was the assumption of the MI5 duty officer and his staff that the kidnappers had transferred Allon and the woman to a second vehicle—and that they were no longer in the southeast of England.

But what was Gabriel Allon doing in London in the first place? And where had he gone before his visit to the Courtauld Gallery?

An answer to the second question, at least, was easily obtainable. Allon had dropped the woman in Piccadilly at 10:55 a.m.

and driven to Old Burlington Street, where he entered a six-story modern office block. The building's most prominent client,

interestingly enough, was the wealth management firm run by Lucinda Graves, the wife of the next British prime minister.

It was this intriguing piece of news that MI5 director-general Amanda Wallace, at 11:10 p.m., delivered by secure phone to

her counterpart at the Secret Intelligence Service. "The question is, Graham, what was he doing there?"

"Lucinda's on the board of trustees at the Courtauld, if I recall."

"She is, indeed."

"Could have been art related," suggested Graham.

"Perhaps," replied Amanda.

"I don't suppose you've mentioned any of this to the home secretary. After all, he is your minister."

"I didn't want to spoil his evening. Evidently, they're having quite a blowout in Holland Park at the moment."

"In that case, I think we should keep it between us for now."

"I couldn't agree more."

Graham rang off and looked at Christopher. "Do you have any idea why your friend Gabriel Allon went to see the wife of the

next British prime minister this morning?"

"Lucinda Graves?" Christopher helped himself to another glass of the single malt before answering. "Actually, I'm afraid I

might."