54 Vauxhall Cross

54 Vauxhall Cross

One and a half miles separated the opulent Georgian estate from the pasture where Peel had left the Vauxhall. He covered the

distance in his Wellingtons in a little over ten minutes, pausing twice to be violently sick, and drove back to the estate

with the headlamps doused. In the blood-spattered drawing room he found Christopher photographing the faces of the corpses.

Peel had killed two of the men himself, including the gray-haired man in a suit and tie who had been preparing to shoot Gabriel

and Ingrid.

He looked down at the dead man's face. "Who is he?"

"Trevor Robinson. At least he used to be." Christopher snapped a photo of the man, then, after scrutinizing the image, snapped

a second. "He's the chap who arranged for Professor Blake to be murdered. None of which you will ever mention to your superiors.

After all, how could you? You weren't here tonight."

"I killed two people."

"You did no such thing."

Peel held up his right hand. "And when the Avon and Somerset Police swab me for gunshot residue?"

"I'm quite confident they won't."

"Why not?"

"Because we won't be mentioning any of this to them, either."

Peel stared at the five bodies. "We can't just leave them here."

"Of course we can."

"For how long?"

"Until someone finds them, I suppose."

Gabriel was shoving documents into a black overnight bag. The side of his neck was caked with dried blood, and his cheek was

badly swollen. Ingrid appeared to have come through the ordeal with only a single contusion. She was clearing smashed computers

and hard drives from a credenza as though oblivious to the carnage around her.

"And what about them?" asked Peel. "Were they here tonight?"

"Don't be ridiculous," replied Christopher.

"Gabriel's blood is in that outbuilding and in the back of the van."

"Not to worry, he has plenty more."

Peel turned to Gabriel and asked, "Did you touch anything?"

He held the Montblanc fountain pen aloft, then dropped it into the nylon bag.

Peel pointed toward the mobile phone lying on the circular table. "What about that?"

"It belonged to the late Trevor Robinson. The remains of my mobile device are in that Faraday pouch." He added both items

to the overnight bag.

"Passport and wallet?" inquired Peel.

Gabriel patted the front of his jacket. "And Ingrid has hers as well. There's nothing to prove we were ever here."

"Except for the video from the security system."

"This property is owned by a corrupt Russian billionaire." Gabriel pulled the zipper on the overnight bag. "There is no video."

They switched off the lights and went out, closing the ruined front door behind them. Gabriel and Ingrid tossed their bags

into the boot and crawled into the back seat. Christopher sat in front next to Peel. He rolled up the drive with his headlamps

doused and stopped when they reached Hill Lane.

"Where to?"

"The Royal Navy air station in Yeovilton. I've arranged for a Sea King to take us back to London."

"Us?"

"You don't really think we would leave you here alone, do you?"

Peel turned into Hill Lane and immediately scraped against a hedgerow. "Request permission to turn on the bloody headlamps."

"Permission granted," replied Gabriel.

Peel met his gaze in the rearview. "Are you ever going to tell me what happened tonight?"

"You saved our lives. And for that, we are both very grateful."

"What did they want from you?"

"The documents we acquired from Harris Weber & Company in Monaco."

"Which would explain why they smashed your computers and phones."

"And the two external hard drives," added Gabriel.

"Too bad you didn't stash a copy on the Cloud."

"Yes," said Ingrid with a smile. "Too bad."

***

It was approaching 5:00 a.m. when Peel guided the Vauxhall past the sentry post at the naval air station. The Sea King waited

on the tarmac, its Rolls-Royce Gnome turboshaft engines whining. It ferried them eastward to the heliport in Battersea, where

they climbed into a dark gray van with blacked-out windows. Twenty minutes later, after a harrowing ride up Battersea Park

Road, it turned into the garage of SIS Headquarters on the Albert Embankment.

Peel and Ingrid were immediately shown to an underground holding room. But Gabriel, a frequent visitor to the building in

his previous life, was allowed to accompany Christopher upstairs to Graham Seymour's magnificent office overlooking the Thames.

The SIS chief was seated behind his mahogany desk, the same desk used by each of his predecessors. Nearby stood a stately

longcase clock constructed by Sir Mansfield Smith-Cumming, the first "C" of the Secret Intelligence Service. The hands showed

half past six.

Graham rose slowly to his feet and regarded Gabriel at length. "Who did that to you?"

"A fellow named Trevor Robinson and four hired goons."

"I knew a Trevor Robinson when I was still at Five. He worked in D Branch. Last I heard he was living in Monaco and making

millions working for a law firm that specialized in offshore financial services."

"Same Trevor," replied Gabriel.

"Where is he now?"

"A lovely Georgian manor in Somerset. It's owned by Valentin Federov, the Russian oligarch whose contribution to the Conservative

Party brought down Prime Minister Edwards. Trevor was just borrowing the place."

"I don't suppose he's still alive."

"I'm afraid not."

Seymour's eyes settled on Christopher. "Please tell me you didn't kill a former MI5 officer."

"Which answer would you like to hear?"

"What about his four associates?"

"Use your imagination, Graham."

He turned to Gabriel. "Am I to understand that Lucinda Graves is somehow mixed up in this mess?"

"Without question. And so is her husband."

"Says who?"

"The late Trevor Robinson."

"Well," said Graham. "That would present us with something of a problem, wouldn't it?"

***

Among the many amenities contained within the Secret Intelligence Service's riverfront headquarters were squash courts, a

fitness center, a rather good restaurant and bar, and a full-time medical clinic. The physician on duty, after a brief examination,

determined that her patient had likely suffered a moderate to severe concussion. He was nevertheless able to provide SIS chief

Graham Seymour with a detailed description of the unlikely series of events that had occasioned his present condition. He

omitted only a single relevant fact, that Christopher had played a minor role in the theft of the sensitive attorney-client

documents from the Monaco office of a British-registered law firm. Graham surmised as much by dint of the fact that Gabriel

had driven Christopher's Bentley to Cornwall. He was also reasonably confident that Christopher's wife, Sarah, was in it up

to her eyeballs. The three of them were thick as thieves.

"What are the chances that the Courtauld Gallery still has a copy of that video?"

"Based on the reaction of the gallery's director," replied Gabriel, "I'd say they're next to zero."

"In that case, you don't have a single shred of evidence to link Lucinda Graves to the murder of that Oxford professor. Nor,

for that matter, can you link Lucinda to a conspiracy to maneuver her husband into Downing Street. In fact, you can't prove

that such a conspiracy existed in the first place."

"The ten-million-pound payment from Valentin Federov to the treasurer of the Conservative Party would suggest that it did."

" Suggest being the operative word," said Graham. "But why bring down Hillary Edwards? What did she do to deserve such a fate?"

"Trevor Robinson declined to answer that question." Gabriel paused. "But perhaps you can."

Graham made his way to the window. The skies above London were beginning to brighten. The Thames was the color of molten lead.

"Not long after the invasion of Ukraine," he said after a moment, "it became abundantly clear to Amanda Wallace and me that

Britain's failure to clean up its financial services industry was not just a domestic problem, it had become a threat to global

security as well. We are, quite simply, the money laundering capital of the world. Untold billions in dirty and stolen money

flow through our banks and investment firms each year, much of it Russian in origin. That money has made a great many people

in London extremely rich. But it has also done a great deal of damage to our society. And it has rotted our politics to the

core."

"If memory serves," said Gabriel, "you and I once had a spirited discussion about this very topic."

"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?"