55 Queen’s Gate Terrace

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.

"Never had the pleasure," he replied.

"Davies is your name, isn't it? You delivered me to that safe house up in Highgate a few years ago."

"Must have been my doppelg?nger. My name's Baker."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Baker. I'm Victoria Beckham."

They flashed through Bayswater in a blur, then careened through Kensington to Queen's Gate Terrace, where they lurched to

a stop outside a large Georgian house the color of clotted cream. The driver instructed Samantha to use the lower entrance.

"And by the way," he added, "it was lovely to see you again, Ms. Cooke."

She climbed out of the car and descended the flight of steps leading to the lower entrance. A ruggedly handsome man with bright

blue eyes and a notch in the center of his square chin waited to receive her.

"Please come in, Ms. Cooke. I'm afraid we haven't much time."

She followed him into a spacious eat-in kitchen. An attractive woman in her mid-thirties, Scandinavian in appearance, was pouring herself a cup of coffee. Gabriel was seated atop a stool at the granite-topped island, staring at a mobile phone. It was connected to a laptop. Next to the laptop was a pile of documents.

"What happened to you?" asked Samantha.

"I slipped and fell in a car park in Garrick Street."

"How many times?"

He looked up from the phone, then indicated the stool next to him. "Have a seat, please."

Samantha removed her coat and sat down. Gabriel handed her a printout of a story from the Telegraph . It was her exclusive on the Valentin Federov contribution.

"Congratulations, Samantha. There are very few reporters who can say they brought down a prime minister. Unfortunately, you

didn't get the entire story." He slid a bank statement across the countertop. It was from BVI Bank in the British Virgin Islands.

The name of the account was something called LMR Overseas. "Do you recognize those initials?"

"Can't say that I do."

"LMR Overseas is an anonymous shell company owned by Lord Michael Radcliff. If you review the account activity, you will see

that LMR Overseas received a ten-million-pound payment from a company called Driftwood Holdings just forty-eight hours after

Radcliff resigned in disgrace."

"Is the timing significant?"

"I'd say so. You see, Samantha, the beneficial owner of Driftwood Holdings is none other than Valentin Federov."

"That's not possible," she whispered.

"You're holding the proof in your hand."

She scrutinized the document carefully. "But how can you be sure that Lord Michael Radcliff is actually the beneficial owner

of LMR Overseas? Or that Federov controls Driftwood Holdings?"

Gabriel nudged several more documents across the counter. "These are from the law firm that created and administers both of those shell companies. They prove that the real owners are Lord Radcliff and Valentin Federov."

Samantha looked at the letterhead on the first document. "Harris Weber & Company?"

"It's registered in the British Virgin Islands as well, but those documents came from the firm's Monaco office." Gabriel handed

her an external flash drive. "So did these. You'll need a team of experienced investigative reporters to help you review all

the material."

"How much is there?"

"Three point two terabytes."

"Bloody hell! Who's the source?"

"We received assistance from someone close to the firm. That's all I can say."

"We?"

Gabriel glanced at the Scandinavian-looking woman. "My associate and I."

"Does she have a name?"

"Not one that's relevant to these proceedings."

Samantha pointed toward the man with bright blue eyes. "What about him?"

"Marlowe is his name."

"What does he do for a living?"

"He's a business consultant. His wife runs an art gallery in St. James's."

"Is that so?" Samantha cast her eyes over the documents arrayed before her. "Let me see if I understand this correctly. Lord Michael Radcliff, treasurer of the Conservative Party, accepts a one-million-pound contribution from a pro-Kremlin Russian businessman that leads to his own resignation and the resignation of Prime Minister Hillary Edwards. And then Lord Radcliff receives a ten-million-pound payment from the selfsame Russian businessman?"

"Correct."

"Why?"

"For helping Hugh Graves become prime minister." Gabriel managed to smile. "Why else?"

"I was manipulated into publishing that story? Is that what you're saying?"

"Of course."

"For what reason?"

Another document came gliding across the countertop. It was a memorandum from the directors of the Secret Intelligence Service

and MI5, addressed to Prime Minister Edwards.

"I heard rumors of this," said Samantha. "But I was never able to prove its existence."

"I suggest you ring the foreign secretary. Evidently, he was quite keen on the proposal. So was the chancellor."

"And Graves?"

"What do you think?"

"I think Hugh and his lovely wife, Lucinda, probably thought it was a dreadful idea."

"Graves was definitely opposed to the new regulations. As for his lovely wife..."

"Is she involved in this somehow?"

"You should probably put that question to the person who told you about the Federov contribution."

"I don't know who the source was."

"Of course you do, Samantha. The answer is staring you right in the face."

She looked down at the documents. "Where?"

Gabriel pointed toward the second paragraph of her original story.

"You bastard."

***

Samantha immediately rang Clive Randolph, the Telegraph 's political editor, and in a remarkable display of journalistic skill dictated eight paragraphs of pristine if alarming copy.

Randolph, having played a supporting role in bringing down a British prime minister, was in no mood to destroy her chosen

successor even before he had settled into Number Ten.

"Not with this thin gruel," he said.

"I've got the goods, Clive."

"Where have I heard that before?"

"I got played. It happens."

"Who's to say you're not being played again?"

"The documents are irrefutable."

"Send them to me right away. But I want a quote, Samantha. A full and complete admission. Otherwise, we wait."

"If we wait—"

The connection died before she could finish the thought.

She quickly photographed the statements from BVI Bank and the attorney-client documents from Harris Weber and, as instructed,

emailed them to her editor. Then she reread the memorandum that Graham Seymour and Amanda Wallace had prepared for Prime Minister

Edwards. With a call to Foreign Secretary Stephen Frasier, she confirmed that Edwards had intended to move forward with the

reforms, with Frasier's full support.

"And what about Hugh Graves?" she asked.

"Do I really need to answer that?"

"He was opposed, I take it?"

"Vehemently. But don't quote me. Background only. Now if you'll excuse me, Samantha, my car is pulling up outside Number Ten.

The final meeting of the Cabinet followed by the traditional last photograph. Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to

it."

Samantha rang off and returned the memorandum to Gabriel.

"Do you remember our ground rules?" he asked.

"I can characterize the document only. No direct quotes."

She shoved the documents and the external hard drive into her bag and pulled on her coat. Gabriel was staring at the phone

again. It was vibrating with an incoming call.

"Shouldn't you answer that?"

"It's not important." He placed the phone face down on the countertop and eased himself off the stool. He was quite obviously

in considerable pain.

"What aren't you telling me, Gabriel Allon?"

"A great deal."

"You realize that my career and reputation are on the line?"

"You can trust me, Samantha."

"May I ask one more question?"

"By all means."

She looked at the phone lying on the counter. "Who was that call from?"

"Lucinda Graves."

"Why would she be calling you, of all people?"

"She's not."