56 Number Ten

56 Number Ten

The atmosphere in Downing Street was of a pending public execution. The instrument of death, a wooden lectern, stood a few

paces from Number Ten's famous black door. The bloodthirsty spectators, in this case the Whitehall press corps and their colleagues

from around the globe, were gathered on the opposite side of the street. The flash of their cameras dazzled Stephen Frasier's

eyes as he emerged from his ministerial car. He savored the moment; it was the last time he would ever arrive at the seat

of British power as foreign secretary. A part of him was actually looking forward to being a backbencher again. At least that

was the fairy tale that Frasier had told himself after bowing out of the leadership contest. He hadn't slept a minute last

night. He only hoped it didn't show.

The press were baying for a comment. Frasier damned his rival with faint praise before making his way past the lectern toward the door of Number Ten. As usual, it opened automatically. Rectangular red carpets were arrayed over the black-and-white checkerboard floor in the lobby. A few other members of the Cabinet were milling about like strangers at a funeral.

Frasier's arrival occasioned a smattering of polite applause. It seemed his decision to spare the Party a protracted leadership

fight had found favor with his colleagues. Several assured him in coffee-scented whispers that he had been their preferred

candidate. He was certain they had told the chancellor the same thing—and that they would soon be falling over themselves

to assure Hugh Graves that they had been secretly pulling for him the entire time. Such were the rules of the game. Frasier

played it as well as any of them.

Hillary Edwards was laughing at something the minister of health had just told her. It looked to Frasier as though she was

glad it was finally over. Her premiership would end the instant she handed her resignation to the King, though she would retain

several perks, including her car and driver and her protection detail. Frasier, for his part, would soon be commuting to the

Commons on the Tube, with no protection other than his wits and his briefcase. He was looking forward to that as well, or

so he told himself.

He made his way over to the prime minister and kissed the proffered cheek. "You deserved better, Hillary."

"As did you, Stephen." She lowered her voice. "If you ever repeat this, I will deny it and denounce you as a liar, but I was

hoping it would be you."

"That means a great deal to me."

"Might we have a word in private?" She led him into the Cabinet Room and closed the door. "You look like shit, Stephen."

"I didn't sleep a wink."

"That makes two of us." The prime minister walked over to the chair at the center of the table, the only chair in the Cabinet Room with arms, and ran a hand over the tawny leather. "I'm going to miss it, you know. I'm only sorry I wasn't able to live up to the standards set by some of my predecessors. And if you ever repeat that, Stephen Frasier, I will deny it as well."

"I was always loyal to you, Hillary. Even during the tough times. You made me foreign secretary. I will never forget that."

"Have you heard any rumors about your successor?"

"The usual names are being bandied about, but nothing definitive as yet."

"I'm worried, Stephen."

"About?"

"The foreign policy that Hugh intends to pursue as prime minister. To borrow a line from Margaret, now is not the time to

go wobbly. Hugh always said the right things about the war in Ukraine, but I was never sure his heart was really in it."

"Nor was I. But if he tries to dial back our support for the Ukrainians, the Parliamentary Party will rebel, with me leading

the charge."

"And me at your side." The prime minister checked the time. "We should probably invite the others in."

"Do you have a moment for a juicy piece of gossip?"

She smiled. "Always."

"I received a most interesting phone call a few moments ago."

"From whom?"

"Samantha Cooke of the Telegraph ."

"My favorite reporter," said the prime minister icily. "What did she want?"

"She asked whether we had been planning to impose strict new transparency rules on the financial sector. I had the feeling

she already knew the answer."

"And what did you tell her?"

"I acknowledged that the bill in fact existed and that it had my wholehearted support. I also might have mentioned that Hugh

was opposed to the plan."

"But why is Samantha pursuing that story today, of all days? Why isn't she outside Number Ten with the rest of the rabble?"

"We shall see," said Frasier, and started for the door.

"Stephen?"

He paused.

"Not that it matters now, but I had nothing at all to do with approving that contribution from Valentin Federov."

"You were always very clear about that."

"But you believe me, don't you, Stephen?"

"Of course, Hillary. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because no one else does. I might have been a failure as prime minister, but I am not corrupt. And I did not approve that

contribution."

"May I quote you on that?"

Hillary Edwards settled into her chair for the last time. "Please do."

***

The clerical-looking driver of the neon-blue Mini Cooper covered the two and half miles from Queen's Gate Terrace to Warwick

Square in just under ten minutes. Lord Michael Radcliff lived in one of the grand Regency houses on the square's northern

flank. The bell push summoned a maid clad in a traditional uniform. Samantha said that Lord Radcliff was expecting her, and

the maid, after a moment's indecision, invited her inside.

His lordship was standing in the stately center hall, one hand on his ample hip, the other holding a mobile phone to his ear. He lowered the device and regarded Samantha with apprehension.

"I didn't realize we had an appointment, Ms. Cooke."

"We don't. But this will only take a moment."

Radcliff told the person at the other end of the call that a minor crisis had arisen and rang off. Then he looked at Samantha

and asked, "Haven't you done enough damage?"

"You're the one who did the damage, Lord Radcliff. Not me."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You were the source of the leaked documents regarding the Federov contribution. You're the reason that Hillary Edwards is

about to make a farewell speech on the doorstep of Number Ten."

"You seem to be forgetting, Ms. Cooke, that I was forced to resign as a result of the Federov scandal as well."

"But you were well compensated in return, weren't you? Ten million pounds, as a matter of fact. Not bad for a few minutes'

work."

Radcliff treated her to a contemptuous smile. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

She handed him the statement from BVI Bank. He thrust on a pair of half-moon reading glasses before reviewing it.

"This proves nothing, Ms. Cooke. It is merely a coincidence that this offshore company has the same initials as I do."

"But that's not true, Your Lordship." Samantha handed over the documents from Harris Weber. "These prove beyond a shadow of

a doubt that you are the beneficial owner of LMR Overseas."

He flipped through the documents in silence for a moment, then asked, "Where did you get these?"

"They were given to me by a trusted source. Unlike you, he had the decency to deliver them in person."

"These are confidential documents that were undoubtedly stolen from my attorneys. If you publish anything about them, I shall haul you into court and sue you into oblivion."

She snatched the documents from his grasp. "Perhaps you should phone your libel lawyer. Because I intend to reveal the ten-million-pound

payment that you received from Federov later this morning. My story will also suggest that it was part of a plot by Harris

Weber and its wealthy clients to ensure that the so-called London Laundromat remain open for business."

"The ten million pounds was related to my work as an international business consultant and investor, not my work for the Party.

It was a fee for services rendered, nothing more."

"Payable to an offshore account held by your anonymous shell company?"

"Such arrangements are quite common and perfectly legal. My lawyers and I will be happy to walk you through the paperwork."

Another smile. "How does next week sound?"

"If it was all perfectly legal and quite common, why did you lie to me about LMR Overseas?"

"Because wealthy individuals such as myself use anonymous offshore companies for a reason. Acknowledging beneficial ownership

of such a company would rather defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?"

"You use anonymous companies, in part, to shield dirty deals like this one from the prying eyes of the press. Fortunately,

I have the means of making it public. Something tells me that your fellow citizens won't look favorably upon your business

relationship with Federov. In fact, I'm confident your reputation will be ruined after my story appears."

"Which is why I would advise you to tread carefully. Otherwise, you'll be hearing from my lawyers." He slipped past her and

opened the door. "Please leave, Ms. Cooke. I have nothing more to say."

"Have you no statement at all?"

"Write whatever you want. But bear in mind, it will have profound consequences."

"I certainly hope so," snapped Samantha, and stormed out of Radcliff's house.

"One moment, Ms. Cooke."

She paused at the bottom of the steps.

"Your story will be wrong for another reason."

"How so?"

"Perhaps we should discuss the ground rules first," said Radcliff.

"Your choice."

"Background only."

"Proceed, Your Lordship."

"The conspiracy to bring down Hillary Edwards went far beyond a single law firm."

"How far?"

"I'll tell you everything you need to know." Radcliff paused, then added, "On one condition."

"What's that?"

"Your story must make no mention of the ten million pounds I received from Valentin Federov."

"No deal."

"If you publish the details of that payment, we're going to spend the next several years tearing each other limb from limb

in court. Neither one of us will emerge with our reputations intact. I'm offering you a way out, not to mention the story

of a lifetime. What's it going to be, Ms. Cooke? Going once. Going twice..."