57 Buckingham Palace

57 Buckingham Palace

The Mini Cooper was waiting curbside when Samantha emerged from Lord Radcliff's house. Her phone rang the instant she settled

into the passenger seat.

"Well?" asked Gabriel.

"We had a rather spirited exchange, to put it mildly."

"He denied everything?"

"But of course. Then, after threatening to sue me to death, he told me the truth."

"Why would he do a thing like that?"

"Because it turns out that his lordship was a bit player in a much broader conspiracy to bring down the Edwards government.

And he wasn't going to take the fall alone."

"Did he name names?"

"Quite a few," said Samantha. "But you'll never guess the name of the ringleader."

"Be still, my beating heart."

"Mine's going a mile a minute."

"Have you got the receipts?"

"A recording, actually. Now if you'll excuse me," she said before ringing off, "I have a story to write."

***

Prime Minister Hillary Edwards emerged from Number Ten promptly at ten fifteen and took to the lectern to deliver her farewell

address. She had prepared the text without the help of her speechwriters and memorized it during her sleepless final night

in Number Ten's private apartment. She made no mention of the scandal that brought down her government or of her successor.

Nor did she make any attempt to defend her turbulent premiership, having decided to leave that to the historians and the press.

She was resigned to the fact that their verdict was likely to be harsh.

At the conclusion of her remarks, she slid into her official Range Rover Sentinel and left Downing Street for the last time

as prime minister. A few tourists gawked at her during the short drive to Buckingham Palace, but there was no show of support.

The King's equerry, kilted and adorned with decorations, greeted her in the central quadrangle and escorted her upstairs to

the 1844 Room, where His Majesty waited. Their conversation was brief, a few pleasantries, a question or two about her children

and her plans. Then she handed over her resignation and it was done. She was left with the distinct impression that the monarch

was not sorry to see her go.

The equerry then marched her downstairs to the quadrangle and helped her into the Range Rover. Her phone was lying on the back seat, quivering with a stream of incoming text messages. She assumed they were expressions of support from her Party colleagues, the same colleagues who had unceremoniously cast her out of Number Ten. She would grant herself a few hours' reprieve before responding—time enough, she reasoned, for the sting of her public defenestration to subside. She was not yet fifty and had no intention of retiring from the Commons and fading into obscurity. Memories of the Federov fiasco would soon fade, and she would once again stand for Party leader. There was nothing to be gained by petty vindictiveness.

But as her Range Rover sped along Birdcage Walk, the stream of text messages suddenly turned to a raging river. She reluctantly

took up her phone and read the message that was bannered across the top of the screen. It was the MP from Waveney, a steadfast

friend and ally.

He must be stopped...

There was no indication of who he was or why this fellow needed stopping. But subsequent messages quickly unraveled the mystery. Several contained a link to

a breaking news story that had appeared while Hillary was meeting with the King. Written by Samantha Cooke, it said that the

Telegraph had obtained a recording of the prominent London financier Lucinda Graves conspiring with the ousted Conservative Party treasurer

Lord Michael Radcliff to bring down the Edwards government. The centerpiece of the plot was the million-pound Federov contribution.

It had been made, according to a Party insider, with the specific intention of harming the prime minister.

A prime minister, thought Hillary Edwards, who had just handed her resignation to the King.

She rang Stephen Frasier.

"We shall see, indeed," he said. "I had a feeling it was something big."

"Now we know why Samantha was asking you about the financial reform package. I only wish she had published her story a few minutes earlier. I would have thought twice about resigning."

"Had you done that, Hillary, you would have thrown the Party into turmoil."

"If the messages on my phone are any indication, the Party already is in turmoil. Someone has to convince Hugh to cancel his

meeting with the King. He is in no position to accept an invitation to form a new government."

"Nor, for that matter, should His Majesty extend one."

"Talk about turmoil," said Hillary.

"Perhaps you should ring him."

"His Majesty?" she quipped.

"Hugh Graves. If he'll take anyone's call, it's yours."

"What a splendid idea."

Her first call to Graves went straight to his voicemail. When two more attempts to reach him met with the same result, she

called Stephen Frasier again.

"Much to my surprise," she said darkly, "Hugh isn't answering."

"That's probably because he's now on his way to the Palace."

"Someone has to tell him to turn around."

"Agreed," said Frasier. "But who?"

***

"For the record," said Christopher as he guided his Bentley along South Carriage Drive, "this is a truly dreadful idea."

"My specialty," replied Gabriel from the back seat.

"Mine, too," seconded Ingrid.

Christopher glanced at the morose-looking young detective sergeant hunched in the passenger seat. "And what about you, Timothy? Don't you have an opinion?"

"I'm not here, remember?"

"Well done, my boy. You obviously have a bright future."

"I had a bright future. Now I have no future at all."

"Could be worse," said Christopher. "Just ask Hugh Graves."

According to Radio 4, the prime minister–designate was on his way to Buckingham Palace, unaware, it seemed, of the explosive

story in the Telegraph regarding his wife's involvement in the Federov scandal. The BBC's presenters were running out of adjectives to describe

the unprecedented nature of the unfolding political crisis. Gabriel, for his part, was enjoying the spectacle immensely.

"Make a left turn into Park Lane," he said.

"I know the bloody way," replied Christopher.

"I was afraid you might be trying to take advantage of my diminished mental capacity."

"Your brain seems to be functioning just fine." Christopher shot a glance into the rearview mirror. "But your face could definitely

use a bit of retouching."

"It will have to do for now."

"How are you planning to explain that nasty bruise to your wife and children?"

"It's a toss-up between you and the goat. I'm leaning toward you."

Christopher turned into Stanhope Gate and headed eastward across Mayfair.

"Nicely done," remarked Gabriel.

"Care for another injury?"

Ingrid laughed quietly.

"Don't encourage him," said Gabriel.

"I'm sorry. But the two of you are quite funny."

"Trust me, we've had our ups and downs."

Samantha Cooke had joined the BBC's coverage by phone from the Telegraph 's newsroom. Under intense questioning from the presenters, she declined to say how she had obtained the recording of Lucinda

Graves and Lord Michael Radcliff. She then expressed regret over having published her original story about the Federov contribution.

She had been misled, she said, as part of the conspiracy to bring down Prime Minister Edwards.

Her chosen successor reached the gates of Buckingham Palace as Christopher skirted Berkeley Square. Two minutes later, after

a dash down Savile Row, he braked to a halt outside a six-story contemporary office building in Old Burlington Street. A gray

Range Rover Sentinel waited curbside, watched over by two officers from the Met's Protection Command. The press were gathered

on the opposite side of the street, their cameras trained on the building's entrance.

"For the record," said Christopher.

"I heard you the first time," replied Gabriel, and climbed out of the car.

***

The employees of Lambeth Wealth Management had noticed that something was amiss the minute Lucinda arrived at the office. Her edgy mood, they reckoned, was understandable. Her husband was about to become prime minister, thus requiring a suspension of her career. She had already selected a placeholder chief executive and transferred her substantial personal fortune to a blind trust. All that remained was a farewell address to the troops. Knowing Lucinda, it would be as warm as the North Sea in winter. She reserved her seductive charm for Lambeth's moneyed clients. Her employees were more likely to be on the receiving end of her volatile temper. She had grudging admirers at the firm but no close friends. She was feared rather than loved, which was how she preferred it.

Nevertheless, the staff organized a reception to mark the occasion. It was held downstairs on the fifth floor, the engine

room, as Lambethians referred to it. The flat-screen televisions, usually tuned to the financial channels, had been switched

to the BBC. They were muted while Lucinda spoke—coincidentally, at the same moment Hillary Edwards was delivering her farewell

address outside Number Ten. Lucinda's speech was the longer of the two. Afterward she worked the room, an untouched glass

of champagne in her hand. Her smile was forced. She seemed anxious to be on her way.

At exactly 10:45 a.m., as Hillary Edwards was handing her resignation to the King, a silence fell over the gathering, and

the firm's stunned employees turned to face the televisions. No one dared to raise the volume, but then it wasn't necessary;

the breaking news banner at the bottom of the screen was sufficient. Lucinda was the last to notice it. Her brittle smile

faded, but the hand holding the champagne flute remained steady.

"Turn it up, please," she said after a moment, and someone increased the volume. The voice they heard was Lucinda's; there

was no mistaking her throaty contralto. It was a recording of a conversation she had had some months earlier with Lord Michael

Radcliff, the fallen Conservative Party treasurer and a longtime Lambeth client. They were discussing a plan to bring down

the Edwards government. The BBC presenters and political analysts had dispensed with any semblance of objectivity and were

beside themselves with indignation.

"Will you excuse me?" said Lucinda, and climbed the internal staircase to the sixth floor. The privacy blinds in her office were drawn, which had not been the case when she went down to the reception. The culprit was standing before the window overlooking Old Burlington Street, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. Lucinda managed not to scream when he turned to face her.

"You," she gasped.

"Yes," he replied with a smile. "Me."