8 Victoria Embankment

8 Victoria Embankment

It occurred to Samantha Cooke, while huddled on a frigid bench on Victoria Embankment, her hands numb with cold, that perhaps

she had chosen the wrong line of work. She had been summoned to this spot by an anonymous text message. Polite in tone and

precise in syntax, it promised documents of a politically explosive nature. The sender wanted Samantha to reveal the contents

of these documents in her newspaper, which was the Tory-leaning Telegraph . Because she was the paper's chief political correspondent, and one of the most respected members of the Westminster press

corps, she was accustomed to stories arriving over her transom—especially stories that could prove damaging to the opposition

or, better yet, to a rival within one's own party. Most of the stuff was trivial and petty, but this approach felt different.

It was something significant. Samantha was certain of it.

She had felt the same way about her most recent love interest, a divorced father of two called Adam who worked for the Department of Health. But Adam quickly came to resent the fact that she spent eighteen hours a day on the phone or in front of a computer. So had all of Adam's predecessors, including Samantha's ex-husband, who was long remarried and leading a blissful upper-middle-class existence in leafy Richmond. Samantha shared a flat in Primrose Hill with her cat and lived in fear that, given the precarious state of the journalism business, she might soon find herself out of a job. Her friends from university had all gone to work in the financial sector and made gobs of money. But Samantha had been determined to do something out of the ordinary. Now, as she watched the slow rotation of the London Eye, she could at least take comfort in the knowledge that she had achieved her goal.

The bench was located next to the Battle of Britain memorial. It had been chosen by the author of the text message, whom Samantha

surmised was a well-educated man of late middle age, a description that applied to a significant portion of the British political

establishment. He had instructed her to arrive at six o'clock. But Big Ben was now tolling the bottom of the hour, and there

was still no sign of him—or the promised documents.

Annoyed, Samantha drew her mobile phone and typed, I'm waiting .

The anonymous leaker replied instantly. Patience .

Not my strong suit , answered Samantha. Now or never .

Just then she heard the clatter of high heels over paving stones and, glancing to her right, saw a woman walking toward her

from the direction of Westminster. She was not yet thirty, blond, professionally dressed, quite pretty. Her head was turned

toward the Thames, as though she were admiring the view, and in her left hand was an A4 envelope. A moment later the same

envelope was lying on the unoccupied half of the bench. The young woman, having dropped it there, continued northward along

the embankment and disappeared from Samantha's view.

Her phone pinged at once. Aren't you going to open it?

Samantha looked left and right along the embankment but could see no one who appeared to be watching her. The next message she received confirmed that, indeed, someone was.

Well, Ms. Cooke?

The envelope was lying face down on the bench. Samantha turned it over and saw the pale blue logo of the Conservative Party.

The flap was unsealed, and inside was a sheaf of internal documents dealing with the Party's fundraising efforts—one large

political contribution in particular. The documents appeared to be authentic. They were also political dynamite.

Samantha took up her phone and typed, Are these genuine?

You know they are , came the reply.

Where do you work?

A moment passed before he answered. CCH Q .

CCHQ was the Conservative Campaign Headquarters. It was located in Matthew Parker Street, not far from the Palace of Westminster.

Samantha typed her next message and tapped the send icon. I need to see you at once.

Not possible, Ms. Cooke.

At least tell me who you are. I promise not to reveal your identity.

You may refer to me as Nemo.

Nemo, thought Samantha. No one.

She returned the documents to the envelope and rang Clive Randolph, the Telegraph 's political editor. "Someone just gave me the means to bring down Prime Minister Hillary Edwards. Are you interested?"