“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.”
