“Impossible.” Graham looked at the face of the longcase clock. It was a few minutes after seven. “In approximately four hours’ time, Hillary Edwards will deliver her resignation to the King at Buckingham Palace. His Majesty will then invite Hugh Graves to form a new government in his name, at which point he becomes prime minister. There’s nothing that can stop him now.”
“And if His Majesty were to decline to meet with him?”
“It would send our political system into turmoil.”
“Perhaps you can intervene.”
“An even worse idea.” Graham offered Gabriel the manila folder. “You, however, are uniquely positioned to help us out of this unfortunate situation.”
Gabriel accepted the document. “That leaves the five dead bodies at Valentin Federov’s estate in Somerset.”
“A regrettable situation,” said Graham. “Who do you think was behind it?”
Gabriel smiled. “Surely it was the Russians.”
“Yes,” agreed Graham. “Ruthless bastards, aren’t they?”
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 doppelgänger. 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.
