“Of course you do, Samantha. The answer is staring you right in the face.”
She looked down at the documents. “Where?”
Gabriel pointed toward the second paragraph of her original story.
“You bastard.”
* * *
Samantha immediately rang Clive Randolph, the Telegraph’s political editor, and in a remarkable display of journalistic skill dictated eight paragraphs of pristine if alarming copy. Randolph, having played a supporting role in bringing down a British prime minister, was in no mood to destroy her chosen successor even before he had settled into Number Ten.
“Not with this thin gruel,” he said.
“I’ve got the goods, Clive.”
“Where have I heard that before?”
“I got played. It happens.”
“Who’s to say you’re not being played again?”
“The documents are irrefutable.”
“Send them to me right away. But I want a quote, Samantha. A full and complete admission. Otherwise, we wait.”
“If we wait—”
The connection died before she could finish the thought.
She quickly photographed the statements from BVI Bank and the attorney-client documents from Harris Weber and, as instructed, emailed them to her editor. Then she reread the memorandum that Graham Seymour and Amanda Wallace had prepared for Prime Minister Edwards. With a call to Foreign Secretary Stephen Frasier, she confirmed that Edwards had intended to move forward with the reforms, with Frasier’s full support.
“And what about Hugh Graves?” she asked.
“Do I really need to answer that?”
“He was opposed, I take it?”
“Vehemently. But don’t quote me. Background only. Now if you’ll excuse me, Samantha, my car is pulling up outside Number Ten. The final meeting of the Cabinet followed by the traditional last photograph. Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to it.”
Samantha rang off and returned the memorandum to Gabriel.
“Do you remember our ground rules?” he asked.
“I can characterize the document only. No direct quotes.”
She shoved the documents and the external hard drive into her bag and pulled on her coat. Gabriel was staring at the phone again. It was vibrating with an incoming call.
“Shouldn’t you answer that?”
“It’s not important.” He placed the phone face down on the countertop and eased himself off the stool. He was quite obviously in considerable pain.
“What aren’t you telling me, Gabriel Allon?”
“A great deal.”
“You realize that my career and reputation are on the line?”
“You can trust me, Samantha.”
“May I ask one more question?”
“By all means.”
She looked at the phone lying on the counter. “Who was that call from?”
“Lucinda Graves.”
“Why would she be calling you, of all people?”
“She’s not.”
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.
