“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.”
58
Old Burlington Street
How did you get in here?”
“You left the door open.”
“Get out,” Lucinda said through clenched teeth. “Otherwise, I’ll have you arrested.”
