“I wouldn’t know.”

“Think she might be interested in having a drink with a handsome country policeman when this is over?”

“Probably not.”

Peel unlocked the doors of the Vauxhall. “What now?”

“I’m going to find out whether the wife of the next prime minister is a criminal.”

“And if she is?”

Gabriel climbed out without another word and dropped behind the wheel of the Bentley. Ingrid, after sliding off the bonnet, ducked into the passenger seat. Peel shadowed them eastward as far as Exeter, then pulled onto the verge and flashed his headlamps. Gabriel flashed his lights twice and was gone.

*  *  *

It was Leonard Bradley’s habit, at the conclusion of each trading day, to pull on a pair of Wellington boots and walk the cliffs alone. The time away from his desk and computers, he told Cordelia and the children, was an essential part of his work. It gave him a chance to clear his head of clutter, to reflect on his successes and console himself over the occasional market misstep, to see around the next corner, to quite literally look beyond the horizon.

Until recently, the sojourns along the cliffs had also provided Bradley with the opportunity, perhaps once or twice a week, to spend a few moments with Charlotte. They would pretend to bump into one another near Porthchapel Beach. And if no one else was in sight, they would steal away to the thick wood near the old St. Levan Church. The hurried encounters, with their impassioned kisses and desperate clutching at clothing, only fed their desire. Yes, their affair had been a long one, but seldom did they actually complete the sexual act. Their problem was logistical in nature. Bradley lived and worked in the isolated manor he shared with his wife and children, and Charlotte divided her time between Oxford and gossipy little Gunwalloe on the Lizard Peninsula. She forbade Bradley from ever calling on her there. Her neighbors, she said, watched her like hawks.

Especially Vera Hobbs and Dottie Cox. If they ever see us together, we’ll be the talk of Cornwall . . .

For a long time after Charlotte’s murder, Bradley had ventured only eastward, oftentimes wandering as far as the fishing village of Mousehole. Now he headed westward into the glare of the declining sun, down to Logan Rock, over to Porthcurno Lookout, across the car park of the Minack Theatre to the cliffs above Porthchapel Beach. He half expected to see Charlotte waiting there, a wicked smile on her face. “Haven’t we met somewhere before?” she used to say. And Bradley would reply, “Why yes, I believe we were at Oxford together.” Bradley had been posh and Charlotte had been northern and poor. Posh boys like Bradley did not marry poor girls from the north. They married girls like Cordelia Chamberlain.

He cast his gaze toward the thicket of trees near St. Levan Church and imagined the final dreadful seconds of Charlotte’s life. It was obvious that Gabriel Allon and the young detective did not believe that she had been murdered by the serial killer known as the Chopper. She was killed because of her investigation into the Picasso—and Bradley, in one way or another, had had a hand in her death. Now, to make matters worse, he had managed to entangle the wife of the next prime minister in the matter. After carefully weighing his options, he concluded he had no choice but to warn her that she would soon be hearing from none other than Gabriel Allon.

He placed the call while standing on the windblown cliff above Porthchapel Beach, a few hundred yards from the spot where Charlotte had been murdered. Much to his surprise, the wife of the next prime minister answered straight away. “Listen, Lucinda,” he said with an air of false indifference. “I know you must be terribly busy at the moment, but you’ll never guess who dropped by to see me today.”

46

Old Burlington Street

By the time they reached Taunton, Gabriel’s eyes were heavy with fatigue. Bristol was the most obvious place to spend the night, but Ingrid had always wanted to visit the ancient Roman city of Bath, and it was only a few miles out of their way. They walked the honey-colored splendor of the historic center until sunset, then repaired to their adjoining rooms at the Gainsborough hotel and spa in Beau Street. Ingrid connected her computer to her mobile hot spot, checked the download speed, and went to work.

This time her target was BVI Bank, a notoriously corrupt financial institution located across the street from the Watering Hole in Road Town. Owing to the time difference, BVI’s employees were still at their desks when Ingrid commenced her attack. One of them, a vice president called Fellowes, unwittingly granted her access to the bank’s most sensitive data, including an account linked to LMR Overseas, the shell company owned by Lord Michael Radcliff.

“Oh my goodness,” said Ingrid.

“What’s wrong?” asked Gabriel from the next room.

“Just forty-eight hours after Lord Radcliff resigned as treasurer of the Conservative Party, he received a payment of ten million pounds.”

“From whom?”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me that the money came from Winston Churchill himself.”

“I’m afraid it’s better than that.”

“That’s not possible.”

“You might want to come in here.”

Gabriel hoisted himself off the bed and went through the communicating door. Ingrid was seated at the writing desk, her face lit by the glow of her laptop. With Gabriel looking over her shoulder, she pointed toward the name of the company that had paid Lord Michael Radcliff ten million pounds.

It was Driftwood Holdings.

“Valentin Federov?” asked Gabriel.

Ingrid smiled. “Do you know what that means?”

“It means that the Conservative Party official who accepted the million-pound contribution that brought down Prime Minister Hillary Edwards received ten times that amount from the same Russian businessman.”

“Does that sound like a coincidence to you?”

“No,” replied Gabriel. “It sounds like a conspiracy to remove Hillary Edwards from Ten Downing Street.”

“I thought so, too. But why?”

*  *  *

Ingrid downloaded Lord Radcliff’s account information to her external hard drive, then copied the data onto Gabriel’s backup device. They both managed to get several hours of sleep and by eight the following morning were headed east on the M4. As they were approaching Heathrow, Gabriel rang the main number at Lambeth Wealth Management and asked to speak to the firm’s chief executive officer, Lucinda Graves. He was transferred to Ms. Graves’s assistant, and the assistant questioned him at length as to the nature of his call. At the conclusion of her inquisition, she took down his contact information but held out little hope that Ms. Graves would be getting back to him anytime soon. The Conservative Party leadership election was scheduled to begin in earnest at 2:00 p.m. If all went according to plan, Ms. Graves’s husband would soon be prime minister.

Gabriel rang off and looked at Ingrid. “That went about as well as could be expected.” But by the time they reached the London suburb of Chiswick, his phone was ringing.

“You must forgive my assistant,” said Lucinda Graves. “As you can probably imagine, I’m suddenly the most popular financier in London.”

“To tell you the truth, I was pleased she seemed not to recognize my name.”

Lucinda Graves laughed. “I’m only sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk at the Courtauld the other night. My husband is going to be green with envy.”

“Why is that?”

“He was quite disappointed that you declined his invitation to drop by the Home Office. I can’t wait to tell him that you came to see me instead.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Any time before two o’clock would be fine.”

“I can be there by eleven.”

“It sounds to me as though you’re driving.”

“The M4.”

“Do you know where my office is located?”

“Old Burlington Street in Mayfair.”