Eastwood set the scene in motion with the click of his mouse. When the time stamp in the lower right corner of the screen read 4:12:38, Gabriel asked the security chief to pause the recording. Then he pointed toward the woman coming through the doorway, wearing a Burberry overcoat and scarf against the December cold.

“There she is.”

Eastwood resumed the playback. As Gabriel predicted, Professor Charlotte Blake headed directly to the Courtauld’s café and placed her order at the crimson counter. The table she selected was in a deserted corner of the room. After shedding her coat, she pulled a book from her bag and began to read.

It was 4:25 p.m.

“You see,” said Geoffrey Holland. “She merely popped into the café for a cup of tea and a scone.”

“On the same afternoon that you were meeting with the museum’s board of trustees.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Do you remember what time the meeting ended?”

“If memory serves, it dragged on until nearly five.”

Gabriel asked Simon Eastwood to advance the recording to 4:55 p.m. and increase the playback speed. Charlotte Blake sat with the stillness of a figure in a painting while patrons and employees buzzed like insects around her.

“Pause it,” said Gabriel when the time stamp reached 5:04:12. Then he pointed to one of the figures in the tableau. “Do you recognize her?”

“Yes, of course,” replied Geoffrey Holland.

It was Lucinda Graves.

Gabriel asked Simon Eastwood to resume the playback at normal speed. Eastwood looked to Geoffrey Holland for approval, and Holland, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded his head solemnly. Then they watched in silence as the wife of the soon-to-be prime minister sat down opposite a woman who in a month’s time would be dead. By all appearances their conversation was cordial. It concluded at 5:47 p.m. They were the last customers to leave the café.

“May I have a copy of this video?” asked Gabriel.

Eastwood looked at Geoffrey Holland, who delivered his ruling without delay.

“No, Mr. Allon. You may not.”

*  *  *

“Perhaps it slipped her mind,” said Ingrid without conviction.

“It didn’t. She invited me to her office to pump me for information and then lied to my face. Quite well, I might add. Lucinda Graves is the link between Charlotte Blake and Trevor Robinson. Lucinda is the reason that Charlotte was murdered.”

They were walking westward along the Strand toward Trafalgar Square. “When you think about it,” said Ingrid, “it would explain a great deal.”

“Beginning with the Federov scandal,” added Gabriel. “It was manufactured by Lucinda and her friends at Harris Weber in order to force Hillary Edwards to resign. It was a coup directed against a sitting British prime minister.”

“None of which we can prove.”

“With one important exception.”

“The ten-million-pound payment from Valentin Federov to Lord Radcliff?”

“Exactly.”

They rounded a corner into Bedford Street and headed toward Covent Garden. Ingrid asked, “How much does Radcliff know about the plot?”

“If I had to guess, he knows everything.”

“Which means his lordship is a most dangerous man.”

“So am I,” replied Gabriel.

“What are you planning to do?”

He pulled his phone from his pocket, composed a text message, and tapped send.

The reply was instant.

I’ll call you back in five minutes . . .

*  *  *

Christopher’s beloved Bentley was wedged into a slender space on the bottom level of a car park in Garrick Street. Gabriel, certain the vehicle had not survived the ordeal intact, hurried down the internal stairwell with Ingrid at his heels. The light on the lower landing, functional an hour earlier, was no longer working. Consequently, he never saw the object—a human fist or perhaps a large-caliber bullet—that slammed into the left side of his skull. He was aware of his legs buckling beneath him and of his face colliding with concrete. Then there was only darkness, warm and wet, and the maddening electronic ringtone of his unanswered telephone.

48

Westminster

The phone at the other end of the call belonged to Samantha Cooke, chief political correspondent of the Telegraph. Needless to say, she was perplexed by her inability to reach her old friend. He had been a trusted source in the past, especially during the Madeline Hart affair, which had made Samantha’s reputation. Furthermore, it was he who had made contact with her. His text message implied that he had uncovered vital information related to the Conservative Party leadership election, which Samantha herself had set in motion with her explosive reporting on the Valentin Federov contribution. She had promised to ring him back in five minutes and had been true to her word. And now, inexplicably, he was ignoring her.

Samantha redialed, then, after disregarding the automated invitation to leave a voicemail, dashed off a quick text expressing her urgent desire to speak to him. It included a reference to her present location, which was the Members Lobby of the Palace of Westminster. For all the tension in the air, there was little doubt as to how the first round of balloting would play out. Indeed, Samantha had already written her story, with the exception of the final vote totals. It declared that Chancellor Nigel Cunningham’s candidacy had come to an end and that an overwhelming majority of Tory backbenchers wanted Home Secretary Hugh Graves to lead the Party into the next general election. Foreign Secretary Stephen Frasier had underperformed expectations. He nevertheless intended to take his case to the Party rank and file.

It was all cut and dried, thought Samantha, and dull as dishwater. Which was just one of the reasons why she was so anxious to make contact with her trusted source. “I’m Gabriel Allon,” he had told her on the occasion of their first meeting. “I only do big.”

But why wasn’t he answering her calls? She sent another text message and, receiving no response, swore softly.

“Surely it’s not as bad as all that,” said a familiar male voice.

Samantha looked up from her phone and saw the even-featured face of Hugh Graves. She quickly managed to regain her composure. “My editor,” she groaned.

“If he had any sense, he’d double your salary.”

“I’m lucky I still have a job, Secretary Graves. These are tough times for the newspaper business.”

“And for other British industries as well. But I assure you, the country’s future is limitless.”

It sounded as though he were rehearsing the speech that he would soon deliver on the doorstep of Number Ten. Samantha was having none of it. “The most recent economic forecasts,” she pointed out, “paint a far bleaker picture.”

“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by what the next year will bring.”

“With you at Number Ten?”