“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.

“Congratulations, Samantha. There are very few reporters who can say they brought down a prime minister. Unfortunately, you didn’t get the entire story.” He slid a bank statement across the countertop. It was from BVI Bank in the British Virgin Islands. The name of the account was something called LMR Overseas. “Do you recognize those initials?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“LMR Overseas is an anonymous shell company owned by Lord Michael Radcliff. If you review the account activity, you will see that LMR Overseas received a ten-million-pound payment from a company called Driftwood Holdings just forty-eight hours after Radcliff resigned in disgrace.”

“Is the timing significant?”

“I’d say so. You see, Samantha, the beneficial owner of Driftwood Holdings is none other than Valentin Federov.”

“That’s not possible,” she whispered.

“You’re holding the proof in your hand.”

She scrutinized the document carefully. “But how can you be sure that Lord Michael Radcliff is actually the beneficial owner of LMR Overseas? Or that Federov controls Driftwood Holdings?”

Gabriel nudged several more documents across the counter. “These are from the law firm that created and administers both of those shell companies. They prove that the real owners are Lord Radcliff and Valentin Federov.”

Samantha looked at the letterhead on the first document. “Harris Weber & Company?”

“It’s registered in the British Virgin Islands as well, but those documents came from the firm’s Monaco office.” Gabriel handed her an external flash drive. “So did these. You’ll need a team of experienced investigative reporters to help you review all the material.”

“How much is there?”

“Three point two terabytes.”

“Bloody hell! Who’s the source?”

“We received assistance from someone close to the firm. That’s all I can say.”

“We?”

Gabriel glanced at the Scandinavian-looking woman. “My associate and I.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Not one that’s relevant to these proceedings.”

Samantha pointed toward the man with bright blue eyes. “What about him?”

“Marlowe is his name.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a business consultant. His wife runs an art gallery in St. James’s.”

“Is that so?” Samantha cast her eyes over the documents arrayed before her. “Let me see if I understand this correctly. Lord Michael Radcliff, treasurer of the Conservative Party, accepts a one-million-pound contribution from a pro-Kremlin Russian businessman that leads to his own resignation and the resignation of Prime Minister Hillary Edwards. And then Lord Radcliff receives a ten-million-pound payment from the selfsame Russian businessman?”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“For helping Hugh Graves become prime minister.” Gabriel managed to smile. “Why else?”

“I was manipulated into publishing that story? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course.”

“For what reason?”