Frasier’s arrival occasioned a smattering of polite applause. It seemed his decision to spare the Party a protracted leadership fight had found favor with his colleagues. Several assured him in coffee-scented whispers that he had been their preferred candidate. He was certain they had told the chancellor the same thing—and that they would soon be falling over themselves to assure Hugh Graves that they had been secretly pulling for him the entire time. Such were the rules of the game. Frasier played it as well as any of them.

Hillary Edwards was laughing at something the minister of health had just told her. It looked to Frasier as though she was glad it was finally over. Her premiership would end the instant she handed her resignation to the King, though she would retain several perks, including her car and driver and her protection detail. Frasier, for his part, would soon be commuting to the Commons on the Tube, with no protection other than his wits and his briefcase. He was looking forward to that as well, or so he told himself.

He made his way over to the prime minister and kissed the proffered cheek. “You deserved better, Hillary.”

“As did you, Stephen.” She lowered her voice. “If you ever repeat this, I will deny it and denounce you as a liar, but I was hoping it would be you.”

“That means a great deal to me.”

“Might we have a word in private?” She led him into the Cabinet Room and closed the door. “You look like shit, Stephen.”

“I didn’t sleep a wink.”

“That makes two of us.” The prime minister walked over to the chair at the center of the table, the only chair in the Cabinet Room with arms, and ran a hand over the tawny leather. “I’m going to miss it, you know. I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to live up to the standards set by some of my predecessors. And if you ever repeat that, Stephen Frasier, I will deny it as well.”

“I was always loyal to you, Hillary. Even during the tough times. You made me foreign secretary. I will never forget that.”

“Have you heard any rumors about your successor?”

“The usual names are being bandied about, but nothing definitive as yet.”

“I’m worried, Stephen.”

“About?”

“The foreign policy that Hugh intends to pursue as prime minister. To borrow a line from Margaret, now is not the time to go wobbly. Hugh always said the right things about the war in Ukraine, but I was never sure his heart was really in it.”

“Nor was I. But if he tries to dial back our support for the Ukrainians, the Parliamentary Party will rebel, with me leading the charge.”

“And me at your side.” The prime minister checked the time. “We should probably invite the others in.”

“Do you have a moment for a juicy piece of gossip?”

She smiled. “Always.”

“I received a most interesting phone call a few moments ago.”

“From whom?”

“Samantha Cooke of the Telegraph.”

“My favorite reporter,” said the prime minister icily. “What did she want?”

“She asked whether we had been planning to impose strict new transparency rules on the financial sector. I had the feeling she already knew the answer.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I acknowledged that the bill in fact existed and that it had my wholehearted support. I also might have mentioned that Hugh was opposed to the plan.”

“But why is Samantha pursuing that story today, of all days? Why isn’t she outside Number Ten with the rest of the rabble?”

“We shall see,” said Frasier, and started for the door.

“Stephen?”

He paused.

“Not that it matters now, but I had nothing at all to do with approving that contribution from Valentin Federov.”

“You were always very clear about that.”

“But you believe me, don’t you, Stephen?”

“Of course, Hillary. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because no one else does. I might have been a failure as prime minister, but I am not corrupt. And I did not approve that contribution.”

“May I quote you on that?”

Hillary Edwards settled into her chair for the last time. “Please do.”

*  *  *

The clerical-looking driver of the neon-blue Mini Cooper covered the two and half miles from Queen’s Gate Terrace to Warwick Square in just under ten minutes. Lord Michael Radcliff lived in one of the grand Regency houses on the square’s northern flank. The bell push summoned a maid clad in a traditional uniform. Samantha said that Lord Radcliff was expecting her, and the maid, after a moment’s indecision, invited her inside.

His lordship was standing in the stately center hall, one hand on his ample hip, the other holding a mobile phone to his ear. He lowered the device and regarded Samantha with apprehension.

“I didn’t realize we had an appointment, Ms. Cooke.”

“We don’t. But this will only take a moment.”

Radcliff told the person at the other end of the call that a minor crisis had arisen and rang off. Then he looked at Samantha and asked, “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

“You’re the one who did the damage, Lord Radcliff. Not me.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You were the source of the leaked documents regarding the Federov contribution. You’re the reason that Hillary Edwards is about to make a farewell speech on the doorstep of Number Ten.”

“You seem to be forgetting, Ms. Cooke, that I was forced to resign as a result of the Federov scandal as well.”

“But you were well compensated in return, weren’t you? Ten million pounds, as a matter of fact. Not bad for a few minutes’ work.”

Radcliff treated her to a contemptuous smile. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

She handed him the statement from BVI Bank. He thrust on a pair of half-moon reading glasses before reviewing it.

“This proves nothing, Ms. Cooke. It is merely a coincidence that this offshore company has the same initials as I do.”