“But that’s not true, Your Lordship.” Samantha handed over the documents from Harris Weber. “These prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are the beneficial owner of LMR Overseas.”

He flipped through the documents in silence for a moment, then asked, “Where did you get these?”

“They were given to me by a trusted source. Unlike you, he had the decency to deliver them in person.”

“These are confidential documents that were undoubtedly stolen from my attorneys. If you publish anything about them, I shall haul you into court and sue you into oblivion.”

She snatched the documents from his grasp. “Perhaps you should phone your libel lawyer. Because I intend to reveal the ten-million-pound payment that you received from Federov later this morning. My story will also suggest that it was part of a plot by Harris Weber and its wealthy clients to ensure that the so-called London Laundromat remain open for business.”

“The ten million pounds was related to my work as an international business consultant and investor, not my work for the Party. It was a fee for services rendered, nothing more.”

“Payable to an offshore account held by your anonymous shell company?”

“Such arrangements are quite common and perfectly legal. My lawyers and I will be happy to walk you through the paperwork.” Another smile. “How does next week sound?”

“If it was all perfectly legal and quite common, why did you lie to me about LMR Overseas?”

“Because wealthy individuals such as myself use anonymous offshore companies for a reason. Acknowledging beneficial ownership of such a company would rather defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?”

“You use anonymous companies, in part, to shield dirty deals like this one from the prying eyes of the press. Fortunately, I have the means of making it public. Something tells me that your fellow citizens won’t look favorably upon your business relationship with Federov. In fact, I’m confident your reputation will be ruined after my story appears.”

“Which is why I would advise you to tread carefully. Otherwise, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.” He slipped past her and opened the door. “Please leave, Ms. Cooke. I have nothing more to say.”

“Have you no statement at all?”

“Write whatever you want. But bear in mind, it will have profound consequences.”

“I certainly hope so,” snapped Samantha, and stormed out of Radcliff’s house.

“One moment, Ms. Cooke.”

She paused at the bottom of the steps.

“Your story will be wrong for another reason.”

“How so?”

“Perhaps we should discuss the ground rules first,” said Radcliff.

“Your choice.”

“Background only.”

“Proceed, Your Lordship.”

“The conspiracy to bring down Hillary Edwards went far beyond a single law firm.”

“How far?”

“I’ll tell you everything you need to know.” Radcliff paused, then added, “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Your story must make no mention of the ten million pounds I received from Valentin Federov.”

“No deal.”

“If you publish the details of that payment, we’re going to spend the next several years tearing each other limb from limb in court. Neither one of us will emerge with our reputations intact. I’m offering you a way out, not to mention the story of a lifetime. What’s it going to be, Ms. Cooke? Going once. Going twice . . .”

57

Buckingham Palace

The Mini Cooper was waiting curbside when Samantha emerged from Lord Radcliff’s house. Her phone rang the instant she settled into the passenger seat.

“Well?” asked Gabriel.

“We had a rather spirited exchange, to put it mildly.”

“He denied everything?”

“But of course. Then, after threatening to sue me to death, he told me the truth.”

“Why would he do a thing like that?”

“Because it turns out that his lordship was a bit player in a much broader conspiracy to bring down the Edwards government. And he wasn’t going to take the fall alone.”

“Did he name names?”

“Quite a few,” said Samantha. “But you’ll never guess the name of the ringleader.”

“Be still, my beating heart.”

“Mine’s going a mile a minute.”

“Have you got the receipts?”

“A recording, actually. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said before ringing off, “I have a story to write.”

*  *  *

Prime Minister Hillary Edwards emerged from Number Ten promptly at ten fifteen and took to the lectern to deliver her farewell address. She had prepared the text without the help of her speechwriters and memorized it during her sleepless final night in Number Ten’s private apartment. She made no mention of the scandal that brought down her government or of her successor. Nor did she make any attempt to defend her turbulent premiership, having decided to leave that to the historians and the press. She was resigned to the fact that their verdict was likely to be harsh.

At the conclusion of her remarks, she slid into her official Range Rover Sentinel and left Downing Street for the last time as prime minister. A few tourists gawked at her during the short drive to Buckingham Palace, but there was no show of support. The King’s equerry, kilted and adorned with decorations, greeted her in the central quadrangle and escorted her upstairs to the 1844 Room, where His Majesty waited. Their conversation was brief, a few pleasantries, a question or two about her children and her plans. Then she handed over her resignation and it was done. She was left with the distinct impression that the monarch was not sorry to see her go.

The equerry then marched her downstairs to the quadrangle and helped her into the Range Rover. Her phone was lying on the back seat, quivering with a stream of incoming text messages. She assumed they were expressions of support from her Party colleagues, the same colleagues who had unceremoniously cast her out of Number Ten. She would grant herself a few hours’ reprieve before responding—time enough, she reasoned, for the sting of her public defenestration to subside. She was not yet fifty and had no intention of retiring from the Commons and fading into obscurity. Memories of the Federov fiasco would soon fade, and she would once again stand for Party leader. There was nothing to be gained by petty vindictiveness.

But as her Range Rover sped along Birdcage Walk, the stream of text messages suddenly turned to a raging river. She reluctantly took up her phone and read the message that was bannered across the top of the screen. It was the MP from Waveney, a steadfast friend and ally.