“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.”
“Ask a spy a stupid question,” she remarked.
“I’m an art restorer now, Ms. Graves.”
“There’s a Q-Park directly across the street from our office,” she said. “My assistant will arrange a space for you.”
And with that, the connection died.
“Well,” said Ingrid. “That went better than expected.”
“Yes,” agreed Gabriel. “Imagine that.”
* * *
He dropped Ingrid at a coffee shop in Piccadilly and at 10:55 a.m. guided the Bentley down the Q-Park’s narrow ramp. The office block on the opposite side of Old Burlington Street was six floors in height, pale gray in color, and contemporary in design. A woman in her late twenties greeted Gabriel in the lobby and escorted him upstairs. Lucinda Graves was on the phone when they entered her office. She rang off at once and, rising, extended her hand.
“Mr. Allon. So lovely to see you again.”
The assistant withdrew, and Lucinda conveyed Gabriel to a seating area where a coffee service rested on a low, sleek table. It was all very formal and rehearsed. Gabriel had the uncomfortable feeling he was being courted.
