“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?”
He smiled but said nothing.
“And what about Mrs. Graves?” Samantha persisted. “Will she be one of your advisers?”
“My wife is a brilliant economist. I would be a fool not to seek her advice. But no, Lucinda would not hold any formal role in my government, were it to come to pass.”
“May I quote you on that?”
“Sorry, Samantha. Lobby rules.”
The strictures of the Lobby journalism system required Samantha to abide by the minister’s wishes. “Can’t you at least give me something on the record, Secretary Graves? After all, if it wasn’t for me . . .”
There was no need to finish the sentence. Were it not for Samantha, Hugh Graves would not be wearing the confident smile of a man who knew he would soon be prime minister.
“I look forward to this afternoon’s vote,” he said. “And I trust that my colleagues will reach the correct decision as to who should lead the Party and the country.”
More dishwater, thought Samantha, but it would have to do. “How many votes will you receive?”
“We shall soon find out,” he replied, and set off across the lobby.
Samantha sent a transcript of the on-the-record quote to her political desk, then tried once again to reach Gabriel. Her call received no answer. Frustrated, she sent him another text.
There was no reply.
* * *
The voting commenced when Big Ben tolled two o’clock. The setting, as usual, was Commons Committee Room 14, the largest in the Palace of Westminster. Such was the level of skullduggery during the previous leadership contest that members had to display their Parliamentary passes when entering and were forbidden to carry their mobile phones. The voting itself was conducted with conclave-like formality, though it was a black metal box, not an oversize gold chalice, into which the MPs slipped their paper ballots.
By half past four the votes had been tabulated, and all 325 members of the Conservative Parliamentary Party were crammed into Room 14 to hear the results. They were delivered with all the drama of a weekend weather forecast by Sir Stewart Archer, chairman of the 1922 Committee. Samantha Cooke watched the proceedings live on her phone, then plugged the numbers into her copy and shot it straight onto the Telegraph’s website. There were no surprises. Nigel Cunningham was out, Hugh Graves was in control, and Stephen Frasier, despite a surprisingly poor showing, was vowing to fight on.
But where the hell was Gabriel Allon?
49
New Forest
It would be another forty-five minutes before Gabriel would be able to say with any degree of confidence that he was not in fact dead. He reached this conclusion in the New Forest of Hampshire, though this, too, would have been a revelation to him. Hooded and gagged, his limbs immobilized by duct tape, he was largely cut off from the world around him. He was aware of motorized movement—he could hear the drone of an engine and tires rushing over wet tarmac—and could discern the warm presence of a body lying next to him. The faint aroma of female scent told him it was Ingrid.
Precisely how this state of affairs had come to pass remained a mystery to him. He recalled a meeting in a stylish office in Mayfair and a visit to a London art museum, which one, he could not say. The injury to his head had occurred in a fetid stairwell—of that much, at least, he was certain. He had been struck with something heavy behind his left ear, though he had no idea who had wielded the implement. The stickiness along the side of his neck told him the blow had resulted in substantial bleeding. His inability to hold even a simple thought was doubtless a symptom of a severe concussion.
