“Tempting,” said Gabriel. “But I’m afraid I have a few demands of my own, beginning with the financial aspects. Instead of paying my associate and me twenty million pounds, Harris Weber & Company will donate one billion pounds to the British charities of our choice in order to undo some of the damage your firm has done by helping the wealthy evade taxes. And then, of course, there’s the small matter of Hugh Graves, who must drop out of the leadership contest so that Stephen Frasier can become prime minister.” Gabriel managed a smile. “With no admission of wrongdoing, I might add.”
Trevor Robinson displayed a smile of his own. “Haven’t you heard the news, Allon? The foreign secretary threw in the towel earlier this evening. Hugh Graves is scheduled to meet with the King at Buckingham Palace tomorrow morning. Once His Majesty asks him to form a government—”
“Harris Weber will own a prime minister,” interjected Gabriel. “Which is why Lucinda Graves phoned you a few minutes after she met with Charlotte Blake at the Courtauld. She was understandably concerned that her ties to your firm would be exposed during any litigation over that Picasso. Therefore, the firm decided to take appropriate measures to protect its multimillion-pound investment in her husband’s political future.”
“The best-laid plans of mice and men,” said Robinson. “And they were nearly destroyed because an art historian from Oxford found a sales receipt at Christie’s.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up.”
“Rest assured, there’s a great deal about this affair that you don’t know.”
“Beginning with your motives. What did Harris Weber hope to gain by making Hugh Graves prime minister?”
“Surely you’re not that naive, Allon.” Robinson went slowly to the trolley and refreshed his drink. “Your implacable sense of right and wrong is admirable, but I’m afraid it’s rather out of fashion at the moment. The truth is, there is no right and wrong any longer. There is only power and money. And more often than not, one begets the other.” He glanced at Gabriel over his shoulder. “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”
“A pair of noise-canceling headphones would be nice.”
“You would be wise to listen to what I have to say. The old order is crumbling, Allon. A new order is rising in its place. We at Harris Weber refer to it as Kleptopia. There are no laws in Kleptopia, at least not for those with unlimited resources, and no one cares about the needs of that great mass of humanity who are less fortunate. Power and money are all that matters. Those without it want to acquire it. And those who have it want to hang on to it at all costs. I’m offering you the opportunity to be a part of that world. Get on the gravy train while you can. If you’re not offshore, you’re nowhere at all.”
“I’ll choose my world over yours, Trevor. Besides, a lousy ten million doesn’t go very far in Kleptopia.”
“Your world is gone. Can’t you see that? And if you don’t sign that agreement, you and that pretty Danish girl of yours will be gone, too.”
“I’ve given you my terms,” said Gabriel.
“Hugh Graves? It’s over, Allon. Nothing can stop him now.”
Gabriel glanced at the Faraday bag. “Perhaps you should have a look at my phone. You might think otherwise.”
“Ms. Johansen claimed not to know the password.”
“It’s fourteen digits,” said Gabriel. “Sometimes even I have trouble remembering it.”
Robinson opened the pouch and removed the phone. “Quite heavy, isn’t it?”
“But very secure.”
Robinson held the phone a few inches from Gabriel’s face. “No facial recognition?”
“Are you serious?”
“Tell me the password.”
“Show me Ingrid.”
Robinson sighed and then buried his fist in Gabriel’s abdomen, leaving him incapable of speech for nearly two minutes. He allowed another minute to go by before reciting fourteen numbers.
“Three, two, one, six, five, nine, three, five, one, four, five, four, seven, six.”
Robinson entered the numbers and then frowned. “It didn’t work.”
Gabriel retched before answering. “You obviously entered it incorrectly.”
“Recite it again.”
“Three, two, one, six, five, nine, five, three, one, four, five, four, seven, six.”
Once again the phone rejected the passcode as entered. This time it was one of the former SAS officers who struck Gabriel. The force of the blow nearly stopped his heart.
Robinson was shouting into his face. “Give me the fucking password, Allon! The correct password!”
“Listen carefully this time, you idiot. You’ve only got three more tries before the phone autodestructs.”
“Slowly,” cautioned Robinson.
“Three, two, one, six, five, nine, three, five, one, four, five, nine, seven, six.”
The next blow struck Gabriel in the cheekbone and carried him to the very edge of consciousness.
“Last chance,” said Robinson.
Gabriel spat a mouthful of blood onto the luxurious carpet before reciting the fourteen digits in the correct sequence. Robinson, his hand shaking with rage, managed to enter them correctly. The phone vibrated as he stared at the screen.
“Is that my wife, by any chance?”
“Samantha Cooke of the Telegraph.”
The phone ceased vibrating, then, a few seconds later, pulsed with a text message.
