51 Number 10
Samantha Cooke, chief political correspondent for the Tory-tilting Telegraph, had a premonition of disaster within minutes of crawling from the warm embrace of her bed. There was, for a start, her failure
to properly set the alarm on her phone, which resulted in her oversleeping by nearly an hour. And then there was the absence
of anything clean to wear in her closet, the carton of spoiled milk in her refrigerator, and the mound of cat poo next to
a perfectly clean litter box. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that she was hanging by a very slender thread. Such
was the life of a print journalist in a world where no one could read anything longer than a Tweet and newspapers were going
the way of dinosaurs. She would be better off looking for work as a lamplighter. The pay was better and the future brighter.
And yet, for all the precariousness of her existence, Samantha Cooke was without question the most celebrated political journalist in London.
After all, she was the one who had brought down Hugh and Lucinda Graves—with considerable help from a trusted friend who had handed her the story on a silver platter.
Since then, however, she had fallen into a rut, lots of stories of Westminster sound and fury signifying little if anything at all.
She needed a scoop to get back on her game.
She had a feeling, despite the dreadful start to her morning, that today might be the day.
Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster was hosting the most important summit at Downing Street in years, a meeting that might well determine the future of both NATO and Ukraine.
Her editor wanted something to set The Telegraph’s coverage apart from its competitors, something more than the usual podium drivel.
But reaching Number 10 that morning proved a challenge; the security was the tightest Samantha had seen since the last G7
summit. She eventually negotiated the labyrinth of roadblocks and checkpoints and joined her colleagues in the Downing Street
press pen in time to witness the arrival of the foreign dignitaries. She sat out the shouted questions, though; at this point
they were beneath her, and the leaders would have nothing substantive to say until the conclusion of the meeting. It was far
better to use her time productively by reaching out to her sources.
She rang two or three but got nothing but Whitehall mush. She was about to ring a fourth, an ancient flame who worked in the
Foreign Office, but was distracted by the sight of another car drawing up outside the door of Number 10. She recognized the
woman who emerged from the back seat. It was Amanda Wallace, the director-general of MI5. But why would the head of the Security
Service be coming to Downing Street in the middle of a summit? Samantha, smelling a scoop, rang one of her best sources, a
man to whom she spoke only when necessary. “Not a good time,” said Miles Kent, MI5’s deputy director for operations, and the
connection went dead.
Geoffrey Sloane, the prime minister’s chief of staff, met Amanda in the entrance hall and escorted her upstairs to the door
of the White Drawing Room.
“Is there something I should know?” he asked.
“This won’t be a pleasant conversation.” Amanda opened the door and found Graham Seymour seated in one of the luminous white wing chairs. In the other sat Christopher Keller. “What’s he doing here?” she asked.
“Actually,” replied Graham, “I’m rather more interested in why you’re here.”
“We have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Chloé Lamont.”
Graham’s expression darkened. “What about her?”
“We seem to have . . .”
“Lost her?”
“Misplaced,” said Amanda. “Temporarily, of course.”
“How long has she been missing?”
Amanda checked the time. “Approximately forty-five minutes.”
“Last known location?”
“Trafalgar Square.”
“It is essential,” said Graham, “that you locate her as quickly as possible.”
“Don’t worry, we will. But it might help matters if you told me how SIS managed to find Ms. Lamont in the first place.”
“You know how we found her.”
“Yuri Ivanov?”
“That’s correct.”
“But tell me something,” said Amanda. “How exactly did you find Yuri?”
What followed was a long-overdue clearing of the air. Graham was selective in his memory, sharing only what he deemed necessary.
Amanda was appalled nonetheless.
“When were you planning to tell me?”
“About Alice Winter? Probably never.”
“Does her husband know?”
“For the moment, at least, Edward Knight believes his wife is dead.”
“Monstrous,” whispered Amanda.
“Ruthless, yes. But hardly monstrous.”
“Do you know how many laws you’ve violated?”
“None, actually. We received the necessary approval from higher authority.”
“Don’t tell me you involved the PM in this.”
“He just did,” said Christopher.
Amanda threw him a black look, then turned to Graham. “We heard a rumor that Edward Knight had retained Gabriel Allon to find
his wife.”
“You heard correctly. Gabriel was the one who brought us Alice.”
Amanda glanced at Chirstopher. “That would explain why you’re here. The two of you are thick as thieves.”
“If it wasn’t for Gabriel Allon—”
Graham placed a restraining hand on Christopher’s arm and attempted to lower the temperature. The leaders had gathered a short
distance away in the Pillared Room, and the prime minister was addressing the press. A nasty intramural spat between the directors
of SIS and MI5 would not play well in the morning papers.
“There will be plenty of time for the usual recriminations later,” he said. “For now, it would be best if we focused on the
problem at hand.”
“Agreed,” said Amanda evenly. “But if anything happens today, you can be sure that neither I nor my service will be blamed
for it.”
“I would have expected nothing less.”
Amanda rose to her feet and looked at Christopher. “Where’s your friend Gabriel Allon now?”
“On his way back to Cornwall, I believe.”
“Tell him to stay there. Things tend to go off the rails whenever he’s in town.”
And with that she was gone.
“Did you just lie to the director of MI5?” asked Graham.
“It was a white lie,” said Christopher with a smile. “Told in the White Drawing Room.”