54 Wilton Crescent
Wilton Crescent
The keepers of London’s telecommunications networks quickly determined that the unprecedented breakdown in phone and Internet
service was no accident. Nor was it happenstance, they concluded, that Westminster, home of the British Parliament and most
of HMG’s ministries, had been targeted first. From there the outages had spread like wildfire, northward to Camden Town and
Finsbury Park, southward to Battersea and Brixton, eastward to Canary Wharf, westward to Hounslow. The British government
quickly switched over to its emergency backup system, but London’s residents, not to mention tens of thousands of tourists
and business travelers, were largely cut off from the rest of the world. Beneath London, some five hundred trains across eleven
Underground lines rolled to a stop, stranding tens of thousands of passengers. Controllers at Heathrow Airport, the world’s
seventh busiest, suspended operations and diverted inbound flights to other destinations. At the London Stock Exchange, traders
stared dumbfounded at black screens.
If there was one bright spot, it was the traffic signals, which were still functioning normally.
Sarah nevertheless disregarded several red lights as she raced down Kensington Road in her husband’s Bentley Continental.
She made a harrowing right turn into Sloane Street, a reckless left into West Halkin, then proceeded to 27 Wilton Crescent, one of the most desirable addresses in London’s poshest neighborhood.
“This can’t possibly be right,” she said.
“What did you expect?” asked Gabriel.
“Do you know how much this place is worth?”
“Fifty million, in the shade. But it’s exactly where the ten lines meet.”
The elegant Georgian house, like its neighbors to the right and left, was five floors in height, with a wrought-iron balustrade
on the second level and a flight of steps leading to the basement entrance. The shades were tightly drawn, and there appeared
to be no lights burning within. It was a common sight in Belgravia. Most of the homes were owned by wealthy foreigners and
investors. At night it was one of London’s darkest neighborhoods.
They climbed out of the car and approached the door. Gabriel laid his thumb on the bell push. There was no response from within.
“Try it again,” suggested Sarah.
He jabbed the bell push a second time. Nothing. Next he tried the latch. As expected, it was locked.
“I don’t suppose you brought along that magic key of yours,” said Ingrid.
Gabriel drew a pair of slender lockpick tools he carried habitually in the breast pocket of his jacket and, crouching, went
to work. Sarah watched a car roll slowly past in the street.
“Is this really a good idea?” she asked.
“Do you have a better one?”
“Someone’s bound to call the police.”
“They can’t,” Gabriel reminded her.
“Silly me,” said Sarah. The phones weren’t working.
They should have made quick work of it. After all, the subject had shed her team of A4 watchers not in some remote corner of the West Country but in Trafalgar Square, one of London’s most heavily surveilled public spaces.
Even so, for more than an hour after Amanda Wallace’s return to MI5 headquarters, the subject’s whereabouts remained a mystery.
As was usually the case, Amanda took out her anger on her deputy Miles Kent, who had predicted a quick resolution to the matter, only to be proven wrong.
He remained confident, however, that the Russian illegal called Chloé Lamont had not vanished into thin air, that somewhere
there was video of her, captured by CCTV. Despite the still-unexplained phone outage, live feeds and recorded video from all
of Trafalgar Square’s cameras were available to the team of surveillance specialists hard at work in MI5’s Thames House op
center. With Miles Kent looking over their shoulders, they subjected the video to the myriad scrubbing tools they had at their
disposal, including two new behavioral programs utilizing artificial intelligence. The programs identified some twenty-five
candidates, one of whom turned out to be the MP for Warrington North. None of the remaining twenty-four was the Russian intelligence
operative for whom they were searching.
In the end it was a well-trained pair of human eyes that finally spotted her. They belonged to a young analyst who had spent
countless hours monitoring the movements of known London-based jihadists and was personally responsible for preventing at
least two acts of terrorism. It was the walk that had given the Russian woman away. She had dumped the rucksack and pulled
on a jumper and a beanie, but neglected to alter her gait.
The analyst summoned Miles Kent and showed him the first piece of video. It had been shot by a CCTV camera located near the Travellers Club in Pall Mall. The woman walked past the camera at 11:16 a.m. Thirty-five minutes later, after crossing St. James’s Park, she arrived at her destination.
“Is she still there?” asked Miles Kent.
“As far as I know,” replied the analyst.
“Anyone else?”
“Three other people just gained entry to the premises.”
“Gained entry?”
The analyst played the video. All three subjects had their backs turned to the nearest CCTV camera. One was crouching.
“Who’s the locksmith?”
The analyst showed Kent a still image of the three subjects emerging from a Bentley automobile.
“Is that who I think it is?”
“Yes, sir. Facial recognition left no room for doubt.”
“And the other two?”
They were both women. The analyst pointed toward the taller of the two. “That’s Sarah Bancroft. American citizen, former CIA
officer, runs an art gallery in St. James’s. Her MI5 file is rather extensive, to put it mildly.”
“And the other one?”
“Ingrid Johansen. She’s Danish,” added the analyst. “Her name appears in our files as well.”
“But why are they in the same house as a Russian illegal?”
“Actually there’s someone else there too.” The analyst displayed another still image. The subject was wearing a hat and sunglasses
to conceal his appearance. “He arrived about fifteen minutes before the woman.”
“Name?”
“Don’t have one yet.”
“Find out who he is.”
“On it, sir.”
Miles Kent snatched up a phone and rang Amanda Wallace. “We’ve got her,” he said.
“Where is she?”
“Number Twenty-seven Wilton Crescent.”
“Doing what?”
“Unclear,” said Kent. “But you’ll never guess who else just showed up.”
It was a lock of superior quality, but after two minutes of diligent probing and manipulation Gabriel bent it to his will.
Christopher’s Walther PPK was wedged into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. He placed a hand on the
gun’s grip, then gave the brass knob a twist and swung into the entrance hall. It was in semidarkness. There were no furnishings
of any kind—no ornamental table on which to leave one’s keys, no hook to hang one’s coat. On the black-and-white chessboard
floor was a pile of unopened post. It was addressed to someone called Leonard Crabtree.
Gabriel beckoned Ingrid and Sarah, and they stepped inside and closed the door behind them. Ingrid threw a light switch. Sarah
moved the post around with the toe of her pump.
“Looks like we’ve come to the right place.”
Gabriel placed a finger to his lips, then drew the Walther and advanced down the dark and silent center hall, pirouetting through open doorways with the weapon in his outstretched hands.
Sarah and Ingrid walked a few paces behind him.
The rooms along the corridor—the reception room, the dining room, the breakfast nook, the study—were unfurnished, as was the large drawing room at the back of the house.
“Perhaps poor Leonard Crabtree ran out of money,” suggested Sarah.
“There is no Leonard Crabtree,” replied Gabriel.
“But why buy a house on one of the world’s most expensive streets and leave it empty?”
“Location, location, location.”
Gabriel went into the kitchen. On the counter were two oversize mugs, each with the string of a teabag hanging over the rim.
One of the mugs was half full. He dipped a forefinger into the brownish liquid. It was lukewarm.
“Someone was here recently.”
Ingrid pointed to the smudge of lipstick on the rim of the second mug. “And he had female company.”
“Who’s to say they aren’t still here?” asked Sarah.
Gabriel headed for the staircase. On the lower level of the house it was the same story—a gym without fitness equipment, a
cinema without reclining chairs, a large service kitchen empty of pots and pans and cooking utensils. At the back of the house
was a garage with two separate bays. One of the doors was open.
“Looks like our two visitors went out the back way,” said Sarah. “But one wonders why they neglected to close the door.”
“Perhaps,” said Ingrid, “they were in a hurry.”
Gabriel closed the door with a press of a button and headed once again for the stairs. On the uppermost floor of the house
were two unfurnished bedrooms, an unfurnished sitting room, a library empty of books, and a door with two unsightly interior
padlocks. The latch had a lock as well, openable only with a key.
“Where do you suppose it leads?” asked Sarah.
“There must be a roof terrace.”
She tugged at one of the padlocks. “How long will it take you to pick these?”
Gabriel placed the barrel of the Walther against the lock and pulled the trigger.
“One down,” said Sarah, rubbing her ear. “Two to go.”