Ingrid copied the contents of the phone onto a second external hard drive, then said, “Where would you like to start?”
“The emails,” replied Gabriel.
There were some twenty-five thousand in all. The majority were of the encrypted variety, sent from a numeric Proton Mail address, but the rest were from an ordinary Gmail account bearing the name Felix Serrano. They appeared innocuous in nature, but when viewed through the proper prism, and with the benefit of hindsight, they bore the hallmarks of en clair communication between an undercover asset and his service. One of the incoming emails concerned an auction at the Devon estate of the British real estate baron Edward Knight. Attached was an article fromARTnewsmagazine, written by Amelia March.
They had only scratched the surface by the time the plane landed at RAF Northolt. The prime minister and her aides filed off first and boarded their motorcade for a high-speed ride to Downing Street. Her three unlikely traveling companions made the trip into central London in a neon-blue Mini Cooper piloted by Nigel Whitcombe.
“Shouldn’t you be babysitting Edward Knight?” asked Christopher.
“I needed the morning off, and Mr. Knight was most accommodating.”
“How is he holding up?”
“Better than I am,” replied Whitcombe, and lowered his window to vent the smoke of Christopher’s cigarette.
“Sorry, Nigel. But it was definitely a nonsmoking flight.”
“The chief was rather impressed, I must say.”
“Rest assured, I had nothing to do with it. For some reason, the Danish prime minister is rather fond of Gabriel, which proves there’s no accounting for taste.” Christopher had a look at the speedometer. Whitcombe was sailing along at eighty miles per hour. “Where’s the bloody fire, Nigel?”
“The chief is at Downing Street with the prime minister. They’d like a word before the summit begins.”
Christopher checked their speed again. Ninety and change.
They dropped Christopher at the rear entrance of Downing Street, then headed to his maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace. Sarah was downstairs in the kitchen, eating a breakfast of coffee and yogurt. She was pleased to see Gabriel and Ingrid strolling through her door but disappointed her husband was not hard on their heels. When Gabriel explained Christopher’s present whereabouts, Sarah directed her eyes toward the Bose radio resting on the countertop.
“It’s all they’re talking about onToday. The tense security around the summit, that is.”
She put on a fresh pot of coffee, and they went upstairs to the drawing room to watch the BBC’s special coverage. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster stood outside the open door of Number 10, posing for photographs with his counterpart from Denmark.
“Did you happen to catch her speech last night?” asked Sarah.
“As a matter of fact,” replied Gabriel, “we were all inside the Borgen when she delivered it.”
“Am I to assume that your visit to Copenhagen is somehow connected to yesterday’s assassination?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified,” replied Gabriel.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
With his silence, he confirmed it was so.
“I don’t suppose Captain Yuri Ivanov of the GRU was the same chap who came to the auction at Wickham House?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Another yes.”
Sarah watched a limousine drawing up at Number 10. It was the German chancellor, tall and slender and bald, who emerged from the back seat. He pumped Jonathan Lancaster’s hand as though trying to draw water from a well.
“You know,” she said at length, “just because Christopher can’t tell me anything about his work doesn’t mean you have to abide by the same rules. After all, you’re not actually an officer of the Secret Intelligence Service.”
“Close enough,” said Gabriel.
Sarah looked at Ingrid. “That leaves you.”
With Gabriel’s consent, she delivered a thorough briefing.
