“Cheeky bastard, isn’t he?” Amanda reached for her phone but, thinking better of it, headed for the door instead. “I won’t be gone long, Miles. And when I get back, I want you to tell me that you’ve found that woman.”
51
Number 10
Samantha Cooke, chief political correspondent for the Tory-tiltingTelegraph, 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 themost 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 setThe 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 doorand 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. “Howexactlydid 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?”
