“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 thecorridor—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.
