“Financial, Prime Minister. We have reason to believe that DmitriSavin has been clandestinely bankrolling the GRU’s activities here in Europe.”
“You don’t think he was using Edward Knight to—”
“It certainly sounds like that might be the case.”
“Not that it matters,” said Lancaster, “but Edward is a major donor to the Conservative Party. That said, I never cared for the man.”
“Neither does his wife, it seems.”
“Met her once. Lovely woman.”
“I’m told she has the receipts.”
“About her husband’s involvement with Dmitri Savin?”
“Apparently so.”
“Tread carefully, Graham. The last thing we need is another scandal.”
He had one last cancellation to make, a small dinner party that his wife, Helen, was hosting that evening at their home in Belgravia. He did so with a modicum of guilt and no small amount of relief, for Helen was a passionate but dreadful cook. Having done the deed and endured the usual recriminations, he silenced his secure phone and dug a weighty document from his attaché case. It was an assessment he planned to deliver to the Joint Intelligence Committee, the bureaucratic overseers of SIS and the rest of Britain’s security and defense community. Stark in tone, it warned that Britain was obligated to commence preparations for war with Russia. Ukraine, it argued, was only the beginning. Once the country had been turned into a Russian vassal, the Kremlin would proceed to its next target, in all likelihood one of the Baltic states or perhaps even Poland. And on it would go until Moscow had reconstituted the old Soviet Union and established its dominance over Europe. As far as SIS was concerned, Britain and its European allies had no choice but to fight—for the simple reason that Russia was already at war with them.
By the time Graham finally looked up from the document, his car was speeding across the northern reaches of Dartmoor. About a mile past the old Warren House Inn was the turnoff for Wormwood Cottage. He arrived there to find the forecourt deserted. It seemed Parish the caretaker had other matters to attend to besides welcoming his director-general to SIS’s most secure safe house.
Graham locked his phone in his attaché case—a product of Q Division, it was impenetrable to any and all electronic signals—and entered the cottage empty-handed. Miss Coventry, powdered and churchy and vaguely formidable, stood before the AGA stove, wooden spoon in hand, an apron tied around her ample waist. Once upon a time she was one of the service’s best listeners. She spoke several languages fluently, including Russian.
Graham opened the oven door and inhaled the savor of roasting lamb. “You’ve outdone yourself, Miss Coventry.”
“Mr. Marlowe is miffed we’re not having cottage pie.”
“He’ll get over it, I’m sure.” Graham closed the oven. “Where’s Parish? Under the weather?”
“In the drawing room with the company.”
“That’s not like him.”
“Could be the guest of honor,” said Miss Coventry knowingly.
“Has he figured out who she is?”
“In about two seconds flat.” She removed the lid from a pot and gave the contents a stir. “How long will she be staying with us?”
“Is there a problem?”
“She’s not happy with her room. Nor is she pleased that she has to share a bathroom with the others.” Miss Coventry replaced the lid. “Wormwood is a safe house, not a five-star resort or a mansion in Knightsbridge. I’m afraid she’s used to a level of luxury that we simply cannot provide.”
“I’ll have a word with her.”
“And while you’re at it, you might make it clear that we cook with butter here at Wormwood, not avocado oil.”
“The more butter the better.”
“Say that five times quickly. Now, go away, sir. Otherwise you and your friends will be having a midnight supper.”
Graham headed off to the drawing room, wondering what he might find there. Tread carefully, he heard his prime minister say. The last thing he needed was another scandal.
Graham had no desire to spoil Alice Winter’s first meal at Wormwood Cottage, so he waited until Miss Coventry had cleared the plates and poured the coffee to get down to brass tacks. Several times Gabriel and Christopher tried to answer on her behalf, but Graham was having none of it; he wanted to hear it from her mouth, not theirs. By the time he had posed his last question, he was certain that Edward Knight’s ties to Russia went far beyond a single oligarch. It was possible they were criminal in nature, but this was of no concern to Graham. He was not a policeman, he was a spy. And Edward Knight’s sins, whatever they were, had presented him with a golden opportunity.
None of which he shared with the missing British socialite who had fallen quite unexpectedly into his lap. At the conclusion of the meal he bade her a pleasant evening and asked Gabriel and Christopher whether they might accompany him on an after-dinner walk around the grounds. Outside, the three-quarter moon hanging low in the cloudless sky was luminous enough to throw shadows. Christopher took out his cigarettes and ignited one with his old Dunhill lighter. Then he offered the packet to Graham, who did the same.
