“Can you prove it?” asked the prime minister.
“I can show you the documents.”
“You will do no such thing,” murmured Graham Seymour from his outpost at the window.
The nature of the relationship, Gabriel continued, deepened sometime in 2016, the same year Russia’s intelligence services embarked on a sweeping and unprecedented attempt to influence the outcome of an American presidential election. Savin poured still more money into the Knight Group, and Edward Knight, for his part, dumped the fees and interest payments into a number of different anonymous offshore holding companies, including a Nassau-based shell corporation called Landmark Ventures.
“And who controls Landmark?” asked Lancaster.
“An undercover GRU officer based in the Russian Embassy in Mexico City.”
“And how exactly were you able to determine that?”
“We hacked the bank in Nassau where Landmark does its business.”
“That’s the spirit.” Lancaster went to the sideboard to freshen his drink. “But as of now I’ve heard nothing that sounds like clear and convincing proof that Edward Knight knew that he was in business with Russian intelligence.”
“I’m sure he’ll be able to clear up any lingering confusion.”
“You would be wise not to underestimate him,” said the prime minister. “He’ll ring his lawyers the minute he gets a whiff of trouble.”
“We’re hoping it won’t come to that.”
“How do you intend to handle it? Appeal to his patriotism? His sense of decency?” Lancaster took a pull at his drink. “Anyone who was in business with the likes of Dmitri Savin after the Russian invasion of Ukraine has none.”
“We have no choice but to make a deal with him. It’s the only language he understands.”
“And if he agrees to talk? What then?”
It was Graham Seymour who answered. “We use Edward Knight to help us roll up the GRU’s illegal sabotage network.”
“I rather like that,” said Lancaster. “But what do we do about his wife?”
“At some point she’s going to need a new identity.”
“What about the money she embezzled from her husband?”
“Obviously,” said Graham, “we cannot allow her to keep any of the proceeds of her little scheme.”
“Perhaps we should place the money in an escrow account here in London,” suggested Lancaster. “Given the many complexities of thecase, I imagine it might be frozen for some time.” He raised his glass to his lips. “Several years, in fact.”
“We have reason to believe Revenue and Customs will want a substantial chunk of it.”
“Are you suggesting that Edward Knight failed to pay sufficient taxes on his income?”
“Not even close,” said Graham.
“Well, well,” said Jonathan Lancaster. “This truly is a special occasion.”
40
Hans Place
Where once Edward Knight was a fixture on the London social scene, he was now a prisoner of his redbrick mansion in Hans Place, a recluse, a hermit king. He ran the Knight Group by phone and email and avoided calls from old friends. It had been weeks since he set foot in Annabel’s, his exclusive Berkeley Square club, and his gray-blond locks were now borderline Branson, for he hadn’t summoned the nerve to show his face at Taylor Taylor. The tabloids, he thought, would crucify him.
Showered and dressed, he headed downstairs to the kitchen, where Liam Higgins, his sole remaining companion, was preparing his breakfast. The menu never varied. An egg-white omelet, a single slice of whole-grain toast, fresh fruit with nonfat yogurt. The morning papers were arrayed on the table. Knight started, as always, withThe Financial Times.
Higgins placed a cappuccino at his elbow. “Good morning, Mr. Knight.”
