“We’ll see about that.”
“Any news, sir?”
“The pound is taking a beating.” Knight looked up from the paper. “And no, Higgins, there’s no news about Alice. Not real news, at least.”
Higgins laid a plate in front of Knight. As he was tucking into his omelet, the doorbell tolled solemnly. “Who in the world could that be?”
“I’m sure it’s only a reporter, Mr. Knight. I think I saw one or two milling about when I arrived this morning.”
“In that case, don’t answer it.” The bell tolled a second time. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’ll get rid of them,” said Higgins, and went out. He was gone only a few seconds. “It’s not a reporter, Mr. Knight.”
“Who is it?”
“An associate of Mr. Allon. Apparently it’s urgent.”
Knight shot to his feet and hastened down the corridor to the entrance hall. The man waiting there wore a dour gray suit and the benevolent smile of a country parson.
“Who the bloody hell are you?”
“I’m Whitcombe,” replied the man. “Nigel Whitcombe.”
“Where’s Allon?”
“Here in London.”
“He has news?”
“Important news.”
“Why didn’t he contact me himself?”
“You’ll have to ask him that question.” He gestured toward the car parked curbside. It was a Mini Cooper, neon blue in color. “Shall we, Mr. Knight? We really mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Knight followed the man out the door and squeezed into the car’s cramped passenger seat. They rounded Hans Place in a blur and a moment later were racing westward along the Brompton Road. Knight maintained a tight grip on the armrest.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“To see Mr. Allon, of course.”
“Has he found her?”
The man blew through a red light without lifting his foot from the throttle. “Found who, Mr. Knight?”
Their destination turned out to be a cottage in St. Luke’s Mews—Number 7, to be precise. Like the rest of the dwellings on the cobbled street it had once been a garage. The door was opened by the pretty Danish cyber specialist, the one with the nimble fingers of a card sharp. Her greeting was solicitous, compassionate, even. Her hand lingered soothingly on Knight’s upper arm as she spoke—or was it the front of his sport jacket? He was so enchanted by the empathetic glow in her pale blue eyes that he couldn’t say for certain.
She led him into a small, sparsely furnished sitting room and then disappeared from view. Gabriel was seated in a modular armchair, legs crossed, hands bunched reflectively beneath his chin. In the chair next to him sat a man wearing the formal charcoal-gray suit of a Whitehall mandarin. A third man—blond hair, deeply tanned skin, a notch in the center of his chin—was pacing the room as though awaiting the arrival of a long-delayed train.
On the coffee table was a stack of documents, including one bearing the corporate logo of Edward Knight’s company. Craning his neck, he read the first few lines. It was dated October 22, 2009, and concerned a ten-figure investment in his company.
“Where the hell did you get that?” he demanded to know.
Gabriel indicated an unoccupied chair. “Sit down, Edward.”
He did so, then looked at the man sitting to Gabriel’s right. “Friend of yours?”
“You don’t recognize him?”
