“You are, actually.”
“Tell Graham I’ll take a raincheck.”
“He’s the director-general of your service.”
“I realize that,” said Christopher, staring at the beautiful woman draped across the overstuffed chair. “But I’m afraid I have a much better offer.”
7
Eaton Square, Belgravia
When Helen Liddell-Brown met Graham Seymour at a drinks party at Cambridge, he told her that his father worked for a very dull department of the Foreign Office. She did not believe him, for her uncle served in a senior position in the same department, which was known to insiders as the Firm and the rest of the world as MI6. She accepted Graham’s proposal of marriage on the condition he take a respectable job in the City. But a year after they wed, he surprised her by joining MI5, a betrayal for which Helen—and Graham’s father, for that matter—never quite forgave him.
She punished Graham by adopting stridently left-wing politics. She opposed the Falklands War, campaigned for a nuclear freeze, and was twice arrested outside the South African Embassy in Trafalgar Square. Graham never knew what horrorsawaited him in the post each night when he returned home from the office. He once remarked to a colleague that if Helen were not his wife, he would have opened a file on her and tapped her phone.
If it was her secret strategy to derail his career, she failed miserably. After serving for several years in Northern Ireland, he took control of MI5’s counterterrorism division and was then promoted to the rank of deputy director for operations. It was his intention, at the conclusion of his term, to retire to his villa in Portugal. His plans changed, however, when Prime Minister Lancaster offered him the keys to his father’s old service—a move that surprised everyone in the intelligence trade except Gabriel, who had brought about the set of circumstances that led to Graham’s appointment. With the Americans turning inward and torn by political divisions, ties between the Office and MI6 had grown exceedingly close. The two services operated together routinely, and critical intelligence flowed freely between Vauxhall Cross and King Saul Boulevard. Gabriel and Graham saw themselves as defenders of the postwar international order. Given the current state of global affairs, it was an increasingly thankless task.
Helen Seymour’s acceptance of her husband’s ascent to the pinnacle of British intelligence had been grudging at best. At Graham’s request, she had toned down her politics and placed some distance between herself and some of her more heretical friends. She practiced yoga each morning and passed her afternoons in the kitchen, where she indulged her passion for exotic cooking. During Gabriel’s last visit to the Seymour residence, he had heroically consumed a plate of paella in violation of Jewish dietary laws. The chicken couscous was a rare triumph.Even Graham, who was skilled at moving food around his plate to create the illusion of consumption, helped himself to a second portion.
At the conclusion of the meal, he dabbed the corners of his mouth deliberately with his linen napkin and invited Gabriel to join him upstairs in his book-lined study. A draft blew through the open window overlooking Eaton Square. Gabriel was dubious as to the efficacy of such precautions, believing they simply facilitated the transfer of the virus from host to unwitting recipient. He glanced at the wall-mounted television, which was tuned to CNN. A panel of political experts was debating the American presidential election, now only three months away.
“Care to make a prediction?” asked Graham.
“I believe Christopher will propose marriage to Sarah sometime in the next year.”
“I was talking about the election.”
“It will be closer than the polls are predicting, but he cannot win.”
“Will he accept the outcome?”
“Not a chance.”
“And then what?”
Graham went to the window and effortlessly lowered the sash. He seemed unsuited for so mundane a task. With his even features and plentiful pewter-colored locks, he reminded Gabriel of one of those male models who appear in ads for gold fountain pens and expensive wristwatches, the sort of needless trinkets that went out of fashion with the pandemic. He made lesser beings feel inferior, especially Americans.
“Rumor has it you arrived in London on a fancy new Gulfstream,” he said, reclaiming his seat. “The registry is rather opaque.”
“With good reason. My many friends and admirers in the Islamic Republic are rather angry with me at the moment.”
“That’s what you get for blowing up their centrifuge factory. Frankly, I’m surprised you found time in your busy schedule to come here on such short notice.”
“A dear friend of mine was feeling under the weather. I thought I’d pay her a visit.”
“Your dear friend is just fine.”
“Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of Viktor Orlov.”
“Viktor is none of your affair.”
“He was my asset, Graham. And if it wasn’t for his money, I would be dead. So would my wife.”
“As I recall,” said Graham, “I was the one who talked Viktor into surrendering his oil company in exchange for your freedom. If he’d had any sense, he would have kept a lower profile. Instead, he purchased theGazetaand deliberately placed himself in the Kremlin’s crosshairs. It was only a matter of time before they got to him.”
“With Nina Antonova?”
Graham made a face. “At some point, we might have to reestablish some boundaries between your service and mine.”
