4

Thames House, London

Thames House, MI5’s riverfront headquarters, was a building Graham Seymour knew well; he had worked there for more than thirty years before becoming the chief of MI6. As he made his way along the corridor of the executive suite, he paused in the doorway of the office that had been his when he was deputy director general. Miles Kent, the current deputy, was still at his desk. He was quite possibly the only man in London who looked worse than Seymour.

“Graham,” said Kent, looking up from his computer. “What brings you to our little corner of the realm?”

“You tell me.”

“If I did,” said Kent quietly, “the queen bee would give me the sack.”

“How’s she holding up?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Kent beckoned Seymour inside and closed the door. “Charles ran off with his secretary.”

“When?”

“A couple of days after the attack. He was having dinner at the Ivy when the third cell entered the St. Martin’s. Said it forced him to take a hard look in the mirror. Said he couldn’t go on living the way he was.”

“He had a mistress and a wife. What more did he want?”

“A divorce, apparently. Amanda’s already moved out of the flat. She’s been sleeping here at the office.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

Seymour was surprised by the news. He had seen Amanda that very morning at 10 Downing Street and she’d made no mention of it. Truth be told, Seymour was relieved Charles’s reckless love life was finally out in the open. The Russians had a way of finding out about such indiscretions and had never been squeamish about using them to their advantage.

“Who else knows?”

“I found out quite by accident. You know Amanda, she’s very discreet.”

“Too bad Charles wasn’t.” Seymour reached for the door but stopped. “Any idea why she wants to see me so urgently?”

“The pleasure of your company?”

“Come on, Miles.”

“All I know,” said Kent, “is that it has something to do with guns.”

Seymour went into the corridor. The light over Amanda’s door shone green. Even so, he knocked softly before entering. He found Amanda seated at her large desk, with her eyes cast downward toward an open file. Looking up, she treated Seymour to a cool smile. It looked, he thought, as if she had taught herself the gesture by practicing in front of a mirror.

“Graham,” she said, rising. “So good of you to come.”

She stepped slowly from behind the desk. She was dressed, as usual, in a tailored pantsuit that flattered her tall, awkward frame. Her approach was cautious. Graham Seymour and Amanda Wallace had entered MI5 in the same intake and had spent the better part of thirty years battling each other at every turn. Now they occupied two of the most powerful positions in Western intelligence, and yet their rivalry persisted. It was tempting to think the attack would alter the dynamics of their relationship, but Seymour believed otherwise. The inevitable parliamentary inquiry was coming. Undoubtedly, it would uncover serious lapses and missteps on the part of MI5. Amanda would fight tooth and nail. And she would do her utmost to make certain that Seymour and MI6 shouldered their fair share of the blame.

A drinks tray had been placed at the end of Amanda’s gleaming conference table. She mixed a gin and tonic for Seymour and for herself a martini with olives and cocktail onions. Her toast was restrained, silent. Then she led Seymour to the seating area and gestured toward a modern leather armchair. The BBC flickered on the large flat-panel television. British and American warplanes were striking ISIS targets near the Syrian city of Raqqa. The Iraqi portion of the caliphate had been largely reclaimed by the central government in Baghdad. Only the Syrian sanctuary remained, and it was under siege. The loss of territory, however, had done nothing to diminish ISIS’s ability to conduct terrorist operations abroad. The attack on London was proof of that.

“Where do you suppose he is?” asked Amanda after a moment.

“Saladin?”

“Who else?”

“We’ve been unable to definitively—”

“You’re not speaking to the prime minister, Graham.”

“If I had to guess, he’s somewhere other than the rapidly shrinking caliphate of ISIS.”

“Where?”

“Perhaps Libya or one of the Gulf emirates. Or he could be in Pakistan or across the border in Afghanistan controlled by ISIS. Or,” said Seymour, “he might be closer at hand. He has friends and resources. And remember, he used to be one of us. Saladin worked for the Iraqi Mukhabarat before the invasion. His job was to provide material support to Saddam’s favorite Palestinian terrorists. He knows what he’s doing.”

“That,” said Amanda Wallace, “is an understatement. Saladin almost makes one nostalgic for the days of KGB spies and IRA bombs.” She sat down opposite Seymour and placed her drink thoughtfully on the coffee table. “There’s something I need to tell you, Graham. Something personal, something awful. Charles has left me for his secretary. She’s half his age. Such a cliché.”

“I’m sorry, Amanda.”

“Did you know he was having an affair?”