“Forget about it, Graham.”
The two men lapsed into an uneasy silence. It was the nature of this unfortunate case, thought Gabriel. They had both gotten into the intelligence business to protect their countries and their fellow citizens, not their politicians.
“You must have discovered something important,” Seymour said finally. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called me.”
“You were always good, Graham.”
“Not good enough to keep you from entering my country anytime you please.”
Gabriel was silent.
“What have you got?”
“I believe I know who kidnapped Madeline Hart. More important,” Gabriel added, “I believe I know why she was kidnapped.”
“Who was it?”
“KGB Oil and Gas,” answered Gabriel.
Seymour’s head turned sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“It was the Volgatek deal, Graham. Madeline was kidnapped so the Russians could steal your oil.”
There is no worse feeling for a professional spy than to be told something by an officer from another service that he should have already known himself. Graham Seymour suffered this indignity with as much grace as possible, with his chin up and his head held high. Then, after carefully weighing the consequences, he asked for an explanation. Gabriel began by telling him everything he had learned about Jeremy Fallon. That Fallon had been in love with Madeline Hart. That Fallon had worn out his welcome at Downing Street and was due to be pushed out before the next election. That Fallon had accepted a secret payment of five million euros from one Gennady Lazarev and had then used his power to push through the deal over the objections of the secretary of state for energy. Finally, he told Seymour about the Russian-speaking woman he had first seen in an ancient church in the Lubéron and then in an abandoned council house in Basildon.
“Who’s the source for Jeremy Fallon and the five million?” asked Seymour.
“I’d like to claim a zone of exclusivity on that one, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m sure you would. But who’s the source?”
Gabriel answered truthfully. Seymour shook his head slowly.
“Viktor Orlov is genetically incapable of telling the truth,” he said. “He’s always offering MI6 bits of so-called intelligence about Russia, and none of it ever pans out.”
“Chiara and I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Viktor Orlov,” Gabriel responded.
“That doesn’t mean that everything he says is true.”
“He knows more about the underside of the Russian oil industry than anyone else in the world.”
Seymour did not challenge this assertion. “And you’re sure about the man and the woman who drove off in the Mercedes?” he asked. “You’re sure they were the same ones who followed you in the gallery?”
“Graham,” said Gabriel wearily.
“We all make mistakes from time to time.”
“Some of us more often than others.”
Seymour tossed his cigarette into the darkness in anger. “Why am I hearing about this only now? Why didn’t you call me last night while you had them under watch?”
“And what would you have done? Would you have alerted the chief of your Russian counterintelligence division? Would you have informed your director?” Gabriel was silent for a moment. “If I had come to you last night, it would have set in motion a chain of events that would have led to the destruction of Jonathan Lancaster and his government.”
“So why are you coming to me now?”
Gabriel made no reply. Seymour started to light another cigarette, then stopped himself.
“Rather ironic, don’t you think?”
“What’s that?”
“I asked you to find Madeline Hart because I was trying to protect my prime minister from scandal. And now you’re bringing me information that could destroy him.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“You can’t prove a word of it, you know. Not one word.”
“I realize that.”
Seymour exhaled heavily. “I am the deputy director of Her Majesty’s Security Service,” he said, more to himself than to Gabriel. “Deputy directors of MI5 do not bring down British governments. They protect them from enemies foreign and domestic.”
“But what if the government is dirty?”
“What government isn’t?” Seymour replied glibly.
Gabriel didn’t answer. He was in no mood for a relativistic debate over ethics in politics.
“And if I prevailed upon you to walk away and forget about it?” asked Seymour. “What would you do?”
“I would abide by your wishes and go home to Jerusalem.”
“And do what?”
“It seems Shamron has plans for me.”
“Anything you want to tell me about?”
“Not yet.”
Seymour was clearly intrigued but let it drop for now. “And what would you think of me?” he asked after a moment.
“What does it matter what I think?”