At 11:20:15, the door to the conference room opened and the woman stepped back into the hallway. She walked toward the camera, her head kept deliberately down, her face hidden in the shadow cast by her long auburn hair. Over her shoulder she carried an overnight bag.
“She’s got the laptops in the bag,” said Kate. “It’s one of those collapsible ones that fold down to nothing when they’re empty but are extremely sturdy.”
Allam kept his fingers steepled to his chin, saying nothing.
“Now look at this.” Graves replaced the disk showing footage from the closed-circuit television at 1 Victoria Street with another containing footage from the camera at the corner of Storey’s Gate. The pictures showed a woman dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans standing at the crosswalk holding a cell phone to her ear. The lead SUV in Ivanov’s motorcade crossed the screen, then the second. The woman stepped away from the curb and turned her back. At that moment the screen blanched. For two or three seconds, all remained white as the camera struggled to correct its exposure. When the picture returned, the woman was gone.
“It’s the same woman,” said Graves. “She’s the one who stole the laptops. I’d wager on it.”
“You know her?” said Allam.
“Her name is Emma Ransom.”
“Ransom? Wife of the doctor whom you allowed to get away?”
Graves held Allam’s eye. He’d been on the receiving end of Allam’s temper twenty-four hours earlier and he’d be damned if he showed that it had fazed him. “According to her husband, she used to be in the employ of a secret United States government agency called Division. Something attached to the Pentagon. I spoke with my oppo at Langley. They deny it. Never heard of Division or Emma Ransom.”
“They would, wouldn’t they?”
“There is something else. When we first pulled in Ransom, he mentioned that his wife had thwarted some kind of attack in Switzerland back in February. I called Marcus von Daniken in Bern. Strictly off the record, he confirmed that there was some sort of dust-up involving a plot to bring down an El Al jetliner and that Ransom and his wife were up to their necks in it. No civilians involved, so they were able to keep it quiet. More than that, he wouldn’t say.”
Allam considered this. “Well, she doesn’t look like a Chechen black-arse, that’s for sure.”
Graves frowned. “Which brings us back to the first question. Why was Ivanov visiting London in the first place? Everyone’s been damned closemouthed on the issue.”
“With good reason. He came over to meet with some wallahs in our petroleum business. Wanted to get them jazzed up about restarting some old joint ventures to tap all that oil that’s still lying under the ice in Siberia, modernize their existing infrastructure, that kind of thing. It’s a sensitive topic, seeing as how the Russians chased all our firms out several years ago and pocketed their profits. The boys at the Foreign Ministry are viewing Ivanov’s approach as a major policy shift on the Russians’ part. Either their oil industry’s falling apart and they’re desperate for revenue or they’ve decided to rejoin the international community.”
Allam sighed. “The question remains, however, just who Mrs. Ransom is working for.”
“So far we have no clue,” said Graves.
“Tell me more about what was on those laptops,” said Allam.
Graves related Mischa Dibner’s statement that whoever possessed the laptops could theoretically access override codes that would allow them to take control of a nuclear reactor somewhere in Europe. “There seems to be a time constraint as well,” he added. “We’re looking at the possibility of an incident within the next forty-eight hours.”
“I see,” said Allam simply. “There does seem to be one connecting thread between all this.”
“What’s that?” asked Kate Ford.
“Energy,” replied Allam. “Ivanov’s in town to talk about oil. You tell me that the bomb was a ploy to steal nuclear codes that may hasten an attack on a reactor in the next forty-eight hours. I don’t think any of it is coincidence.” The director general of MI5 removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Right now, we know of only one person who can tell us what it all means. Emma Ransom. What else do we know about her?”
“Next to nothing,” admitted Graves. “Not who she works for, where she came from, or where she disappeared to. Only that she killed Lord Robert Russell and that she was here in London prior to that doing whatever she damn well pleased.”
“You reckon they’re in it together, Dr. and Mrs. Ransom?” asked Allam.
“I do,” said Graves. “DCI Ford is of another opinion.”
“Why’s that?” asked Allam.
Kate went over Ransom’s actions at the bomb scene. “He could easily have gotten away, but he stayed to assist one of the victims.”
“Saved this fellow’s life, did he?”
“No. The man died.”
Allam raised his eyebrows. “How do you know Ransom didn’t kill him? Maybe he strangled the man. After all, he shot someone else last night.” Allam consulted the papers on his desk. “Another doctor. James Meadows. Harley Street surgeon. This Ransom sounds like a cold-blooded killer, if ever was.”
“I don’t have all the answers, sir,” Kate continued. “But I’m convinced he’s not a player in the bombing or the theft of the laptops. I can’t explain why, except to say that it doesn’t make sense.”
“Doesn’t make sense for an innocent man to run away from the police either, does it, DCI Ford?” Allam asked pointedly. Small stars of red had appeared in his cheeks, and he was sitting on the edge of his chair.
“It’s my opinion that Ransom’s trying to find his wife,” she said firmly.
“Find her? I’d run in the other direction as fast as my legs would carry me.” Allam coughed and sat back in his chair, momentarily appeased. “Any reason you think she might have gone to Rome?”
“Rome?” Graves narrowed his eyes. “Our last piece of intel puts Ransom in Belgium. He rented a car near Brussels airport.”
Allam tapped his pen on a pink notepad in front of him. “I just received a call from the chief of the carabinieri. Your Dr. Ransom’s causing all manner of problems over there. Assault, kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping?” said Kate.
“Yes,” said Allam. “And the Italians don’t like it one bit.”
Graves leaned on the director’s desk. “Do they have Ransom in custody?”
Allam shook his head. “No, but they have the man he kidnapped. Another doctor. Apparently Ransom put him through the wringer, asking about that wife of his. It seems that she was in Rome, too, a few months ago, and didn’t half enjoy herself.”
“Oh?”
“I’m told she was attacked-mugged or something-and treated at a local hospital. Ransom wanted to know where exactly.”
“When did this attack on Emma Ransom take place?” asked Kate.