Gabriel had no such intentions—at least none at the time—so he scribbled something illegible on the line indicated and retreated to the anteroom. Waiting there was Nigel Whitcombe, a young MI5 field officer who had cut his operational teeth working with Gabriel against Ivan Kharkov. Whitcombe's pious appearance concealed a mind as devious as any career criminal's.
"I'm surprised you're still in one piece," he said.
"They managed to do it without leaving any cuts or bruises."
"They're good at that." Whitcombe tossed aside a two-week-old copy of The Economist and stood. "Let's head downstairs. Wouldn't want to miss the opening act."
They rode a lift to the lowest level of the building and followed a harshly lit corridor to a secure door marked OPS CENTER. Whitcombe punched the code into the keypad and led Gabriel inside. At the front of the room was a wall of large video monitors, watched over by a select group of senior operations officers. The chair marked SEYMOUR was empty—hardly surprising, since the man who usually occupied it was at that moment preparing to make his much-anticipated return to the field. Whitcombe tapped Gabriel's arm and pointed to a CCTV image at the center of the video wall.
"Here comes your girl."
Gabriel glanced up in time to see a rain-spattered sedan passing through a security gate outside a grim-looking modern office building. At the bottom left of the image was the location of the camera that had captured it: Wood Lane, Hammersmith. Ten minutes later, Nigel Whitcombe pointed to a new image on the video wall, a direct feed of the British Broadcasting Corporation. One of the technicians turned up the audio in time to hear the news presenter read the introduction.
"There were new allegations today..."
Whitcombe looked at Gabriel and smiled. "Something tells me this is going to be an interesting evening."
IT WAS fitting commentary on the deplorable state of print journalism that Zoe Reed, regarded as one of the brightest stars of the British press, spent the final hours before her recruitment bathed in the flattering glow of television lights. Ironically, her appearances that evening would prove to be a major embarrassment to Downing Street, for they involved allegations that yet another Labor MP had been caught up in the Empire Aerospace bribery scandal. The BBC got first crack at her, followed by Sky News, CNBC, and finally CNN International.
It was upon Zoe's departure from CNN's studios, located at 16 Great Marlborough Street, that she had the first inkling her evening might not go as planned. It was brought about by the sudden disappearance of the car and driver retained by the Financial Journal to ferry her from appearance to appearance. As she was reaching for her mobile, a middle-aged man in a mackintosh coat approached and informed her that, due to a scheduling problem, she had been assigned a new car, a gleaming Jaguar limousine parked on the opposite side of the street. Anxious to return home after a long day, she hurried across through the rain and climbed into the back without hesitation. At which point she realized she was not alone. Seated next to her, a mobile phone pressed to his ear, was a well-dressed man with even features and a full head of pewter-colored hair. He lowered the phone and looked at Zoe as if he had been expecting her.
"Good evening, Ms. Reed. My name is Graham Seymour. I work for the Security Service, and through no fault of my own I've been promoted to a senior position, which you can verify by speaking to the person at the other end of this call." He handed her the mobile. "It's my director-general. I trust you'll remember her voice, since you interviewed her just last month. You were a bit hard on her in my opinion, but your article made for good reading."
"Is that why I'm here?"
"Of course not, Ms. Reed. You're here because we have a serious problem—a problem involving the security of the country and the entire civilized world—and we need your help."
Zoe lifted the phone cautiously to her ear. "Good evening, Zoe, my dear," she heard a familiar matronly voice say. "Rest assured you are in very good hands with Graham. And do accept my apology for disturbing your evening, but I'm afraid there was no other way."
IN THE operations room at Thames House, there was a communal sigh of relief as they watched the Jaguar slip away from the curb. "Now the fun begins," said Nigel Whitcombe. "We'd better get moving or we'll be late for the second act."
47
HIGHGATE, LONDON
The safe house stood at the end of a hushed cul-de-sac in Highgate, three stories of sturdy Victorian red brick with chimneys at each end of its roof. Gabriel and Nigel Whitcombe arrived first and were seated before a panel of video monitors in the upstairs study when Zoe Reed came through the front entrance. A pair of docile-looking female officers immediately took possession of her raincoat, briefcase, and mobile phone; then Graham Seymour ushered her into the drawing room. It had the comfortable, musty air of a private London club. There was even a dreadful print of a country hunt scene above the fireplace. Zoe examined it with a slightly bemused expression, then, at Seymour's invitation, sat in a leather wing chair.
Seymour walked over to the sideboard, which had been laid with an array of food and drinks, and drew two cups of coffee from the pump-action thermos. The care with which he performed this task was an accurate reflection of his mood. Zoe Reed was no run-of-the-mill target for recruitment. Yes, she had been left vulnerable by her relationship with Martin Landesmann, but Seymour knew he could not be seen to exploit the affair in any way. To do so, he reckoned, would not only place his own career at risk but spoil any chance of obtaining what they needed most. Like all veterans, Seymour knew that successful recruitments, much like successful interrogations, were usually the result of playing to the dominant aspects of the target's personality. And Graham Seymour knew two critical things about Zoe Reed. He knew she despised corruption in all its forms and he knew that she was not afraid of powerful men. He also suspected she was not the sort of woman who would react well when told she had been deceived. But then few women did.
It was into this minefield of human emotion that Graham Seymour waded now, a cup of hot coffee balanced in each hand. He gave one to Zoe, then, almost as an afterthought, instructed her to sign the document lying on the table in front of her.
"What is it?"
"The Official Secrets Act." Seymour's tone was repentant. "I'm afraid you'll need to sign it before this conversation can continue. You see, Ms. Reed, the information I'm about to share with you can't be written about in the pages of the Journal. In fact, once you sign—"
"I'll be forbidden from discussing it even with members of my own family." She fixed him with a mocking stare. "I know all about the Official Secrets Act, Mr. Seymour. Who do you think you're dealing with?"
"I'm dealing with one of Britain's most accomplished and respected journalists, which is why we've gone to such lengths to keep this conversation private. Now, if you would please sign, Ms. Reed."
"It's not worth the paper it's printed on." Greeted by silence, Zoe gave an exasperated sigh and signed the document. "There," she said, pushing the paper and pen toward Seymour. "Now, why don't you tell me exactly why I'm here."
"We need your help, Ms. Reed. Nothing more."
Seymour had composed the words carefully that afternoon. They were a call to colors—an appeal to patriotism without uttering so unfashionable a word—and they elicited the precise response he had been hoping for.
"Help? If you needed my help, why didn't you just call me on the telephone and ask? Why the spy games?"