“Will you survive?”

“I should think so. After all, the prime minister and I are rather close.”

“He owes you his political life, not to mention his marriage.”

“Actually, you were the one who saved Jonathan’s career. I was only your secret enabler.” Seymour picked up the newspaper and frowned at the headline.

“It’s remarkably accurate,” said Gabriel.

“It should be. He had a good source.”

“You seem to be taking it all quite well.”

“What choice do I have? Besides, it wasn’t personal. It was an act of self-defense. Amanda wasn’t about to take the fall.”

“The result is still the same.”

“Yes,” said Seymour darkly. “British intelligence is a shambles. And as far as the public are concerned, I’m squarely to blame.”

“Funny how it all worked out that way.”

A silence fell between them.

“Are there any more surprises to come?” asked Seymour.

“A dead body in County Mayo.”

“Liam Walsh?”

Gabriel nodded.

“I suppose he deserved it.”

“He did.”

Seymour picked thoughtfully at a scone. “I’m sorry I got you mixed up in all this. I should have left you in Rome to finish your Caravaggio.”

“And I should have told you that a woman who’d just spent the night in Eamon Quinn’s secret Lisbon apartment had boarded a flight for London.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“It might have.”

“We aren’t policemen, Gabriel.”

“Your point?”

“My instincts would have been the same as yours. I wouldn’t have detained her at Heathrow. I would have let her run and hoped she led me to the prize.”

Seymour returned the newspaper to the empty chair. “I must admit,” he said after a moment, “you don’t look bad for a man who just came face-to-face with a five-hundred-pound bomb. Perhaps you truly are an archangel after all.”

“If I were an archangel, I would have found a way to save them all.”

“You saved a great many, though, at least a hundred by our estimate. And you would have come through it without a scratch if you’d had the sense to take cover inside Harrods.”

Gabriel made no reply.

“Why did you do it?” asked Seymour. “Why did you go running back into the street?”

“I saw them.”

“Who?”

“The woman and the child who were in that car. I tried to warn her, but she didn’t understand. She wouldn’t—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Seymour, cutting him off.

“Do you know their names?”

Seymour stared out the window. The descending sun had set fire to the moors.

“The woman was Charlotte Harris. She was from Shepherd’s Bush.”

“And the boy?”

“He was called Peter, after his grandfather.”

“How old was he?”

“Two years, four months.” Seymour paused and considered Gabriel carefully. “About the same age as your son, wasn’t he?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does.”

“Dani was a few months older.”