“The plan or the piece?”

“Both.” She walked over to the drinks trolley and used the silver tongs to lift a lump of ice from the bucket. “You’ve already given me a rather good story, you know.”

“Trust me, Samantha. There’s more.”

“How did you know there was a bomb in that car?”

“I can’t tell you that yet.”

“Who was the woman?”

“She wasn’t Anna Huber. And she wasn’t from Germany.”

“Where was she from?”

“A bit farther to the east.”

Samantha Cooke allowed the ice to fall into her drink and then laid the tongs thoughtfully upon the trolley. Her back was turned to Gabriel. Even so, he could see that she was engaged in a profound struggle with her journalistic conscience.

“She’s Russian? Is that what you’re saying?”

Gabriel didn’t respond.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes. The question is, why would a Russian leave a car bomb on Brompton Road?”

“You tell me.”

She made a show of thought. “I suppose they wanted to send a message to Jonathan Lancaster.”

“And the nature of the message?”

“Don’t fuck with us,” she said coldly. “Especially when it comes to matters of money. Those drilling rights in the North Sea would have been worth billions to the Kremlin. And Lancaster snatched them away.”

“Actually, I was the one who snatched them away. Which is why the Russian president and his henchmen wanted me dead.”

“And now you want to make them think they succeeded?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“Because it will make my job easier.”

“What job?”

He said nothing.

“I see,” she said softly. She sat down and drank some of her whisky. “If it were ever to become public that I—”

“I think you know me better than that.”

“How would you want it sourced?”

“British intelligence.”

“Another lie.”

“Deception,” he corrected her gently.

“And if I call your service?”

“They won’t answer. But if you call this number,” he said, handing her a slip of paper, “a rather taciturn gentleman will confirm my untimely passing.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Uzi Navot.”

“The chief of the Office?”

Gabriel nodded. “Call him on an open line. And whatever you do, don’t mention the fact that you spoke to the decedent recently. Moscow Center will be listening.”

“I’ll need a British source. A real one.”

He handed her another slip of paper. Another telephone number. “It’s his private line. Don’t abuse the privilege.”

She tucked both numbers into her handbag.

“How quickly can you get it into print?”

“If I crash it, I can do it for tomorrow’s paper.”

“What time will it appear on the Web site?”

“Midnight or so.”

A silence fell between them. She raised the drink to her lips but stopped. She had a long night ahead of her.

“What happens when the world discovers you’re not dead?” she asked.

“Who says they will?”