“We’re talking about Eamon Quinn. What do you think?”

“Vehicle borne?”

“That’s his specialty.”

“Car or truck?”

“Van.”

“Where is it?”

“A garage in East London.”

“Where in East London?”

Rozanov recited an address on Thames Road in Barking before his chin fell to his chest in exhaustion. With a glance, Gabriel instructed Keller and Mikhail to release their grip on him. When they did, the Russian toppled forward like a tree and landed on the damp floor of the forest. Gabriel rolled him over and pointed the gun at his face.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Rozanov.

Gabriel stared at the Russian down the barrel of the gun but said nothing.

“Perhaps it’s true what they say about you.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’re too old. That you don’t have the stomach for it anymore.”

Gabriel smiled. “I have one more question for you, Alexei.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Except for how you discovered I was still alive.”

“We learned it through a communications intercept.”

“What kind of intercept?”

“Voice,” said Rozanov. “We heard your voice—”

Gabriel pointed the gun at Rozanov’s knee and fired. The Russian seized up in agony.

“We . . . had . . . a . . . source.”

“Where?”

“Inside . . . the . . . Office.”

Gabriel fired a second shot into the same knee. “You’d better tell me the truth, Alexei. Otherwise, I’m going to waste all my bullets turning your knee to mush.”

“Source,” whispered Rozanov.

“Yes, I know. You had a source. But who was it?”

“He works . . .”

“Where does he work, Alexei?”

“MI6.”

“In what department?”

“Personnel and . . .”

“Personnel and Security?”

“Yes.”

“His name, Alexei. Tell me his name.”

“I can’t . . .”

“Tell me who he is, Alexei. Tell me so I can stop the pain.”

PART THREE

BANDIT COUNTRY

60

VAUXHALL CROSS, LONDON

APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR AFTER the death of Alexei Rozanov, Graham Seymour received the first communication from his newest clandestine officer. It stated that the life of Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster was in mortal peril and intimated that Russian intelligence had recruited a spy inside MI6. It was, Seymour would later say, a rather auspicious way to begin a career.

Given the circumstances, Seymour thought it best to send a private plane. It collected Gabriel and Keller at Le Bourget in Paris and delivered them to London City Airport in the Docklands. An MI6 car then ferried them at high speed to Vauxhall Cross, where Seymour waited in a windowless room on the top floor, a phone to his ear. He hung up as Gabriel and Keller entered and scrutinized them for a moment with expressionless gray eyes.

“Is there audio?” he asked finally.

Gabriel drew his BlackBerry, cued the recording to the relevant passage, and pressed the PLAY icon.

“Where will it happen?”

“Guy’s Hospital in London.”

“When?”

“Three p.m. tomorrow.”

“And the target?”

“It’s the prime minister. Quinn and Katerina are going to kill Jonathan Lancaster tomorrow afternoon in London.”