“Graham,” she said evenly, as though she were reading his name from one of the dense briefing books her staff always prepared before an important meeting. Then she gave an efficient smile. It looked as though she had taught herself the gesture by practicing in front of a mirror. “So good of you to come.”

A drinks tray had been left on Amanda’s long, gleaming conference table. She prepared a gin and tonic for Seymour and for herself a bone-dry martini with olives and cocktail onions. She prided herself on her ability to hold her liquor, a skill that, in her opinion, was obligatory for a spy. It was one of her few endearing qualities.

“Cheers,” said Seymour, raising his glass a fraction of an inch, but again Amanda only smiled. The BBC played silently on a large flat-panel television. A senior officer of the Garda Síochána was standing outside a small house in Ballyfermot where three men, all members of a Real IRA drug gang, had been found dead.

“Rather nasty,” said Amanda.

“A turf war, apparently,” murmured Seymour over the rim of his glass.

“Our friends in the Garda have their doubts about that.”

“What have they got?”

“Nothing, actually, which is why they’re concerned. The phones usually light up with chatter after a big gangland assassination, but not this time. And then,” she added, “there’s the manner in which they were killed. Usually, these mobsters hose down the entire room with automatic-weapons fire. But whoever did this was very precise. Three shots, three dead bodies. The Garda are convinced they’re dealing with professionals.”

“Do they have any idea where Liam Walsh is?”

“They’re operating under the assumption he’s somewhere in the Republic, but they haven’t a clue where.” She looked at Seymour and raised an eyebrow. “He’s not strapped to a chair in some MI6 safe house, is he, Graham?”

“No such luck.”

Seymour looked at the television. The BBC had moved on to the next story. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster was in Washington for a meeting with the American president. It had not gone as well as he had hoped. Britain was not terribly in vogue in Washington at the moment, at least not at the White House.

“Your friend,” said Amanda coolly.

“The American president?”

“Jonathan.”

“Yours, too,” replied Seymour.

“My relationship with the prime minister is cordial,” said Amanda deliberately, “but it’s nothing like yours. You and Jonathan are thick as thieves.”