It was clear Amanda wanted to say more about Seymour’s unique bond with the prime minister. Instead, she freshened his drink while sharing a piece of naughty gossip about the wife of a certain ambassador from an oil-rich Arab emirate. Seymour reciprocated with a report he’d received about a man with a British accent who was shopping for shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles at an arms bazaar in Libya. After that, with the ice having been broken, they fell into an easy conversation of the sort that only two senior spymasters could have. They shared, they divulged, they advised, and on two occasions they actually laughed. Indeed, for a few minutes it seemed their rivalry did not exist. They talked about the situation in Iraq and Syria, they talked about China, they talked about the global economy and its impact on security, and they talked about the American president, whom they blamed for many of the world’s problems. Eventually, they talked about the Russians. These days, they always did.

“Their cyberwarriors,” said Amanda, “are blasting away at our financial institutions with everything they’ve got in their nasty little toolbox. They’re also targeting our government systems and the computer networks of our biggest defense contractors.”

“Are they after something specific?”

“Actually,” she replied, “they don’t seem to be looking for much of anything. They’re just trying to inflict as much damage as possible. There’s a recklessness we’ve never seen before.”

“Any change in their posture here in London?”

“D4 has noticed a distinct increase in activity at the London rezidentura. We’re not sure what it means, but it’s clear they’re involved in something big.”

“Bigger than planting a Russian illegal in the prime minister’s bed?”

Amanda raised an eyebrow and traced an olive around the rim of her glass. The face of the princess appeared on the television. Her family had announced the creation of a fund to support causes she held dear. Jonathan Lancaster had been allowed to make the first donation.

“Hear anything new?” asked Amanda.

“About the princess?”

She nodded.

“Nothing. You?”

She set down her drink and considered Seymour for a moment in silence. Finally, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me it was Eamon Quinn?”

She tapped her nail on the arm of the chair while she awaited a response, never a good sign. Seymour decided he had no choice but to tell her the truth, or at least a version of it.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said at last, “because I didn’t want to involve you.”

“Because you don’t trust me?”

“Because I don’t want you to be tainted in any way.”

“Why would I be tainted? After all, Graham, you were the head of counterterrorism at the time of the Omagh bombing, not me.”

“Which is why you became the DG of the Security Service.” He paused, then added, “And not me.”