Carter was now opening and closing the cabinet doors with a befuddled expression on his face. Gabriel walked over to the pantry, found a box of Earl Grey tea, and tossed it to Carter before heading upstairs. The drawing room was comfortably furnished but with an air of anonymity common in a pied-à-terre. It seemed to Gabriel that no one had ever loved or quarreled or grieved here. He picked up a framed photograph from a side table and saw a bluff, prosperous American with three well-fed children and a wife who’d had too much cosmetic surgery. Two more photographs showed the American standing stiffly at the side of the president. Both were signed: To Bill with gratitude.

Carter came upstairs a moment later, a tea tray balanced between his hands. He had a head of thinning curly hair and the sort of broad mustache once worn by American college professors. Little about Carter’s demeanor suggested he was one of the most powerful members of Washington’s vast intelligence establishment—or that before his ascension to the rarified atmosphere of Langley’s seventh floor, he had been a field man of the highest reputation. Carter’s natural inclination to listen rather than speak led most to conclude he was a therapist of some sort. When one thought of Adrian Carter, one pictured a man enduring confessions of affairs and inadequacies, or a Dickensian figure hunched over thick books with long Latin words. People tended to underestimate Carter. It was one of his most potent weapons.

“Who’s behind it, Adrian?” Gabriel asked.

“You tell me, Gabriel.” Carter placed the tea tray on the center table and removed his raincoat as if weary from too much travel. “It’s your neighborhood.”

“It’s our neighborhood, but something tells me it’s your problem. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here in London”—Gabriel looked around the room—“in a borrowed safe flat, with no microphones and no backup from the local station.”

“You don’t miss much, do you? Humor me, Gabriel. Tell me his name.”

“He’s a former Saudi GID agent named Ahmed bin Shafiq.”

“Bravo, Gabriel. Well done.” Carter threw his coat over the back of a chair. “Well done, indeed.”

CARTER LIFTED the lid of the teapot, savored the aroma, and decided it needed to steep a moment longer.

“How did you know?”

“We didn’t know,” Gabriel said. “It was an educated guess, based on a few threads of evidence.”

“Such as?”