“Political convenience,” Carter said without hesitation. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are powerful people around our new president who like to pretend there’s no such thing as a war on terror. In fact, I’m no longer allowed to utter those words. So when something does happen…”

“The powerful men around your president go looking for a scapegoat.”

Carter nodded.

“And they picked Graham Seymour?” asked Gabriel incredulously. “A loyal friend and ally who’s been at your side from the beginning of the war on terror?”

“I’ve pointed that out to the president’s counterterrorism adviser, but he’s in no mood to listen. Apparently, his job is less than secure at the moment. As for Graham, he’ll survive. He’s the only person in Western intelligence who’s been in his job longer than I have.”

Seymour’s mobile telephone purred softly. He dispatched the call to his voice mail with the press of a button, then rose from his chair and walked over to the credenza for a cup of coffee. He was dressed, as usual, in a perfectly fitted charcoal gray suit and a regimental tie. His face was even featured, and his full head of hair had a rich silvery cast that made him look like a model one sees in ads for costly but needless trinkets. Though he had worked briefly as a field officer, he had spent the lion’s share of his career toiling behind locked doors at MI5 headquarters. Graham Seymour waged war against Britain’s enemies by attending briefings and reading dossiers. The only light that shone upon his patrician features emanated from his halogen desk lamp. And the only surface his handmade English shoes ever trod upon was the fine woolen carpet stretching between his office and the director-general’s.

“How goes the search for the missing Rembrandt?” Seymour asked.

“It’s evolved.”

“So I’m told.”

“How much do you know, Graham?”

“I know that after leaving Christopher Liddell’s studio with a rubber glove filled with evidence, you headed to Amsterdam. From there, you traveled to Argentina, where, two days later, one of the country’s most important voices of conscience was killed in a bombing.” Seymour paused. “Was it an old enemy or have you already managed to make a new one?”

“We believe it was Martin Landesmann.”

“Really?” Seymour brushed a bit of invisible lint from his trousers.

“You don’t seem terribly surprised, Graham.”

“I’m not.”

Gabriel looked at Adrian Carter and saw he was doodling on his MI5 notepad.

“And you, Adrian?”

Carter looked up briefly from his labors. “Let’s just say I’ve never been one to bow at the altar of Saint Martin. But do tell me the rest of it, Gabriel. I could use a good story after the day I’ve had.”