IT WAS fitting commentary on the deplorable state of print journalism that Zoe Reed, regarded as one of the brightest stars of the British press, spent the final hours before her recruitment bathed in the flattering glow of television lights. Ironically, her appearances that evening would prove to be a major embarrassment to Downing Street, for they involved allegations that yet another Labor MP had been caught up in the Empire Aerospace bribery scandal. The BBC got first crack at her, followed by Sky News, CNBC, and finally CNN International.

It was upon Zoe’s departure from CNN’s studios, located at 16 Great Marlborough Street, that she had the first inkling her evening might not go as planned. It was brought about by the sudden disappearance of the car and driver retained by the Financial Journal to ferry her from appearance to appearance. As she was reaching for her mobile, a middle-aged man in a mackintosh coat approached and informed her that, due to a scheduling problem, she had been assigned a new car, a gleaming Jaguar limousine parked on the opposite side of the street. Anxious to return home after a long day, she hurried across through the rain and climbed into the back without hesitation. At which point she realized she was not alone. Seated next to her, a mobile phone pressed to his ear, was a well-dressed man with even features and a full head of pewter-colored hair. He lowered the phone and looked at Zoe as if he had been expecting her.

“Good evening, Ms. Reed. My name is Graham Seymour. I work for the Security Service, and through no fault of my own I’ve been promoted to a senior position, which you can verify by speaking to the person at the other end of this call.” He handed her the mobile. “It’s my director-general. I trust you’ll remember her voice, since you interviewed her just last month. You were a bit hard on her in my opinion, but your article made for good reading.”

“Is that why I’m here?”

“Of course not, Ms. Reed. You’re here because we have a serious problem—a problem involving the security of the country and the entire civilized world—and we need your help.”

Zoe lifted the phone cautiously to her ear. “Good evening, Zoe, my dear,” she heard a familiar matronly voice say. “Rest assured you are in very good hands with Graham. And do accept my apology for disturbing your evening, but I’m afraid there was no other way.”

IN THE operations room at Thames House, there was a communal sigh of relief as they watched the Jaguar slip away from the curb. “Now the fun begins,” said Nigel Whitcombe. “We’d better get moving or we’ll be late for the second act.”

CHAPTER 47

47

HIGHGATE, LONDON