“Zoe’s mobile phone.” Seymour looked at Gabriel and frowned. “You signed an agreement to let us handle her surveillance and you violated it the moment our backs were turned.”

“Did you really think I was going to send her into Martin’s apartment without audio coverage?”

“Just make sure you shut down the feed once she’s safely back on British soil. So far, we’ve managed to avoid shooting ourselves in the foot. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“The best way to shoot ourselves in the foot would be to lose Zoe in Paris tomorrow night.”

“But that’s not going to happen, is it, Gabriel?”

“Not if we run the operation my way.”

Seymour gazed out the window at the Thames. “I don’t have to remind you that a good many careers are in your hands, mine included. Do whatever you need to do to get Martin’s phone and computer. But make sure you bring our girl home in one piece.”

“That’s the plan, Graham.”

“Yes,” Seymour said distantly. “But you know what they say about the best laid schemes of mice and men. They sometimes go astray with disastrous results. And if there’s one thing Whitehall doesn’t like, it’s a disaster. Especially one that occurs in France.”

“Would you like to come and personally supervise?”

“As you well know, Gabriel, I’m forbidden by law from operating on foreign soil.”

“How do you manage to gather any intelligence with all these rules?”

“We’re not like you, Gabriel. We’re British. Rules make us happy.”

CHAPTER 50

50

MAYFAIR, LONDON

As with nearly every other aspect of Masterpiece, choosing the location of an operational command post was the source of tense negotiation. For reasons of both design and statute, the ops center at MI5 was deemed unsuitable for a foreign venture, even one as close as Paris. MI6 made a predictable play to stage the event at Vauxhall Cross—an offer summarily rejected by Graham Seymour, who was already fighting a losing battle to keep his glamorous rival out of what he regarded as his operation. Since the Israelis had no London operations center—at least not a declared one—that left only the Americans. Running the show from the CIA’s shop made sense for both political and technical reasons since American capabilities on British soil far exceeded those of the British themselves. Indeed, after Seymour’s last visit to the Agency’s colossal underground facility he had concluded that the Americans could run a world war from beneath Grosvenor Square with Whitehall none the wiser. “Who allowed them to build it?” the prime minister had asked. “You did, sir,” Seymour had replied.