“Sensitive subjects especially.”

“Normally.”

“Sold to the highest bidder.”

“If you’re insinuating any type of treasonous activities, you’re off the mark,” Cairncross shot back. “The world has changed. Borders are a thing of the past. Information doesn’t carry a passport. It belongs to everyone.”

“And yet Lord Russell kept a pistol in case there was someone with a less democratic view.”

For once Cairncross had no response.

Kate went on. “I take it, then, that in the course of all this open-source intelligence-gathering he wasn’t doing on behalf of the British, he found something he shouldn’t have.”

Cairncross plucked the bifocals off his nose and polished them with his handkerchief. “The events of this morning would seem to bear out your thesis,” he said with equanimity, though he refused to meet her eyes.

“Didn’t Russell give you any indication about what he was currently studying?”

“Only tangentially.”

“Tangentially?”

“Yes… peripherally, so to speak.”

Kate exhaled loudly. “Mr. Cairncross, I’m not interested in tangentially or peripherally or global space matrixes. I am interested in facts. Did Lord Russell share his discovery with you? Yes or no?”

Cairncross continued to polish his spectacles. “Robert did mention that he’d come across something that was keeping him up at night. He said that the problem was time-sensitive and that he was digging into matters where his interest wouldn’t be appreciated. But that’s all. I’m afraid it’s not much to go on.”

“Did he mention any kind of threat? An attack on British soil? Anything to do with the possibility of loss of life?”

“Good Lord, no,” said Cairncross, and he appeared to be genuinely surprised. “Nothing like that. A few years back he put us on to the attempt on the Lebanese prime minister. I can assure you we passed that information on to the appropriate authorities in record time.”

“If I recall, the Lebanese prime minister was blown sky high by a bomb in Beirut,” said Kate.

“Alas, yes,” admitted Cairncross. “We were too late to save the poor man. Otherwise, Robert’s work has been strictly academic.”

“Did he mention someone named Mischa? I’m told that the name is a derivative of Mikhail. Both are Russian names.”

“I don’t know of any Mischa. I’m sorry.”

“What about Victoria Bear?”

Cairncross shook his head. “May I ask where you obtained this information?”

Kate sat back in her chair and folded her hands. “I’m afraid I can’t reveal that. I do have one last question: did Russell mention anything about a meeting tomorrow morning-something rather important?”

Cairncross pursed his lips, consulting some inner bank of information. “No, I can’t say that he did. He was rather worried, though, about another matter. It was something he’d been studying for a while, really devoting all his resources to-”

Just then there came a firm knock and the door to the office opened a few inches. Kate caught a glimpse of a blond head, a square jaw, waiting in the hall. “Ian, a word…”

Cairncross looked at Kate, then away, but not before she caught the flash of panic in his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me.” He stood, and as he joined the man in the hall, Kate saw a hand fall on his shoulder and guide him out of sight.

Cairncross returned a few minutes later. “Sorry,” he said. “Something’s come up suddenly. I’m afraid our meeting must come to an end.”

“You were saying that Russell was worried about something.”

“Oil. A price shock. The only reason for that would be an attack on a major oil-producing facility somewhere, say Nigeria or Saudi Arabia. But I can promise you he never mentioned a Mischa. Perhaps Robert’s death had nothing to do with his work. Who knows where his private tastes ran?”

“Perhaps,” said Kate. If she wasn’t mistaken, Cairncross had just tried to besmirch Russell’s reputation. She slid her notebook into her jacket and stood. “The offer of protection stands.”

“No, no,” said Cairncross, stammering in his eagerness to escort her from the room. “That won’t be necessary. I think we’re all a bit unnerved by Robert’s death. That’s all.”

Kate did not allow herself to be rushed. “Are you sure there’s nothing else?” she asked, lingering in the doorway, wondering who it was that had interrupted their meeting and put a violent stop to the proceedings.

“Nothing at all.”

She handed him her card. “If you think of anything else, tangential or otherwise, call me.”

Kate stood outside the building, feeling deceived and cheated. She was sure that Cairncross had more to tell her, and her instinct told her it was something that might have proven helpful in finding Russell’s killer. Moreover, the late-inning attempt to insinuate that Russell’s sexual proclivities might have led to his murder angered her. Russell’s death was no crime of passion. It was far too calculated for that. Swallowing her anger, she headed back to her car.

Her phone rang. It was Cleak’s ringtone. “Yes, Reg.”

“I’m at Russell’s flat. You’ll want to get down here as quickly as possible. We found it.”

Kate stopped walking, putting a finger to her ear to hear better over the street noise. “Found what?”

“How the murderer got into Russell’s flat.”

“Tell me.”

“You’ll have to see it to believe it.”

“On my way.”

Kate hung up. And as she set off up the alley, she ventured a last look behind her. Her eyes rose to Cairncross’s second-floor office. The window had been closed, and though the sun reflected off it, she was able to make out the outline of a blond head with a very square jaw watching her intently.

And who the hell are you? she asked the silent figure.

11

The components sat on the floor of the garage, stacked neatly against the rear wall.

Twenty sticks of plastic explosive, bundled into packets of four, each packet weighing five kilos and thermowrapped in orange plasticene.

Two 15-kilo bags of four-inch carpenter’s nails.

Two 10-kilo bags of three-inch steel bolts.

Five 5-kilo bags of 00 buckshot.

Four 25-kilo sacks of Portland cement.

One reel of copper electrical wire.

One length of det cord manufactured by Bofors of Sweden measuring one meter.

One box of blasting caps. Ten count.

A can of stalignite gel, better known as napalm.

One cell phone (still in its factory packaging) and a SIM card carrying a stored value of twenty pounds.

Last but not least, the delivery device, recently detailed and sparkling beneath a raft of fluorescent lights, occupied the center of the garage.

A BMW had been chosen for the job. Expensive automobiles attracted less attention than cheap ones, and this one carried a sticker price of one hundred twenty thousand pounds, nearly two hundred thousand U.S. dollars when you included VAT. It was a brand-new 7-series, stratus gray with black leather interior, an elongated wheelbase, and conservative nineteen-inch rims. It was a car a diplomat might drive. A car that would look very much at home parked on the streets of Whitehall, the London district that was the site of many government offices.

One man stood in the garage, studying the automobile. He was wan and thin, dressed in a blue coverall. Except for his hands, he was unremarkable in every way. The left hand had only three fingers, the pinkie and ring finger lost to a faulty detonator. The right hand, though intact, was webbed with scar tissue and grotesque. When ignited, white phosphorus fuses with human flesh and cannot be extinguished with water. They were a bombmaker’s hands.