Pru looked down at her husband. “I didn’t pull the trigger,” she mumbled. “I couldn’t have.” Then, to Jonathan: “Do something.”

“Just call an ambulance!”

Pru rushed into the kitchen and called emergency services.

Jonathan pulled the blanket from the ottoman and used it to wipe away the blood. He pushed his index finger into the hole, feeling for an artery he could stanch.

“Keep trying,” said Meadows, struggling to raise his head. “Don’t worry about the pain. I can’t feel a thing. The bullet must have hit the spinal cord.”

“It’s a little slippery,” said Jonathan, angling his index finger through muscle fascia into the thoracic cavity. “Let me just try on this side.”

“Got it?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t give up.”

Jonathan leaned closer, eyes narrowed. “Hang in there. I’ll get it clamped in a second.”

“I know you will.” Suddenly Meadows went into spasm. His body heaved. His head bolted forward and dark arterial blood pulsed from his mouth. “Jon… help me.”

“Lay back, Jamie. We can do this.” Jonathan lowered Meadows to the floor, took a steadying breath, and recommenced his blind search for the nicked artery.

“Christ, the girls,” said Meadows. “They’re so young.”

“You just worry about yourself. Hang tight. We’ll have you at a hospital in no time. Understand?”

“It’s just…” Meadows’s words trailed off.

“Stay with me!” Jonathan inched his finger to the right and felt a current of blood. Probing more deeply, he located the source of the internal bleeding. “There,” he said. “I’ve got it. Now lay still.”

“Thank God,” whispered Meadows, his eyes meeting Jonathan’s. “That’s a good chap, Ransom. It’s true then.”

“What?”

“Magic hands. You do have them.” Then he gasped and went still.

Jonathan watched as his friend’s pupils dilated and his face drained of color. The change was immediate and dramatic. Gingerly, he removed his finger and sat back on his knees, gazing at the still form.

Pru returned to the living room, her eyes darting between Jonathan and her husband’s corpse. “What happened? How is he? Jamie?”

“He’s dead,” said Jonathan.

“What? But the ambulance is on its way. They said three minutes. It can’t be.” Prudence laid the gun on a side table, knelt and placed a hand on her husband’s cheek. “Jamie,” she whispered close to his ear. “Come on then. Hold on for a little longer. The ambulance is almost here. Division will understand. You’re my husband. They have to.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jonathan.

“No, it’s not possible,” the woman protested. “He can’t be. I didn’t… I mean it was an accident.”

The room grew quiet, the odor of gunpowder fouling the air.

“You did this,” said Prudence, after a moment. Her eyes were wet with tears, but her voice remained flat. “You killed him. You and Emma.”

“No,” said Jonathan, tiredly.

In an instant, she was on her feet, her hand reaching for the pistol.

Jonathan reacted instinctively. There was a flash of silver, a thud, and a sharp intake of breath. He picked up the gun and moved back a step.

Prudence Meadows stared in horror at the letter opener pinning her hand to the side table, but she made no noise. Her eyes met Jonathan’s. In the distance, an ambulance’s siren wailed.

“Jenny,” she called upstairs to her older daughter, with unnerving calm. “Wake up! There’s an intruder and he’s shot Daddy!”

Jonathan ran out the door.

Five minutes later, he was driving Jamie Meadows’s Jaguar along the A4 out of London.

28

Officially it was called the Telephone Information Unit of the London Metropolitan Police, but everyone on the force knew it as the Aquarium. The Aquarium was located on the third underground floor beneath a government building in Whitehall. The building, a dignified assembly of red brick and mortar, might have been designed and constructed in the seventeenth century by a pupil of Inigo Jones, but the Aquarium was strictly twenty-first century. Instead of brick there was stainless steel, and instead of mortar, fiber optic cable. Thousands of miles of it ran through the walls and under the floors and into the warren of cubicles and bullpens and soundproofed conference rooms that covered an area the size of a football pitch. It was the Telephone Information Unit’s job to eavesdrop on the telephone conversations and e-mail traffic of some five thousand people deemed “persons of interest” by Her Majesty’s government.

Kate Ford hurried along the elevated walkway that ran the length of the Aquarium. A pane of soundproof glass separated her from the work area. Every 20 meters there was an exit and stairs that descended from the catwalk to the floor. It was past eleven at night, but the floor bristled with activity. In the digital world, there was no day or night.

She stopped at the third doorway, passed her identification card through the reader, waited for the green pinlight, and applied her left thumb to the biometric scanner. Ironically, security increased once you’d been granted admission to the building. She descended the stairs. The warren was so complex that the walkways that crisscrossed the giant floor had all been given names. She passed pennants denoting Belgravia and Covent Garden, stopping at Pimlico.

Tony Shaffer slouched at his desk, keyboard on his lap as he tapped instructions into his computer. “Oh, hey there,” he said, coming to attention. “Just finishing a little something.”

“Hurry it up,” said Kate, finding an empty chair and rolling it to Shaffer’s cubicle.

Shaffer was young and unshaven, with a head of unruly black hair. “I’ve started working on the info you gave me,” he said.

“Any luck?”

“’Fraid not.”

Kate frowned. Upon leaving the Dorchester, she’d phoned Shaffer to request that he start tracking down the IP address and location of the woman who’d sent Russell the video message yesterday morning. “Name and address check out?”

“No problem there,” said Shaffer, with an air of apology that made her nervous. “Robert Russell was duly registered with British Telecom and Vodafone. I have the number of every phone and cable line running into his apartment at One Park. Theoretically, it’s just a question of tracing the traffic that came through Russell’s pipe.”

“Then why the long face?”

“Russell’s info is blocked. Can’t get to it.”

“How’s that? I was at Five this morning. They’ve had a clamp on Russell’s numbers for weeks. They’d even made a copy of the transmission.”

“Five’s the problem. They have a filter on the node running into that part of the city. Essentially, they’re capturing every bit of communications traffic in Mayfair, whether they have a warrant for it or not. Russell’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Did you request copies of the traffic to his flat?”

Shaffer nodded. “I did, but they refuse to share it. Fed me a line about national security taking precedence over a local investigation.”

“A homicide investigation, thank you.”

“I told ’em. Didn’t cut me any slack.”

Kate leaned forward, pinching the bridge of her nose. “The woman’s the key. She’s the human connection. It was her source that gave Russell ‘Victoria Bear.’ She’s the one who can tell us who’s behind the bombing.”

“You’ll need to file a request with the Security Service, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“I thought this was the age of improved cooperation.”

“That is improved cooperation. Believe me. Before, Five wouldn’t even take my call.” Shaffer scratched his head. “Don’t you have any other way of finding your Joe? You said it was a video message. Did you do an ambient sound analysis? Sometimes they can find the craziest things. Radios playing in another room, church bells ringing miles away, all kinds of stuff that can help you pinpoint the location of the sender. Then you can reverse-engineer the whole thing. Narrow it down to a few square miles, identify the local cable node, and see who in that area was sending messages to Russell.”