“So far we have no clue,” said Graves.

“Tell me more about what was on those laptops,” said Allam.

Graves related Mischa Dibner’s statement that whoever possessed the laptops could theoretically access override codes that would allow them to take control of a nuclear reactor somewhere in Europe. “There seems to be a time constraint as well,” he added. “We’re looking at the possibility of an incident within the next forty-eight hours.”

“I see,” said Allam simply. “There does seem to be one connecting thread between all this.”

“What’s that?” asked Kate Ford.

“Energy,” replied Allam. “Ivanov’s in town to talk about oil. You tell me that the bomb was a ploy to steal nuclear codes that may hasten an attack on a reactor in the next forty-eight hours. I don’t think any of it is coincidence.” The director general of MI5 removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Right now, we know of only one person who can tell us what it all means. Emma Ransom. What else do we know about her?”

“Next to nothing,” admitted Graves. “Not who she works for, where she came from, or where she disappeared to. Only that she killed Lord Robert Russell and that she was here in London prior to that doing whatever she damn well pleased.”

“You reckon they’re in it together, Dr. and Mrs. Ransom?” asked Allam.

“I do,” said Graves. “DCI Ford is of another opinion.”

“Why’s that?” asked Allam.

Kate went over Ransom’s actions at the bomb scene. “He could easily have gotten away, but he stayed to assist one of the victims.”

“Saved this fellow’s life, did he?”

“No. The man died.”

Allam raised his eyebrows. “How do you know Ransom didn’t kill him? Maybe he strangled the man. After all, he shot someone else last night.” Allam consulted the papers on his desk. “Another doctor. James Meadows. Harley Street surgeon. This Ransom sounds like a cold-blooded killer, if ever was.”

“I don’t have all the answers, sir,” Kate continued. “But I’m convinced he’s not a player in the bombing or the theft of the laptops. I can’t explain why, except to say that it doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t make sense for an innocent man to run away from the police either, does it, DCI Ford?” Allam asked pointedly. Small stars of red had appeared in his cheeks, and he was sitting on the edge of his chair.

“It’s my opinion that Ransom’s trying to find his wife,” she said firmly.

“Find her? I’d run in the other direction as fast as my legs would carry me.” Allam coughed and sat back in his chair, momentarily appeased. “Any reason you think she might have gone to Rome?”

“Rome?” Graves narrowed his eyes. “Our last piece of intel puts Ransom in Belgium. He rented a car near Brussels airport.”

Allam tapped his pen on a pink notepad in front of him. “I just received a call from the chief of the carabinieri. Your Dr. Ransom’s causing all manner of problems over there. Assault, kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?” said Kate.

“Yes,” said Allam. “And the Italians don’t like it one bit.”

Graves leaned on the director’s desk. “Do they have Ransom in custody?”

Allam shook his head. “No, but they have the man he kidnapped. Another doctor. Apparently Ransom put him through the wringer, asking about that wife of his. It seems that she was in Rome, too, a few months ago, and didn’t half enjoy herself.”

“Oh?”

“I’m told she was attacked-mugged or something-and treated at a local hospital. Ransom wanted to know where exactly.”

“When did this attack on Emma Ransom take place?” asked Kate.

Allam consulted a paper on his desk. “April.”

Kate shot a glance at Graves and said, “The Semtex used in the car bombing was stolen from an Italian army barracks outside of Rome around the same time.”

“She must have nicked the BMW from Perugia then, too,” Graves added.

“Busy girl.” Allam turned his gaze on Kate. “Ever been there?” he asked. “To Rome, I mean.”

“On holiday. Years ago.”

“Pack your bags. The both of you. I’ll smooth the way diplomatically. Just remember the Italians have complete authority over the operation. It is their country, last I looked. Charles, sign a chit for one of the Hawkers. Put it on my budget.” Allam returned his attention to the dossier on his desk, a sign of dismissal. Graves and Kate walked to the door. Suddenly Allam called out. “And Charles, I do rather hope your efficiency improves. I’m going to have to go to Downing Street with this news. The PM’s going to be rather upset. No one likes more egg on his face. Especially a politician.”

“What do you mean, more egg?” asked Graves, a hand in the doorway.

“So far we’ve failed twice. First, to protect a visiting dignitary against an attack. Second, to safeguard a sensitive government installation against theft. Nuclear secrets, no less. If a third failure leads to a nuclear accident, I’d think seriously about leaving the country. Permanently.”

44

Sir Anthony Allam sat alone in his office listening to the ticking of his prize antique Asprey ormolu clock. The clock had belonged to his father, and his father before him, and so on all the way back to 1835, when Sir Robert Peel, modernizer of the London Metropolitan Police Force (hence the name bobbies), had awarded it to Detective Superintendent Aloysius Allam in recognition of his fifty years of service. Six generations later, the Allams had made a name for themselves as coppers on both sides of the Atlantic, and Sir Tony had the connections to prove it.

Feeling beneath his desk, he punched a button that indicated that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstance. Swiveling, he opened the sideboard that housed the director’s line, a phone equipped with the latest in scrambling technology. These days it was as likely that your own brood was listening in as the enemy. He consulted his directory, then dialed an overseas number connecting him to a certain rather undignified suburb of Washington, D.C.

“Hello, Tony,” said a rough American voice.

“Evening, Frank. How’s the world treating you?”

“Fair to middlin’,” said Frank Connor. “Yourself? It’s a little late over there, isn’t it?”

“You tell me. You didn’t really think you could come for a visit without my hearing about it, did you? Enjoying your stay so far?”

Connor grunted. “Food’s just as lousy as it was last time.”

“Not having any success finding her either, I gather.”

“Who?”

“You know who. Word is she went rogue on you.”

There was a long pause, followed by a sigh of capitulation. “These damn field types. We get some of ’em so wound up they have no choice but to self-destruct.”

“She looks rather composed to me,” said Allam. “We’ve got her on tape detonating the car bomb that tried for Igor Ivanov.”

“That was a terrible business,” said Connor, without sympathy.

“Not yours, I trust.”

“Come on, Tony. You know me better than that.”

Allam left that comment alone. “Any idea who she’s hired on with?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be eating that soggy bacon of yours. Ivanov’s got himself plenty of enemies. The man’s a regular butcher. The Monster of Grozny, they call him. He’s a freakin’ war criminal. Word is he likes to get his hands bloody, and I mean his own hands. They say he threw that last journalist out of the window himself. You know, the guy in St. Petersburg.”

“I heard the same thing. He’s a devil, that one.” Allam cleared his throat. “But here’s the rub-my people have themselves convinced that Emma Ransom wasn’t after Ivanov at all. They tell me that the blast was some kind of diversion to get into the offices of our British Nuclear Authority, the equivalent of your Nuclear Regulatory Commission, and make off with some laptop computers containing all kinds of sensitive codes. They believe that she may provoke some kind of incident or attack on a nuclear facility within forty-eight hours.”