“Your friend,” said Amanda coolly.

“The American president?”

“Jonathan.”

“Yours, too,” replied Seymour.

“My relationship with the prime minister is cordial,” said Amanda deliberately, “but it’s nothing like yours. You and Jonathan are thick as thieves.”

It was clear Amanda wanted to say more about Seymour’s unique bond with the prime minister. Instead, she freshened his drink while sharing a piece of naughty gossip about the wife of a certain ambassador from an oil-rich Arab emirate. Seymour reciprocated with a report he’d received about a man with a British accent who was shopping for shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles at an arms bazaar in Libya. After that, with the ice having been broken, they fell into an easy conversation of the sort that only two senior spymasters could have. They shared, they divulged, they advised, and on two occasions they actually laughed. Indeed, for a few minutes it seemed their rivalry did not exist. They talked about the situation in Iraq and Syria, they talked about China, they talked about the global economy and its impact on security, and they talked about the American president, whom they blamed for many of the world’s problems. Eventually, they talked about the Russians. These days, they always did.

“Their cyberwarriors,” said Amanda, “are blasting away at our financial institutions with everything they’ve got in their nasty little toolbox. They’re also targeting our government systems and the computer networks of our biggest defense contractors.”

“Are they after something specific?”

“Actually,” she replied, “they don’t seem to be looking for much of anything. They’re just trying to inflict as much damage as possible. There’s a recklessness we’ve never seen before.”

“Any change in their posture here in London?”

“D4 has noticed a distinct increase in activity at the London rezidentura. We’re not sure what it means, but it’s clear they’re involved in something big.”

“Bigger than planting a Russian illegal in the prime minister’s bed?”

Amanda raised an eyebrow and traced an olive around the rim of her glass. The face of the princess appeared on the television. Her family had announced the creation of a fund to support causes she held dear. Jonathan Lancaster had been allowed to make the first donation.

“Hear anything new?” asked Amanda.

“About the princess?”

She nodded.

“Nothing. You?”

She set down her drink and considered Seymour for a moment in silence. Finally, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me it was Eamon Quinn?”

She tapped her nail on the arm of the chair while she awaited a response, never a good sign. Seymour decided he had no choice but to tell her the truth, or at least a version of it.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said at last, “because I didn’t want to involve you.”

“Because you don’t trust me?”

“Because I don’t want you to be tainted in any way.”

“Why would I be tainted? After all, Graham, you were the head of counterterrorism at the time of the Omagh bombing, not me.”

“Which is why you became the DG of the Security Service.” He paused, then added, “And not me.”

A strained silence fell between them. Seymour longed to leave but could not. The matter had to have some resolution.

“Was Quinn acting on behalf of the Real IRA,” asked Amanda finally, “or someone else?”

“We should have an answer to that in a few hours.”

“As soon as Liam Walsh breaks?”

Seymour offered no reply.

“Is it an authorized MI6 operation?”

“Off the books.”

“Your specialty,” said Amanda caustically. “I suppose you’re working with the Israelis. After all, they wanted to take Quinn out of circulation a long time ago.”

“And we should have taken them up on the offer.”

“How much does Jonathan know?”

“Nothing.”

She swore softly, something she rarely did. “I’m going to give you a great deal of latitude on this,” she said finally. “Not for your sake, mind you, but for the sake of the Security Service. But I expect advance warning if your operation spills onto British soil. And if anything goes boom, I’ll make certain it’s your neck on the block, not mine.” She smiled. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding.”

“I would have expected nothing else.”

“Very well, then.” She looked at her watch. “I’m afraid I’ve got to run, Graham. Next week at your place?”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Seymour rose and extended his hand. “Always a pleasure, Amanda.”

16

CLIFDEN, COUNTY GALWAY

THEY BROUGHT HIM UPSTAIRS from the cellar and, with his eyes still blinded by duct tape, allowed him to shower for the first time. Then they dressed him in the blue-and-white tracksuit and gave him a few bites of food and some sweet milky tea to drink. It did little for his appearance. With his swollen face, pale skin, and emaciated frame, he looked like a corpse risen from the mortuary slab.

The meal complete, Keller repeated his admonition. The Irishman would be treated well so long as he answered Keller’s questions truthfully and in a normal speaking voice. If he lied, evaded, shouted, or made any foolish attempt to escape, he would be returned to the cellar and the conditions of his confinement would be far less pleasant than before. Gabriel did not speak but Walsh, with his auditory senses heightened by blindness and fear, was clearly aware of his presence. Gabriel preferred it that way. He did not want to leave Walsh with the mistaken impression that he was under the control of a single man, even if that man happened to be one of the deadliest in the world.

Keller had no formal training in the techniques of interrogation, but like all good interrogators he established in Walsh the habit of answering questions truthfully and without hesitation or evasion. They were simple questions at first, questions with answers that were easily verifiable. Date of birth. Place of birth. Names of his parents and siblings. The schools he had attended. His recruitment by the Irish Republican Army. Walsh stated that he was born in Ballybay, County Monaghan, on October 16, 1972. The place of his birth was significant in that it was two miles from Northern Ireland, in the tense Border Region. His birthday was significant, too; he shared it with Michael Collins, the Irish revolutionary leader. He attended Catholic schools until he was eighteen, when he joined the IRA. His recruiter made no attempt to glamorize the life Walsh had chosen. He would be poorly paid and would live on the knife’s edge of danger. In all likelihood he would spend several years in prison. The chances were good he would die violently.

“And the recruiter’s name?” asked Keller in his Ulsterman’s accent.

“I’m not allowed to say.”

“You are now.”

“It was Seamus McNeil,” Walsh said after a moment’s hesitation. “He was—”

“A member of the South Armagh Brigade,” Keller cut in. “He was killed in an ambush by British soldiers and buried with IRA honors, may he rest in peace.”

“Actually,” said Walsh, “he died during a shoot-out with the SAS.”

“Only cowboys and gangsters do shoot-outs,” replied Keller. “But you were about to tell me about your training.”

Which Walsh did. He was sent to a remote camp in the Republic for small-arms training and lessons in the manufacture and delivery of bombs. He was told to quit drinking and to avoid socializing with non-IRA members. Finally, six months after his recruitment, he was assigned to an elite IRA active service unit. Its membership included a master bomb maker and operational planner named Eamon Quinn. Quinn was several years older than Walsh and already a legend. In the 1980s he had been sent to a desert camp in Libya for training. But in the end, said Walsh, it was Quinn, not the Libyans, who had done most of the instructing. In fact, Quinn was the one who gave the Libyans the design for the bomb that brought down Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland.