“Perhaps another time.” Whitcombe’s smile was like balm. “Do try to relax, Alistair. You’re not in any trouble. We just need to borrow some of your connections and expertise.”

“Any idea how long we’ll be?”

“I suppose that depends on you.”

“I’ll need to call Abigail if we’re going to be late. She’s a worrier, you know.”

Yes, thought Whitcombe. We know all about Abigail.

They had debated over where to take him next. Graham Seymour had recommended the imposing formality of Thames House, but Gabriel, who had a field man’s aversion to all things Headquarters, successfully lobbied for something cozier and less official. And so it was that, twenty minutes after he was plucked from King Street, Alistair Leach was shown into the drawing room of a hastily leased mews house not far from Sloane Square. It was a pleasant room with good books on the shelves and good whiskey on the trolley. The blinds were partially open and the agreeable light of late afternoon was filtering through the slits and making striped patterns along the wood flooring. Graham Seymour was slowly pacing in order to better showcase his English scale, his English good looks, and his perfectly tailored English suit. Gabriel, who had not yet been invited to join the proceedings,was seated before a television monitor in an upstairs bedroom. He had two MI5 technicians for company, one called Marlowe and the other called Mapes. Inside the Service, they were better known as M amp;M Audio and Video.

Whitcombe instructed Leach to sit on the couch, then sat next to him. On the coffee table was a single sheet of paper. Graham Seymour drew a pen from his pocket and held it toward Leach like a loaded gun.

“Be a love, Alistair, and sign that for me. It’s a copy of the Official Secrets Act. You needn’t bother reading it, since the wording isn’t terribly important. Rest assured, it gives us the right to lock you away in the Tower and lop off your head if you ever breathe a word of what is about to transpire here. You’re not to talk about it with anyone. Not with your colleagues. Not with Abigail or your children. And not with any other friend or acquaintance with whom you might share the occasional intimacy.”

Leach looked up sharply, and for an instant Gabriel feared that Seymour had played his ace when a jack would have done the trick. Then Leach looked at Whitcombe, who nodded gravely.

“What have I done?” Leach asked, pen to the document. “Short-changed Inland Revenue? Misbehaved on the Tube? Said something nasty about the current occupant of Number Ten?”

“You’re fortunate enough to have been born in a free country,” said Seymour. “You can say anything you like-within certain limits, of course. You’re here not because of your own actions but because of your association with a man who is a threat to British national security. A rather serious threat, actually.”

“Where’s here?” Leach looked around the room, then at Seymour. “And who are we?”

“The here is not important. This is all temporary. As for the we, that’s a bit more permanent. We’re from the Security Service, sometimes referred to as MI5. I’m Charles.” He nodded toward Whitcombe. “This is my colleague, Gerald.”

“And this association of mine who’s a threat to national security? Who might that be? My newsagent? The bloke who brings us coffee at the office?”

“It’s one of your clients, actually.”

“I’m afraid one encounters all sorts in a business like mine and not all of them are candidates for sainthood.”

“The client I’m talking about need never apply for admission to God’s heavenly kingdom, Alistair. He’s not your average robber baron or hedge fund thief. He’s been pouring weapons into the most volatile corners of the Third World for years. And it now appears he’s about to conclude a transaction that could make the London bombings seem like child’s play.”

“He’s an arms dealer? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. They’re an unscrupulous lot by definition. This man is the worst of the worst.”

“Does he have a name?”

“You don’t get to know his name yet-not until you’ve agreed to help us.”

“But what can I do? I sell paintings.”

“We’re asking you to make a telephone call, Alistair. Nothing more. For that telephone call, you will be handsomely compensated. More important, we are giving you the opportunity to help defend your country and your fellow citizens of the world from an enemy that thinks nothing of slaughtering innocents.” Seymour stopped walking. His eyes were concealed by shadow. “Shall I go on or should we run you home to Abigail and pretend this encounter never took place?”

Leach, at the second mention of his wife’s name, shifted uneasily in his seat. He looked at Whitcombe, like a witness looking to his lawyer for counsel. Whitcombe gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head, as if imploring Leach to join their crusade.

“Go on,” said Leach to no one in particular.

Seymour resumed his slow pacing. “Because the threat is international, our effort to counter it is international as well. You are about to meet an officer from the intelligence service of another country, a country allied with our own in the struggle against terrorism and global Islamic extremism. What’s more, it is quite possible you will recognize this gentleman from your professional life. The document you signed covers your contact with this man as well as us.”

“Please tell me he isn’t a bloody American.”

“Worse, I’m afraid.”

“The only thing worse than an American is an Israeli.”

Whitcombe gave Leach an admonitory tap on the side of the knee.

“Have I put my foot in it?” Leach asked.

“I’m afraid so,” said Seymour.

“You won’t say anything to him, will you? They do tend to get their back up at even the slightest insult.”

Seymour gave a ghost of a smile. “It will be our little secret.”

30 CHELSEA, LONDON

Gabriel entered the drawing room and, without a word, lowered himself into the armchair opposite Leach.

"Dear heavens, you’re-”

"I’m no one,” said Gabriel, finishing the sentence for him. “You don’t know me. You’ve never seen me before in your life. You’ve never heard my name. You’ve never seen my face. Are we clear, Alistair?”

Leach looked at Seymour and appealed for assistance. “Are you going to stand there and do nothing? For Christ’s sake! The man just threatened me.”

“He did nothing of the sort,” Seymour said. “Now, answer his question.”

“But I do know his name. I know both his names. He’s Mario Delvecchio. He used to clean pictures for juicy Julian Isherwood. He was the best. Painted like an angel and could authenticate a work simply by running his fingers over the brushstrokes. Then he broke our hearts. You see, the entire time he was cleaning for Julian, he was killing on behalf of the Israeli secret service.”

“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else, Alistair.”

“That’s not what The Times says. According to The Times, you were one of the gunmen who killed those poor sods in front of Westminster Abbey on Christmas morning.”

“ ‘Those poor sods,’ as you call them, were hardened terrorists who were about to commit an act of mass murder. As for the affiliation of the men who killed them, the official record states that they were attached to the S019 division of the Metropolitan Police.”

“The Times had your picture, though, didn’t it?”

“Even a newspaper as reputable as The Times occasionally makes a mistake,” said Graham Seymour.

Gabriel silently handed Leach a single sheet of paper.

“Read this.”

“What is it?”

“A transcript of a phone conversation.”

“Whose telephone conversation?”

“Read it, Alistair.”