Moscow Rules

tossed a couple hundred quid onto the plate as it passed beneath his nose and he finished his last glass of wine. The interior team would later report that he had the look of a man who seemed to know his world was about to change, and not necessarily for the better.
     
     
    They clustered briefly outside in Duke Street before going their separate ways. Alistair Leach lingered a moment with Julian Isherwood, then turned and started back toward Christie’s. He would get no farther than the corner of Duke and King streets, for it was there that Graham Seymour had chosen to make the scoop. The task was handled by a young operative named Nigel Whitcombe, who had a face like a parson and the grip of a blacksmith. Leach offered only token resistance as he was led by the elbow toward a waiting MI5 Rover.
     
     
    “Mind telling me what this is all about?” he asked meekly as the car pulled away from the curb.
     
     
    “I’d love to tell you more, Alistair, but I’m afraid I’m just the delivery boy.”
     
     
    “It’s not a long drive, is it? I’m afraid you caught me at a delicate moment. A little too much wine at lunch. That damn Oliver Dimbleby. He’s trouble, Oliver. Always was. Always will be. He’s the one you should be picking up.”
     
     
    “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&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.