The English Girl: A Novel

government.”
    “Correct,” replied Seymour. “If I do that, there’s a good chance I’ll be swept out to sea with the rest of them. And you will lose a close ally in the process.” He lowered his voice and added, “I would think a man in your position would want to hang on to a friend like me. You don’t have many these days.”
    “But you can’t possibly allow a KGB-owned energy company to drill for oil in your territorial waters.”
    “That would be a dereliction of duty,” Seymour agreed genially.
    “Nor can you allow a paid agent of the Kremlin to continue serving as the chancellor. Otherwise,” Gabriel added, “he might be your next prime minister.”
    “I shudder at the very thought.”
    “Then you have to destroy him, Graham.” Gabriel paused. “Or you have to avert your eyes while I do it for you.”
    Seymour was silent for a moment. “How would you go about it?”
    “By repaying a favor.”
    “What about Lancaster?”
    “He was guilty of an affair. There’s a good chance the British people will forgive him, especially when they learn that Jeremy Fallon has five million euros sitting in a Swiss bank account.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And there is one other mitigating circumstance I haven’t told you about yet.”
    “What is it?”
    Gabriel smiled and rose to his feet.
    H e entered the bedroom and returned a moment later with a beautiful young woman at his side. She had coal-black hair and her once-pale skin was deeply tanned by the sun of the Red Sea. Seymour rose chivalrously and, smiling, extended his hand. As it hovered there unaccepted, his face took on a puzzled expression. And then he understood. He looked at Gabriel and whispered, “Dear God.”
    S he told Graham Seymour the story from the beginning—the same story she had told Gabriel on that frozen afternoon in St. Petersburg, in the cupola of St. Isaac’s Cathedral. Then, calmly, primly, she declared that she wished to defect to the United Kingdom and, if possible, to one day resume her old life.
    As deputy director of MI5, Graham Seymour did not possess the authority to grant defector status to a Russian spy; the only person who could do that was Madeline’s former lover, Jonathan Lancaster. Which explained why, at two fifteen that afternoon, Seymour presented himself at Number Ten unannounced and demanded a word with the prime minister in private. Coincidentally, the encounter took place in the Study Room. There, beneath the same glowering portrait of Baroness Thatcher, Seymour told the prime minister everything he had learned. That the Russian president had ordered Volgatek to use any means possible to gain access to the oil of the North Sea. That Jeremy Fallon, Lancaster’s closest aide and confidant, had betrayed him for five million pieces of Russian silver. And that Madeline Hart, his former lover, was a Russian-born spy who was still very much alive and requesting asylum in Britain. To his credit, Lancaster, though visibly shaken, did not hesitate before giving his answer. Fallon had to go, Madeline had to stay, and let the chips fall where they may. He made only one request, that he be given the chance to break the news to his wife.
    “I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you, Prime Minister.”
    Lancaster reached slowly for the telephone. Seymour rose to his feet and slipped silently from the room.
    W hich left only the name of the reporter who would be granted the most sensational exclusive in British political history. Seymour suggested Tony Richmond at the Times or perhaps Sue Gibbons from the Independent , but Gabriel overruled him. He had made a promise, he said, and he planned to keep it. He rang her mobile, got her voice mail, and left a brief message. She rang him back right away. Four o’clock at Café Nero, he said. And this time don’t be late.
    M uch to Graham Seymour’s chagrin, Gabriel and Madeline insisted on taking one last walk together. They headed up Millbank through a gusty wind—past the Victoria Tower Gardens, Westminster Abbey, and the Houses of Parliament—and at ten minutes to four entered the café. Gabriel ordered black coffee; Madeline had milky Earl Grey tea and a digestive biscuit. She removed a compact from her handbag and checked her face in the mirror.
    “How do I look?” she asked.
    “Very Israeli.”
    “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
    “Put it away,” said Gabriel.
    She did as Gabriel instructed. Then she looked out the window at the crowds