The English Girl: A Novel

Gabriel joined a line of travelers filing toward passport control. The customs officer, a bearded Sikh wearing a royal blue dastar , examined his passport with the skepticism it deserved, then, after stamping it violently, welcomed him to Great Britain. Gabriel returned the passport to his coat pocket and made his way to the arrivals hall, where an MI5 operative named Nigel Whitcombe stood alone amid the crowd clutching a wilted paper sign that read MR. BAKER . Whitcombe was Graham Seymour’s acolyte and primary runner of off-the-record errands. He was in his mid-thirties but looked like an adolescent who had been stretched and molded into manhood. His cheeks were pink and hairless, and the fleeting smile he offered when shaking Gabriel’s hand was as guiltless as a parson’s. His benevolent appearance had proven to be a useful asset at MI5. It concealed a mind that was as cunning and devious as that of any terrorist or career criminal.
    Owing to the secretive nature of Gabriel’s visit, Whitcombe had come to Heathrow in his personal car, a Vauxhall Astra. He drove with the speed and ease of someone who spent his weekends racing rally cars. Indeed, it was not until they had reached West Cromwell Road that the speedometer dipped below eighty.
    “It’s a good thing we’re close to a hospital,” said Gabriel.
    “Why?”
    “Because if you don’t slow down, we’re going to need one.”
    Whitcombe eased off the throttle, but only slightly.
    “Any chance we can stop at Harrods for tea?”
    “I was told to bring you in straight away.”
    “I was joking, Nigel.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “Do you know why I’m here?”
    “No,” Whitcombe answered, “but it must be something urgent. I haven’t seen Graham like this since . . .”
    His voice trailed off.
    “Since when?” asked Gabriel.
    “Since the day that al-Qaeda suicide bomber detonated himself in Covent Garden.”
    “Good times,” said Gabriel darkly.
    “That was one of our better ops, wouldn’t you agree?”
    “All except for the ending.”
    “Let’s hope this one doesn’t end that way, whatever it is.”
    “Let’s,” agreed Gabriel.
    After successfully negotiating the traffic maelstrom at Hyde Park Corner, Whitcombe wound his way past Buckingham Palace to Birdcage Walk. As they were passing the Wellington Barracks, he pressed a button on his mobile phone, muttered something about delivering a package, and abruptly rang off. Two minutes later, in Old Queen Street, he pulled up behind a parked Jaguar limousine. Seated in the back, looking as though he had just dined poorly at his club, was Graham Seymour.
    “I don’t suppose you have anything approaching business attire?” he asked as Gabriel slid in next to him.
    “I did,” replied Gabriel, “but British Airways lost my luggage.”
    Seymour frowned. Then he glanced at his driver and said, “Number Ten.”
    N umber 10 Downing Street, arguably the world’s most famous address, had once been guarded by two ordinary London policemen, one who stood watch outside the rather drab black door, and another who sat in the entrance hall, in a comfortable leather chair. All that changed after the Provisional IRA attacked Downing Street with mortars in February 1991. Security barriers arose at the Whitehall entrance of the street, and heavily armed members of Scotland Yard’s Diplomatic Protection Group took the place of the two ordinary London policemen. Downing Street, like the White House, was now a fortified encampment, visible only through the bars of a fence.
    Originally, Number Ten was not one house but three: a town house, a cottage, and a sprawling sixteenth-century mansion called “the House at the Back” that served as a residence for members of the royal family. In 1732 King George II offered the property to Sir Robert Walpole, the first British prime minister in everything but title, who decided to join the three houses into one. The result was what William Pitt described as a “vast, awkward house,” prone to sinking and cracking, where few British prime ministers chose to live. By the end of the eighteenth century, the house had fallen into such disrepair the Treasury recommended razing it; and after World War II, it grew so structurally unsound that limits were placed on the number of people who could be on the upper floors at any one time for fear the building would collapse beneath their weight. Finally, in the late 1950s, the government undertook a painstakingly exact