Seymour had drinks with Amanda Wallace, the director-general of MI5. It was, without doubt, his least favorite appointment of the week. Wallace was Seymour’s former boss. They had entered MI5 the same year and had risen through the ranks along parallel tracks, Seymour in the counterterrorism department, Wallace in counterespionage. In the end it was Amanda who had won the race to the DG’s suite. But now, quite unexpectedly and in the twilight of his career, Seymour had been handed the biggest prize of all. Amanda hated him for it, for he was now London’s most powerful spy. Quietly, she worked to undermine him at every turn.
Like Seymour, Amanda Wallace had espionage in her DNA. Her mother had toiled in the file rooms of MI5’s Registry during the war,and upon graduation from Cambridge, Amanda had considered no career other than intelligence. Their common lineage should have made them allies. Instead, Amanda had instantly cast Seymour in the role of rival. He was the handsome scoundrel to whom success came too easily, and she was the awkward, rather shy girl who would run him off his feet. They had known each other thirty years and together had reached the twin peaks of British intelligence, and yet the basic dynamics of their relationship had never changed.
On the previous Friday, Amanda had come to Vauxhall Cross, which meant that under the rules of their relationship it was Seymour’s turn to travel. He saw it as no imposition; he always liked going back to Thames House. His official Jaguar was cleared into the underground car park at 5:55 p.m., and two minutes later Amanda’s elevator deposited him on the uppermost floor. The main corridor was as quiet as a night ward. Seymour supposed the senior staff were mixing with the troops at one of the building’s two private bars. As always, he stopped to have a look inside his old office. Miles Kent, his successor as deputy, was staring blankly into his computer terminal. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
“How is she?” asked Seymour warily.
“Fit to be tied. But you’d better hurry,” Kent added. “Mustn’t keep the queen bee waiting.”
Seymour continued along the corridor to the DG’s suite. A member of Amanda’s all-male staff greeted him in the anteroom and showed him immediately into her large office. She was standing contemplatively in a window overlooking the Houses of Parliament. Turning, she consulted her wristwatch. Amanda valued punctuality above all other attributes.
“Graham,” she said evenly, as though she were reading his name from one of the dense briefing books her staff always prepared before an important meeting. Then she gave an efficient smile. It looked asthough she had taught herself the gesture by practicing in front of a mirror. “So good of you to come.”
A drinks tray had been left on Amanda’s long, gleaming conference table. She prepared a gin and tonic for Seymour and for herself a bone-dry martini with olives and cocktail onions. She prided herself on her ability to hold her liquor, a skill that, in her opinion, was obligatory for a spy. It was one of her few endearing qualities.
“Cheers,” said Seymour, raising his glass a fraction of an inch, but again Amanda only smiled. The BBC played silently on a large flat-panel television. A senior officer of the Garda Síochána was standing outside a small house in Ballyfermot where three men, all members of a Real IRA drug gang, had been found dead.
“Rather nasty,” said Amanda.
“A turf war, apparently,” murmured Seymour over the rim of his glass.
“Our friends in the Garda have their doubts about that.”
“What have they got?”
“Nothing, actually, which is why they’re concerned. The phones usually light up with chatter after a big gangland assassination, but not this time. And then,” she added, “there’s the manner in which they were killed. Usually, these mobsters hose down the entire room with automatic-weapons fire. But
Like Seymour, Amanda Wallace had espionage in her DNA. Her mother had toiled in the file rooms of MI5’s Registry during the war,and upon graduation from Cambridge, Amanda had considered no career other than intelligence. Their common lineage should have made them allies. Instead, Amanda had instantly cast Seymour in the role of rival. He was the handsome scoundrel to whom success came too easily, and she was the awkward, rather shy girl who would run him off his feet. They had known each other thirty years and together had reached the twin peaks of British intelligence, and yet the basic dynamics of their relationship had never changed.
On the previous Friday, Amanda had come to Vauxhall Cross, which meant that under the rules of their relationship it was Seymour’s turn to travel. He saw it as no imposition; he always liked going back to Thames House. His official Jaguar was cleared into the underground car park at 5:55 p.m., and two minutes later Amanda’s elevator deposited him on the uppermost floor. The main corridor was as quiet as a night ward. Seymour supposed the senior staff were mixing with the troops at one of the building’s two private bars. As always, he stopped to have a look inside his old office. Miles Kent, his successor as deputy, was staring blankly into his computer terminal. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
“How is she?” asked Seymour warily.
“Fit to be tied. But you’d better hurry,” Kent added. “Mustn’t keep the queen bee waiting.”
Seymour continued along the corridor to the DG’s suite. A member of Amanda’s all-male staff greeted him in the anteroom and showed him immediately into her large office. She was standing contemplatively in a window overlooking the Houses of Parliament. Turning, she consulted her wristwatch. Amanda valued punctuality above all other attributes.
“Graham,” she said evenly, as though she were reading his name from one of the dense briefing books her staff always prepared before an important meeting. Then she gave an efficient smile. It looked asthough she had taught herself the gesture by practicing in front of a mirror. “So good of you to come.”
A drinks tray had been left on Amanda’s long, gleaming conference table. She prepared a gin and tonic for Seymour and for herself a bone-dry martini with olives and cocktail onions. She prided herself on her ability to hold her liquor, a skill that, in her opinion, was obligatory for a spy. It was one of her few endearing qualities.
“Cheers,” said Seymour, raising his glass a fraction of an inch, but again Amanda only smiled. The BBC played silently on a large flat-panel television. A senior officer of the Garda Síochána was standing outside a small house in Ballyfermot where three men, all members of a Real IRA drug gang, had been found dead.
“Rather nasty,” said Amanda.
“A turf war, apparently,” murmured Seymour over the rim of his glass.
“Our friends in the Garda have their doubts about that.”
“What have they got?”
“Nothing, actually, which is why they’re concerned. The phones usually light up with chatter after a big gangland assassination, but not this time. And then,” she added, “there’s the manner in which they were killed. Usually, these mobsters hose down the entire room with automatic-weapons fire. But
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