‘You were going to tell me about those values.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s been proven not to work. Multiculturalism, and lowest-common-denominator democracy. That’s had its day. It’s over.’
‘And in its place?’
‘A new world order.’
‘Engineered by traitors and assassins?’
‘I don’t consider myself a traitor. And as for assassins, what do you think E Squadron’s for? Every system needs its armed wing, and yes, we have ours.’
‘So why did you kill Viktor Kedrin? I’d have thought his political philosophy was right up your street.’
‘It was. But Viktor was also a drunk with a taste for very young girls. Which would have got out, sooner or later, and tainted the message. This way he’s a martyr, tragically slain for his beliefs. I don’t know if you’ve been to Russia lately, but Viktor Kedrin is everywhere. Posters, newspapers, blogs . . . Dead, he’s far more popular than he ever was when he was alive.’
‘Tell me the name of the woman.’
‘Which woman?’
‘The assassin who killed Kedrin on my watch, and killed Simon Mortimer, and God knows how many others besides.’
‘I have no idea. You’ll have to speak to someone from Housekeeping.’
A second later, without conscious thought, Eve has unholstered her automatic pistol and is pointing it at Cradle’s face. ‘I said don’t fuck with me. What’s her name?’
‘And I told you I don’t know.’ He regards her steadily. ‘I also suggest you put that thing away before you cause an accident. I’m worth a great deal more to you alive than dead. Imagine the explaining you’d have to do.’
She lowers her arm, furious at herself. ‘And you’d do well to remember the conditions under which you’re sitting here talking to me, rather than under arrest for treason. You’re going to tell me the names of all your contacts, and how and when you communicated with them. You’re going to tell me what services you performed for them, and what information you passed them. You’re going to describe who paid you, and how. And you’re going to give me the names of every single member of the Security Services, and indeed anyone else, who has betrayed his or her country to this organisation.’
‘The Twelve.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what it’s called. The Twelve. Le Douze. Dvenadtsat.’
There’s a peremptory knock at the door and the trooper who brought them to the interview room leans in. ‘Boss has a message for you, ma’am. Can you come up?’
‘Wait here,’ she tells Cradle, and follows the trooper up to ground level, where a compact, moustached officer is waiting for her.
‘Your husband called,’ he tells her. ‘Says you need to get back home, there’s been a break-in.’
Eve stares at him. ‘Did he say anything else? Is he OK?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have that information. Sorry.’
She nods, and fumbles for her phone. The call goes straight to Niko’s message service, but moments later he calls her back. ‘I’m at the flat. The police are here.’
‘So what happened?’
‘All pretty strange. Mrs Khan, over the road, saw a woman climbing out of our front room window – completely brazen, apparently, not trying to hide what she was doing at all – and dialled 999. First I knew of it was when a couple of uniformed cops came to the school and picked me up. Nothing’s missing, as far as I can tell, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Just get back here, OK?’
‘I’m assuming the woman got away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any description?’
‘Young, slim . . .’
Eve knows. She just knows. Minutes later, she’s driving southwards on the A303, with Cradle in the passenger seat. She dislikes the physical closeness, and the faint but cloying smell of his aftershave, but she definitely doesn’t want him lurking behind her.
‘I’m empowered to make you an offer,’ he says, as they pass Micheldever service station.
‘You make me an offer? Are you fucking kidding me?’
‘Look, Eve. I’m not sure what your present status is, or exactly which department you now work for, but I do know that it wasn’t very long ago that you were in a junior liaison post at Thames House, earning chicken-feed. Public service its own reward, and all that bollocks. And I’m betting things haven’t greatly changed. Financially, at least.’
‘Shit!’ Eve brakes hard to avoid a Porsche that has swerved into the slow lane to overtake her on the inside. ‘Nice driving, arsehole!’
‘Imagine, though. Suppose you had a few million banked, so that when the time was right, you and your husband could give up work and slip away to the sunshine. Spend the rest of your life travelling first class. No more cramped flats or crowded tubes. No more endless winters.’
‘Worked brilliantly for you, didn’t it?’
‘It will do, in the end. Because I know that you’re smart enough to realise that you need me. That the ship of state isn’t sinking, it’s sunk.’
‘You seriously believe that?’
‘Eve, what I’m suggesting isn’t treasonable, it’s common sense. If you really want to serve your country, join us and help create a new world. We’re everywhere. We’re legion. And we will reward you . . .’
‘Oh God, I don’t believe this.’ A police motorcycle, blue lights flashing, is growing larger and larger in her rear-view mirror. Eve slows down, hoping that the motorcycle will race past, but it swings in front of her, and the uniformed officer indicates with a waving arm that she pull in on the hard shoulder.
As Eve does so the officer halts in front of her, pulls the powerful BMW bike onto its stand, saunters over, and peers through the driver-side window.
Eve lowers the window. ‘Is there some problem?’
‘Can I see your licence please?’ A woman’s voice. The visor of her white helmet reflecting the sunlight.
Eve hands her the licence, along with her Security Services pass.
‘Out of the car, please. Both of you.’
‘Seriously? I’m travelling to London because there’s been a break-in at my house. You’re welcome to check with the Met. And I strongly suggest you take another look at that pass.’
‘Right away, please.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Slowly, not attempting to disguise her frustration, Eve climbs out of the car. Traffic races past, terrifyingly close.
‘Hands on the
