Today's Reading
The more Emma thought about it, the more sense it made. Vladimir Balakin was ruthless. During his time with Russia's many spy agencies, he'd been personally responsible for massacres in Syria and Ukraine that had killed thousands of innocent people. He could be sitting inside that embassy now, plotting an attack on British soil, and there was nothing they could do to stop him. The embassy could not be touched—no embassy can, under international law. Their hands were tied.
No wonder there was an urgent meeting. No wonder people in very high places were panicking.
By then they'd reached Millbank and the Thames. Buses and taxis rattled by, and the cool autumn air smelled of diesel exhaust and river mud. Through the trees in Victoria Tower Gardens, Emma could see the water, deep blue in the late morning sun.
Ripley headed straight to an unmarked building with long marble steps and a grand portico. Emma followed, intrigued. She knew MI5 used many buildings under an assortment of identities and she'd been to a few, but she'd never been here before.
The atmosphere inside was cool and hushed. There was no biometric security, just a curved front desk where a small woman in a dark suit spoke quietly to Ripley, who nodded and handed over his phone. Emma followed suit without waiting to be asked. The woman put both devices inside a safe mounted in the wall behind her. And that was that.
"They're just about to start." Motioning for Emma to follow, Ripley bounded up a curved staircase with a marble balustrade, two steps at a time.
The building was almost surreally beautiful. Emma kept noticing things—the carved marble, an ethereal mural of a blue sky and white clouds on the soaring ceiling, the gilded plaster. It had the rarefied air of an art gallery.
As she climbed the stairs, Emma wondered if it had once been an oligarch's home. Not the current kind, but the nineteenth century variety—a shipping magnate perhaps. It was unfathomable how it had ended up in MI5's hands. But then, so many buildings did.
On the first floor, they walked down a long hallway to a door where a thin man with expensive shoes waited for them.
"Charles," he said, and his smile was as thin as his hair.
"Giles." Ripley stretched out his hand.
As the two men shook hands, Emma stood stiffly; her mouth had gone dry. The man talking to Ripley was the head of MI6, the most important person in British Intelligence. His real name was Giles Templeton-Ward but to everyone in the country he was known, as all heads of MI6 had always been known, simply as "C."
"Glad you could get here so quickly. The situation is developing," C said quietly. His accent was nearly identical to Ripley's, making him a product of Eton or Harrow and then Oxford, undoubtedly.
C glanced at Emma with inquiry, and Ripley said, "This is Emma Makepeace. The one I told you about."
"Ah, of course." In C's cold gaze Emma saw that he already knew everything about her. He knew about her Russian parents, the languages she spoke, her time in the army, and everything she'd done right and wrong in her three years at the Agency. He would have a list of all her weaknesses.
"Good to have you." Dismissing her with that short comment, he turned back to Ripley. "The prime minister is demanding answers about our plans for securing the G7. He would like those answers yesterday." Lowering his voice further, he added, "He's under pressure on this from the Cousins. They're threatening to withdraw if they don't have assurances our security is on track."
"The Cousins" was intelligence code for the Americans.
"Yes, I can't say I'm surprised," Ripley said, dryly.
"Indeed. Thinking hats will be needed." C glanced at his watch. "We better go in. They're waiting."
As she followed the two men through the door, Emma exhaled quietly.
Inside was a small antechamber that held another door, this one made of thick metal. It reminded her of a bank vault. Ripley and C walked through it without pausing.
On the other side of the door was a small, crowded space, more an oversized cupboard than a boardroom.
Although she'd never seen one before, Emma recognized it instantly. The Americans called them "Sensitive Compartmented Information Facilities," because of course they would. In Britain they were known simply as "Secure Chambers."
The steel-walled room would be bug-proof and safe from prying eyes, built in secret locations for situations like this one.
Three people already sat at the table. The first was Patricia Allan, the head of MI5, barely five feet tall and recognizable by her short, gray hair, which gave her a pleasingly androgynous look. Next to her was Dominic Larch, the Home Secretary. Not yet forty, he'd only been in the job three months. Everyone thought he was too much of lightweight to handle being in charge of police, security, and counterterrorism. Emma suspected they were right.
This excerpt ends of page 17 of the paperback edition.
Monday we begin the book Everyone This Christmas Has a Secret by Benjamin Stevenson.
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