“In the meantime, you’re free to pursue the case as you wish, but it will be independent of my office. We run Jonathan Ransom ourselves.” He opened the door to the hall. Two plainclothes officers ducked their heads around the corner. Graves waved the all-clear.

“What about Reg Cleak?” asked Kate.

“Who?” Suddenly Graves remembered, and his face hardened. “Oh yes, I’m sorry about your partner.”

“When I leave here, I am going to his home. I plan on telling his wife that I’m personally assuming responsibility for finding the individuals and the organization or government responsible for his death. It would help my investigation immeasurably if I could add Five’s resources to my own.”

“Goodnight, DCI Ford.”

“For Reg’s sake,” argued Kate.

Graves moved his face closer to her, so that she could see the brown flecks in his blue eyes, and the conviction behind them. “This is the black world, DCI Ford. We don’t do favors.”

Jonathan stayed in the shower until Graves threw open the door and told him to get the hell out. The intelligence officer stood a body’s length away, watching Jonathan dress, murmuring “Hurry it up” and tossing the monitoring bracelet from one hand to the other. Jonathan took his time, resisting the proffered underwear and pants until he was good and ready. He shaved and combed his hair, then left the bathroom to find a clean shirt.

But all the while he was sending himself the same message. Emma wasn’t finished. The bombing was just another step along the way. It didn’t matter whom she was working for, or why, or whether their objectives were justified. He knew, and that was enough. Her acts of crime had become his. In the eyes of the law and his own, he was Emma’s lifelong accomplice. There was only one way to clear his name. He must stop her. He must find Emma before the authorities did.

It was then that he noticed that the suite was empty but for the two of them.

“Where’s Detective Ford?” Jonathan asked, unsettled by the silence and isolation.

“Detective Chief Inspector Ford was called away.”

“So I can get changed out here?”

“And about time,” muttered Graves. “Get a shirt and a jacket. Come on, then.”

“Will I be coming back?”

“That depends on you.”

Jonathan looked at Graves, at the bulge under his left arm that was undoubtedly a pistol, at the electronic bracelet clutched in his hand. He noticed for the first time that Graves was actually smaller than he, and thinner without the armor of his suit. His hands were slim and manicured, almost ladylike. He also noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the slackening of his earlier ramrod posture. It was a look Jonathan recognized all too well. He’d seen it countless times glancing in the mirror after a day and a night in surgery. Graves was exhausted.

Jonathan went about his business with a newfound alacrity. It was just the two of them. Outside there were more. There’d been two on the door when he’d entered. No doubt there were a half-dozen posted downstairs, too. There would be more joining the group wherever he might travel. But for now… for these next few minutes, there were just the two of them.

Jonathan grabbed a button-down from the closet and put it on. He took a windbreaker, too, and threw it over the back of a chair. It was still warm outside, but he wasn’t thinking about now. He was thinking about six hours from now, or twelve, or, if there was any luck remaining on his side of the ledger, longer. He snatched his wallet off the dresser and slipped it into his back pocket, then grabbed a pair of socks out of the drawer.

Graves was pacing like a guard dog, cell phone to his ear. “And what did the ERT find in Hampstead? Nothing? Impossible! My man said the car was parked there. Saw it with his very eyes. Check again. There’s got to be some residue inside the garage. Any cameras on the street? Then ask the neighbors-someone had to see them going in and out of the house. The owners were on vacation. In Immingham? No one takes a vacation in Immingham.”

He snapped the phone closed and glared at Jonathan. “Seems to be a hole in your story, Doc. Problem with that residence north of town where you claim to have seen your wife grab the car. I’m wondering whether I should deliver you forthwith to the Inquisition or if I should follow my hallowed rule book and offer you a second chance to come to Jesus.”

But for all Graves’s urgency, Jonathan affected not to notice. He stood with his back to Graves, head bent, groaning.

“Did you hear me?” said Graves.

Still Jonathan didn’t answer. Like a blind man, he reached out a hand and probed until he found a chair, then felt his way to sitting down in it.

“What is it, then?” asked Graves, more with irritation than with curiosity.

“There’s a problem,” said Jonathan, sotto voce.

“You’re right about that,” said Graves, hovering nearby. “Your story isn’t checking out. And we’re going to clarify it right now.”

“I mean with my head. It’s killing me.”

“Hell do you mean?”

“Something’s wrong. I don’t know what it is. I’ve got a terrible headache.” He gasped. “I’m having trouble with my sight. Could be dehydration or a concussion.”

“You’ll see fine soon as we get you some fresh air. Drink some water and you’ll be good as new.” Graves knelt at his feet and fumbled with the monitoring bracelet. “Give me your leg. Either one. Your choice.”

Jonathan moaned and extended his left leg. Graves slipped the metal cuff over his ankle and snapped it closed. He gave it a tug to make sure, then leaned back on his haunches. “There, now. Open your eyes. Can you see me all right?” He lifted his chin to look Jonathan straight in the eye.

And that was when Jonathan kicked him.

He kicked hard with his right foot, striking Graves’s jaw precisely where he’d aimed, an inch or so below the ear, where the mandible met the skull. Graves tumbled onto his back, stunned. Before he could react, Jonathan fell onto his chest, a forearm pinning his neck to the carpet, the fingers of his right hand pressing against Graves’s carotid, stanching the flow of blood to the brain. Graves thrashed. He threw a wild punch that glanced off Jonathan’s cheek. And then, like that, he was out. His eyes rolled back into his head. He expelled a breath of air and his body went limp.

Six seconds had passed.

Jonathan kept the artery blocked until he was certain that Graves was unconscious, then climbed to his feet. A mirror hung on the wall, and he found himself staring at a wild-eyed man fighting for breath. There’s no other way, he told himself.

Kneeling once more, he dug inside Graves’s jacket for the key to the ankle bracelet. He found it and unlocked the cuff. Then he removed Graves’s wallet and his phone. His hand brushed against the butt of Graves’s pistol, but he decided against taking it. A criminal takes a gun. An innocent man leaves it. Standing, he hurried to the door. A peek through the spy hole showed not one but two plainclothes officers standing to either side of it.

Just then Graves’s phone rang. Jonathan dashed into the bathroom and closed the door. The name on the screen read Director General Allam. He took it to mean the director of MI5. Yanking a towel off the rack, he stuffed the phone into its folds. Four interminable rings later, it went silent. He ran back to the door, but the guards had not budged. Graves still lay immobile. He would remain unconscious anywhere from three to ten minutes. There was nothing Jonathan could do to lengthen the period, save suffocate him. He disliked Graves enough to carefully consider the idea.

Jonathan crossed the room and opened the sliding doors that gave onto the balcony. He went to the railing and leaned his head over. He stood eight stories aboveground, approximately 60 meters above the hotel’s main entrance. Each balcony was protected by an awning. The one below was at most a meter beneath his terrace. Technically, it was not a difficult descent. He was an experienced alpinist. He’d down-climbed sheer faces offering holds the width of a table knife more times than he could remember. He reminded himself that he’d also had a rope and harness securing him in one form or another to the rock and that on any number of occasions he’d slipped. This time there was no margin for error.