“Bugger!” Trodd slammed the tabletop in fury. “Tell me this isn’t a bunch of your lads on some kind of private mission. Have you been pissing about, off the books?”

“No, we have not. We had people in Paris, of course, but it was purely a matter of surveillance. None of them were involved in any dirty work. I can assure you of that.”

“Of course, it’s possible that we’re acquainted with whoever did do it.” Agatha Bewley’s voice was as dry as her appearance.

Trodd frowned in her direction. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, we all use outside assistance from time to time. People who do odd jobs. These people may have attacked the princess on their own account. They might have been hired to do it by some other client. The boyfriend might have been the main target. His father had plenty of enemies. Then again, it may indeed just be a terrible accident.”

“Surely that’s what one is assuming,” said Sir Claude. “Is anyone really suggesting that this was some kind of assassination attempt?”

“We don’t know, do we?” said Trodd. “For public consumption, this was an accident. That’s the story, and I bloody well hope it happens to be true, because if it isn’t, the fallout will screw us all. But if some bastard has taken out the mother of the future king of England, I don’t want to wake up one morning and read all about it in the Sun. I want to be the first to know.”

“And the prime minister?” asked Sir Claude.

“Let me worry about that. For now, I want the Foreign Office to stick to the party line: terrible accident, condolences all round. Stay cozy with the Frogs.”

The diplomat winced. “Of course, of course… but we really must wait until the foreign secretary decides how to proceed.”

“The foreign secretary will proceed exactly as I bloody well tell him. Now, where was I? Yeah, Jack, I want SIS to find out what really happened in Paris. And Agatha, I want a list of anyone in this country who might have had a motive for taking out the world’s most popular woman and who they’d have used to do it. And by the way…” Trodd leaned forward and looked around the table. “If you find the bastards who did this, deal with them. Permanently. And keep Number Ten well out of it.”

Trodd got up without another word and stalked out of the room. Sir Claude followed close behind.

Grantham tried to busy himself, putting his notepad and ballpoint pen away in his briefcase, but he could feel Agatha Bewley’s falcon gaze burning into him.

“You have an idea who’s behind this, don’t you?”

“Come on, Agatha, you know it’s not that simple. There are crews all over Europe, half of them right here in London, who could have carried out the operation. And, as you suggested, plenty of people could have commissioned them.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then spoke in a lower, almost confiding tone. “I think you have people in mind, and I don’t like the feeling that I’m being kept out of the loop. I’m sorry, Jack, but I’m not prepared to stay silent for very long. The reputation of my department is at stake.”

“This is no time for us to be fighting among ourselves,” said Grantham, trying to mollify her. “Besides, if I did, hypothetically, have an idea of who it might be, I don’t have anything that even approaches evidence, let alone proof.”

Dame Agatha looked at him silently, pursing her lips in a way that suggested both skepticism and disapproval.

“All right,” acknowledged Grantham, “I’ll admit there are one or two possibilities that come to mind. I’ll have a quiet word with Percy Wake. In the old days, before the Wall came down, he helped the service solve a few tricky problems. It was all above my pay-grade, I never sat in on anything, but the legend was, Wake had a genius for seeing ways to get things done. Knowing who to get, predicting how things would play out. He’ll deny it, of course, but if there’s been any conspiratorial hanky-panky, dear old Percy will have an idea who’s responsible.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of his reputation,” said Dame Agatha, coldly. “I had my own dealings with Wake. I never knew anyone with more influence in Whitehall, whatever the government of the day. And not just there: He had connections in Washington, Moscow, Beijing – the man had an amazing instinct for backing the right men at the right time. But don’t forget for a moment that for all the patriotism and principle he displays so proudly, Sir Percy’s greatest loyalty is to himself. And Trodd – what are we going to tell him?” she asked, softening her tone just a fraction.

For the first time since he had entered the room, Grantham felt a smile crossing his face. “Nothing. I think it’s time someone showed that saloon bully who really runs the country. Don’t you agree?”

Dame Agatha nodded. “Yes, I rather think I do.”

The last time Carver looked, there hadn’t been a cab visible anywhere. But no sooner had Alix stepped up to the curb than a white Peugeot 406 with a Taxi Parisien sign on its roof was screeching to a halt beside her. She smiled again, this time at the driver, who beamed back. He looked North African. His head was pumping back and forth to the sound of Arab dance music pounding at top volume from the tiny stereo.

“Rai,” he said, thumbing at the stereo. “Good music!”

Carver was about to ask him to turn it down, but changed his mind. The noise would make it impossible for the driver to overhear any conversation he might have with Alix.

“Sure,” he said. “Good music. Gare de Lyon, s’il vous plaît.”

The grand old station, with its clock tower that resembled a miniature French version of Big Ben, served as the starting point for trains to the Alps, Switzerland, and Italy. “Attendez ici un moment,” Carver told the cabbie when they arrived. He grabbed the computer case, half-opened the door, and then turned back to Alix. “Give me your bag, I’ll stow it too. Won’t be a minute.”

She rummaged in the bag and took out her cigarettes, lipstick, a compact, and mascara. “Essential supplies,” she said. “I must fix my face. And you know, you should do the same. Use the bathroom while you are in there.”

Carver gave her a puzzled shrug, then got out of the car. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said before walking into the station, toward the left luggage lockers.

Afterward, as he looked into the men’s room mirror under the harsh neon light, he realized what Alix had meant. His face was streaked with grime and sweat and there was concrete dust in his hair. No wonder Max had been so mocking about his appearance – he was a total mess. He splashed himself with cold water, ran wet fingers over his scalp, then took another look in the mirror. Big improvement.

Back in the cab, Alix was applying her lipstick. She checked her glossy scarlet mouth in the mirror of her powder compact, then handed all her makeup to Carver with a mock-ingratiating smile. He noticed she had somehow persuaded the driver to turn the music down a fraction.

“Okay,” she said, as he stuck her makeup in his pockets. “Where are we going?”

He grinned. “Good question. Let’s see if our man here has any ideas.” He leaned forward and spoke to the cabbie. To Alix’s surprise, Carver’s French was fluent. He could chat to the driver, even crack a couple of jokes. Between them, they seemed to come up with a satisfactory answer. Carver gave the North African a last encouraging pat on the shoulder and sat back in the seat. “He says he knows just the place.”

“So,” he continued, turning to face her, looking her straight in the eye, “why did you come back? You know, back at the house. Why didn’t you just run away?”

“Where to?”

She glanced at the driver, then leaned toward Carver to make sure she could not be overheard. Her voice was low and urgent. Carver caught a glimpse of the driver’s face, looking at them in the rearview mirror, assuming theirs was just another lovers’ backseat conversation.