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radicals off the streets. You remember those days,” Seymour said bitterly. “The days when the leftists and the media insisted we do something about the terrorists in our midst.”
    “Go on, Graham.”
    “Siddiq was hanging around with known extremists at the East London Mosque, and his mobile phone number kept appearing in all the wrong places. I gave a copy of his file to Scotland Yard, but the Counterterrorism Command said there wasn’t enough evidence to move against him. Then Siddiq did something that gave me a chance to take care of the problem on my own.”
    “What was that?”
    “He booked an airline ticket to Pakistan.”
    “Big mistake.”
    “Fatal, actually,” said Seymour darkly.
    “What happened?”
    “We followed him to Heathrow and made sure he boarded his flight to Karachi. Then I placed a quiet call to an old friend in Langley, Virginia. I believe you know him well.”
    “Adrian Carter.”
    Seymour nodded. Adrian Carter was the director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. He oversaw the Agency’s global war on terror, including its once-secret programs to detain and interrogate high-value operatives.
    “Carter’s team watched Siddiq in Karachi for three days,” Seymour continued. “Then they threw a bag over his head and put him on the first black flight out of the country.”
    “Where did they take him?”
    “Kabul.”
    “The Salt Pit?”
    Seymour nodded slowly.
    “How long did he last?”
    “That depends on whom you ask. According to the Agency’s account of the events, Siddiq was found dead in his cell ten days after arriving in Kabul. His family alleged in a lawsuit that he died while being tortured.”
    “What does this have to do with the prime minister?”
    “When the lawyers representing Siddiq’s family asked for all MI5 documents related to his case, Lancaster’s government refused to release them on grounds it would damage British national security. He saved my career.”
    “And now you’re going to repay that debt by trying to save his neck?” When Seymour made no reply, Gabriel said, “This is going to end badly, Graham. And when it does, your name will feature prominently in the inevitable inquest.”
    “I’ve made it clear that, if that happens, I’ll take everyone down with me, including Lancaster.”
    “I never had you figured for the naive type, Graham.”
    “I’m anything but.”
    “So walk away. Go back to London and tell your prime minister to go before the cameras with his wife at his side and make a public appeal for the kidnappers to release the girl.”
    “It’s too late for that. Besides,” Seymour added, “perhaps I’m a bit old-fashioned, but I don’t like it when people try to blackmail the leader of my country.”
    “Does the leader of your country know you’re in Jerusalem?”
    “Surely you jest.”
    “Why me?”
    “Because if MI5 or the intelligence service tries to find her, it will leak, just the way Siddiq Hussein leaked. You’re also damn good at finding things,” Seymour added quietly. “Ancient pillars, stolen Rembrandts, secret Iranian enrichment facilities.”
    “Sorry, Graham, but—”
    “And because you owe Lancaster, too,” Seymour said, cutting him off.
    “Me?”
    “Who do you think allowed you to take refuge in Cornwall under a false name when no other country would have you? And who do you think allowed you to recruit a British journalist when you needed to penetrate Iran’s nuclear supply chain?”
    “I didn’t realize we were keeping score, Graham.”
    “We’re not,” said Seymour. “But if we were, you would surely be trailing in the match.”
    The two men lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, as though embarrassed by the tone of the exchange. Seymour looked at the ceiling, Gabriel at the note.
    You have seven days, or the girl dies . . .
    “Rather vague, don’t you think?”
    “But highly effective,” said Seymour. “It certainly got Lancaster’s attention.”
    “No