The Shadow of the Soul Read Free

Chechen Foreign Minister glared at the Russian. ‘But this you know. Chechnya does not have the capability to organise such attack on your capital.’
    ‘Don’t treat me like I’m naïve, Mr Maskadhov. Of course you do. Your people have survived through terrorism.’
    The other man stood up abruptly, and she raised her hands. ‘I’m sorry. That was harsh, perhaps, and poorly expressed – but you understand my concerns. Hundreds of British citizens died today, and I am quite sure you are aware it will not look good for any future talks if either of your nations is found to bear any responsibility.’
    ‘You will have our full support in your investigation, and our own security forces will be on hand to assist, should you need them.’
    She smiled at the Russian. ‘How kind,
gaspadeen
Nemov. If only you’d been so generous and shared your intel earlier – I’m aware your agencies had knowledge of a potential attack. Perhaps next time you’ll pass that on before it’s too late?’
    ‘Unfortunately,’ Nemov replied smoothly, ‘there are too many threats every day, and it is not always easy to know which are serious. And the one to which I think you arereferring was not this kind of threat. It was …’ he hesitated, then continued, ‘more personal, shall we say.’
    Ignoring the crackling voices in her ear alerting her to the dignitaries’ cars arriving, cleared by security, Abigail homed in on his comment.
More personal?
So the intel the Russians had uncovered was for an attack on McDonnell herself. The news didn’t surprise or overly concern her. The nation’s security level had been rated critical ever since the Eurotunnel disaster, and no one was keen to lower it, not even down to severe. There were too many threats constantly flooding the system. Still, Russian intel was normally reliable; maybe they were just a little off with their interpretation of the target. London certainly got hit today.
    ‘Perhaps whichever MI6 agents you have in our services’ – Nemov smiled, before draining his brandy – ‘should pay more attention to the detail.’
    Abigail stepped forward and filled the space occupied by tense silence. ‘Prime Minister, gentlemen, your cars are ready and your routes are secured.’ As she spoke she saw the tiniest flicker of a smile on the PM’s face. Abigail didn’t blame her. This was a day that everyone wanted to be over.
    By midnight her relief had arrived and within fifteen minutes Abigail had changed into her jogging suit and trainers and was running past the guards, who let her out of the small gate at the bottom of Downing Street. Her feet thumped out a steady beat as she ran around St James’ Park and then headed along the Embankment and up into the old city towards her flat, just off Fleet Street. It wasn’t a long or particularly taxing run, but it did help her unwind for the night. There had been a time when she would have used the clear air to calm down and sort the rush of thoughts thatfilled her head, but recently she found she simply switched it all off and let the physical take over.
    Around her, London was deathly still, but already invisible people had stuck pictures of the missing up on lamp posts and the thick grey stone that lined the river, and paper flapped in the light breeze. She didn’t pause. People died every day. She let the emptiness take her. There was a comfort in it.
    She was nearly home when a figure caught her eye, a man on the other side of the road, in a dark suit. A very fat man in a dark suit.
    She stopped, her heart still pounding from the exercise, and frowned. What was he doing out tonight? And at this time, after everything that had happened? Her skin tingled with something that wasn’t fear or unease but something
other
, something indefinable at her very core. She didn’t move. He was strange. A
stranger
– instinct told her that. Her thoughts had stilled, but her eyes continued with the tasks she had been so well trained in. She