The Fellowship by William Tyree Page B

more in line with his lifelong fantasy of the place. Walnut paneling, Chesterfield sofas, decanters of good whiskey.
    SIS Chief Brice Carlisle stepped out from behind a semi-transparent standing desk. Unlike Prichard’s frumpy attire, Carlisle’s suit was downright crisp. He wore a somber black tie as if he himself were in mourning over the high-profile murders. He held his hands behind his back as his eyes darted back and forth between the Americans.
    “ Mr. Carlisle,” Ellis said, holding out her hand. “It’s an honor.”
    “I believe the proper salutation is Sir Brice,” Carver corrected.
    Carlisle shook Ellis’ hand before turning to Carver. “Your reputation precedes you.”
    “ Likewise,” Carver said, but in truth, he knew little about Carlisle other than what was in his official biography. He had attended Cambridge and served as a diplomat in both Jordan and Saudi Arabia. He had since changed jobs like clockwork every two to three years, mostly in government posts relating to foreign affairs, with his last role as an intelligence advisor to the prime minister. He was thought to be an extremely bright man, but one with no apparent field experience.
    The double doors through which they had come opened again. The bare legs attached to the exotic-looking brunette with the boy-cut were the first Carver had seen in London. “This is Seven Mansfield,” Carlisle said. “She’s working the case under Prichard here.”
    Carver held out his hand and tried not to stare at the legs underneath the houndstooth-patterned skirt-suit. “Ms. Mansfield.”
    “ Call me Seven,” she said. Her accent reminded Carver of the voices on the BBC World Service. Her look was decidedly sub-continental. The brown-skinned intelligence agent with the short-cropped hair was the first thing to bring a smile to Carver’s lips all day.
    Carlisle gestured to a sitting area furnished with four white leather Eames lounge chairs. “We watched the presser on Senator Preston. It was very convincing, don’t you think?”
    Carver shrugged. “ If you say so. We’ve traveled a long way to get information that could have been transmitted by other means. I suggest we get into it.” 
    Seven remained standing as s he began walking them through the case. “Nils Gish was found in a storage room underneath the House of Parliament approximately 28 hours ago. The room was near an underground passage that’s not open to the public.”
    “ Who else had access?” Ellis said.
    “ There are several tunnels linking Parliament to the Westminster Tube station. They’re used by government workers, mostly. The doors are locked from the Tube station side, but they come open with a swipe of a security badge or phone.”
    “Did Sir Gish often use these tunnels?”
    “ Unfortunately, yes,” Carlisle cut in. “In my opinion, he was far too well-known to take public transport, and we understand his colleagues had discussed this with him. But he relished one-on-one conversations with his public. He boarded promptly at 5:30 most mornings, when it was possible to ride without being mobbed.”
    Carlisle cleared his throat. “That wasn’t the case yesterday, however. For reasons unknown, he arrived to the office in the evening, when most workers had already left for the day. Let’s see the footage from the station security camera.”
    Seven walked up to a massive monitor, nearly as tall as she was, built into the wall. It lit up instantly, displaying a number of folders containing media and findings from the crime scene. It flickered to life with a swipe of her fingertips, displaying a still image from a security camera. Sir Gish was shown entering the door in one frame. The next image was of two men wearing long raincoats. Their backs were to the camera, making it impossible to see their faces. They could be seen rushing to catch the door before it closed behind the MP.
    “So he was followed,” Ellis said.
    “Yes. I regret to tell you that many of the