“That looks heavy,” the woman said. “Let me help.”
“That’s all right,” Jasmine said. “I’ve got it.”
“Let me get the door for you, then.” The woman held it open and watched as she muscled the cart inside. She was English, mid-thirties, mousy hair, a plain coat, sensible shoes. Jasmine had never seen her in the building, and she was alarmed.
“We’ve just moved into the building,” the woman said. “My name is Sarah.”
“Welcome,” Jasmine said. “You’ll like the building.”
A small car drew up outside. “Oh, there’s my husband. Please excuse me.”
“Thank you for your help,” Jasmine said.
The woman got into the car and it drove away.
Jasmine left the cart in the hallway and ran to the rear of the building, looking out the window halfway up the stairs to the next floor. A woman and a child in the garden, a small dog in the woman’s lap.
Jasmine ran back down the stairs and checked the street. A couple of cars passed without slowing down. A postman walked down the street, carrying his bag.
Jasmine let herself quickly into her flat, then checked all the windows overlooking the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything normal.
She took the cart into the kitchen, unloaded and put away the groceries, then wheeled the cart into the pantry and locked the door.
She checked the windows once more, then took off her dress and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour later, she was sleeping. An hour after that she woke with a sense of panic.
Something was wrong.
Felicity had just returned from her weekly lunch with the head of MI-5, which was responsible for domestic counterintelligence, when her phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“Architect, this is Mason. We may have gotten lucky. A woman who is employed as an agricultural analyst in the Foreign Office may have spotted Jasmine.”
“When and where?”
“A little over an hour ago, in Notting Hill Gate. She and her husband moved into the building last week. She went home for lunch, and as she was going out again, she opened the door for a woman with a shopping cart: five-nine, pretty face, no makeup, wearing a Muslim headdress, unremarkable dress, sensible shoes. She believes the woman lives on the first floor of the building.”
“Why didn’t the FO woman call sooner?”
“She was delayed in traffic getting back to her office, where she had left our flyer, and it took her a few minutes to find it and make the comparison. She called the duty officer, as requested on the flyer.”
“So the woman she spotted is in the building now?”
“We have no reason to believe otherwise. Shall I raise the alarm?”
“Not yet. Get some people into the street, try and set up surveillance directly across from the building.”
“I’ll get the surveillance camera footage from the street immediately.”
“Wait on that,” Felicity said. “I don’t want New Scotland Yard involved until we’re ready to move, nor do I want MI-5 hearing about this until I tell them personally. First, I want photographic identification. If she leaves the building, I want her followed: team of twenty, six vehicles, greatest possible discretion. If she meets anyone, follow both. Do not intercept without my personal authorization. Call me when we have live surveillance. How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Then go!”
“Yes, Architect.” Mason hung up.
It was probably a false alarm, Felicity thought, but still, she was excited.
—