The New Girl Page 27

  “And to you, too, I suspect.” Receiving no reply, Abdullah said, “This sounds like a shakedown to me.”

  “Does it?”

  Abdullah feigned deliberation. “Tell your president I’ll dispatch a delegation to Moscow next week.”

  Dragunov brought his hands together in a show of unity. “Wonderful news.”

  Abdullah suddenly craved alcohol. He glanced over his shoulder. Where the hell was that girl? When he turned around again, Dragunov was devouring a caviar treat. A single black egg had lodged itself like a tick on his prominent lower lip.

  Abdullah averted his gaze and abruptly changed the subject. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to try to kill him?”

  “Who?”

  “Allon.”

  The Russian dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, dislodging the speck of caviar. “The decision was made by the Kremlin and the SVR. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You should have killed Khalid and the child the way we agreed and left Allon out of it.”

  “He needed to be dealt with.”

  “But you didn’t deal with him, Konstantin. Allon survived that night.”

  Dragunov waved his hand dismissively. “What are you so afraid of?”

  “Gabriel Allon.”

  “You have nothing to fear.”

  “Really?”

  “We were the ones who tried to kill him, not you.”

  “I doubt he’ll see the distinction.”

  “You’re the crown prince of Saudi Arabia, Abdullah. Soon you’ll be the king. No one, not even Gabriel Allon, can touch you now.”

  Abdullah glanced over his shoulder. Where the hell was that girl?

  The SVR had trained Anna Yurasova in all manner of weaponry—firearms, knives, explosives—but never once had she rehearsed opening a bottle of Louis Roederer champagne under conditions of operational stress.

  When the cork finally shot from the bottle with a loud pop, several costly ounces of frothy liquid spilled onto the counter. Ignoring the mess, Anna reached into the pocket of her maid’s apron and removed a Pasteur pipette dropper and a slender glass vial. The clear liquid inside was one of the most dangerous substances on earth. Moscow Center had assured Anna it was harmless as long as it was in its container. Once she removed the cap, however, the liquid would instantly emit an invisible fountain of lethal alpha radiation. Anna was to work quickly but with extreme care. She was not to ingest the substance, inhale its fumes, or touch it.

  On the counter was a serving tray with two crystal champagne flutes. Anna’s hands trembled as she unscrewed the metal cap from the vial. With the Pasteur pipette she drew a few milliliters of the liquid and squirted it into one of the glasses. There was no scent at all. Moscow Center had promised it was tasteless as well.

  Anna screwed the cap onto the vial and shoved it into the pocket of her apron, along with the pipette. Then she filled the two glasses with the champagne and with her left hand picked up the tray. The contaminated glass was on the right. She could almost feel the radiation rising with the escaping effervescence.

  She pushed open one of the swinging double doors and snared a few linen cocktail napkins from the bar. As she approached the drawing room she heard the Saudi speak a name that made her heart give a sideways lurch. She placed a cocktail napkin before him and atop the napkin the contaminated glass. Dragunov she served directly, from her right hand to his.

  The oligarch raised the glass formally. “To the future,” he said, and drank.

  The Saudi hesitated. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the night I returned to Saudi Arabia to become crown prince.”

  “She can get you something else if you prefer.”

  “Are you mad?” The Saudi swallowed the entire glass of champagne in a single draught. “Is there more? I don’t think I can get through dinner at Downing Street without it.”

  Anna reclaimed the contaminated glass and returned to the kitchen. The Saudi had just consumed enough of the radioactive toxin to kill everyone in Greater London. There was no medication, no emergency treatment, that could forestall the inevitable destruction of his cells and organs. He was already dying.

  Nevertheless, Anna decided to give him another dose.

  This time, she did not bother with the pipette. Instead, she poured the remaining liquid toxin directly into the glass and added the champagne. Bubbles danced above the rim. Anna pictured a Vesuvius of radiation.

  In the drawing room she served the drink to the Saudi and with a smile went hastily out. Returning to the kitchen, she removed her apron and placed it in the rubbish bin, along with the empty vial and the pipette. The Englishwoman had ordered Anna to leave no contaminated items behind when making her escape. It was an order she had no intention of obeying.

  Surrounded by an invisible fogbank of radiation, she checked the time on her phone. It was 4:42 p.m. Upstairs in the drawing room, His Royal Highness Prince Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud was already dying. Anna, her hand shaking, lit a cigarette and waited for him to leave.

  65

  Eaton Square, Belgravia

  Konstantin Dragunov departed his home at 5:22 p.m. Because the northwest corner of Eaton Square was closed, he was compelled to walk a short distance to Cliveden Place, where his Mercedes Maybach limousine was waiting. Clutching an attaché case, an overcoat draped over his arm, he lowered himself into the backseat. The limousine sped east, followed by an Office watcher on a BMW motorcycle.

  The woman emerged seven minutes later. At the base of the steps she turned left and walked past the home where His Royal Highness Prince Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud was said to be resting before an eight o’clock dinner at Downing Street. The six Protection Command officers standing outside the residence observed her carefully as she passed. So did Christopher Keller, who was still sheltering in the back of the van, though Keller’s interest in the woman was of a far different nature.

  She slipped through the police cordon and, followed by Eli Lavon, walked directly to the Q-Park garage in Kinnerton Street. There she endured a wait of nearly ten minutes for the Renault Clio. When it finally arrived she headed north, into the London evening rush. A few minutes after six p.m., she passed the entrance of the Swiss Cottage Underground station on the Finchley Road. Lavon and Mikhail Abramov were behind her in the Ford Fiesta. The Anglo-Israeli team at Hatch End was tracking her with the CCTV cameras.

  The team’s two leaders remained in separate locations. Graham Seymour was at Downing Street; Gabriel, at the Notting Hill safe house. They were connected by an open secure phone line. The call had been initiated by Gabriel at 3:42 p.m., the moment Crown Prince Abdullah arrived at his home in Eaton Square. They had not seen him since. Nor had they seen any evidence to suggest Konstantin Dragunov or the female SVR operative had been in Abdullah’s presence.

  “So why are they making a run for it?” asked Gabriel.

  “It appears they’ve decided to abort.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Perhaps they noticed our surveillance,” suggested Seymour. “Or perhaps Abdullah stood them up.”

  “Or perhaps Abdullah is already dead,” said Gabriel, “and the two people who killed him are running for the exits.”

  There was silence on the line. Finally, Seymour said, “If Abdullah doesn’t walk out the door as scheduled at seven forty-five, I’ll ring the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and arrange for the arrest of Dragunov and the woman.”

  “Seven forty-five is too late. We need to know whether Abdullah is still alive.”

  “I can’t very well have the prime minister call him. I’ve involved him too much as it is.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to send someone else into the house to check on him.”

  “Who?”

  Gabriel hung up the phone.

  66

  Eaton Square, Belgravia

  Nigel Whitcombe made the drive from Notting Hill to Belgravia
in eight minutes flat. He and Gabriel remained in the car while Khalid approached the security cordon at Eaton Square. It was Christopher Keller who walked him to the front door of the house at Number 71.

  The bell push summoned Marwan al-Omari, the chief courtier. He was clad in traditional Saudi dress. He fixed Khalid with a withering stare. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to see my uncle.”

  “I can assure you, your uncle has no wish to see you.”

  Al-Omari tried to close the door, but Khalid stopped him. “Listen to me, Marwan. I am an Al Saud, and you are nothing more than a glorified butler. Now take me to my uncle before I—”

  “Before you what?” Al-Omari managed a smile. “Still making threats, Khalid? One would have thought you’d have learned your lesson by now.”

  “I’m still the son of a king. And you, Marwan, are camel dung. Now move out of my way.”

  Al-Omari’s smile vanished. “Your uncle left strict instructions not to be disturbed until half past seven.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency.”

  Al-Omari stood his ground a moment longer before finally stepping to one side. Khalid rushed into the entrance hall, but the courtier seized Keller’s arm when he attempted to follow.

  “Not him.”

  Keller went wordlessly into the square while Khalid, pursued by al-Omari, hurried up the stairs to Abdullah’s bedroom suite. The outer door was locked. Al-Omari’s anemic knock was scarcely audible.

  “Your Royal Highness?”

  When there was no answer, Khalid pushed the courtier aside and hammered on the door with the palm of his hand. “Abdullah? Abdullah? Are you there?” Greeted by silence, Khalid grabbed the latch and gave it a shake. The heavy door was solid as a ship.

  He looked at al-Omari. “Get out of the way.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Khalid raised his right leg and drove the sole of his shoe against the door. There was the sound of splintering wood, but it held. The second blow loosened the latch from its fitting, and the third shattered the doorframe. It also broke several bones in Khalid’s foot, he was sure of it.

  Limping painfully, he stumbled into the magnificent suite. The sitting room was unoccupied, as was the bedchamber. Khalid shouted Abdullah’s name, but there was still no answer.

  “He must be bathing,” fretted al-Omari. “We can’t possibly disturb him.”

  The door to the master bathroom suite was closed as well, but the latch yielded to Khalid’s touch. Abdullah was not in the bath or the shower. Nor was he grooming himself at the sink.

  There was one final door. The door to the commode. Khalid didn’t bother knocking.

  “Dear God,” whispered al-Omari.

  67

  10 Downing Street

  Graham Seymour rang Stella McEwan, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service, at 6:24 p.m. Later, during the inevitable inquiry, much would be made of the short duration of the call, which was five minutes. At no point during the conversation did Seymour mention that he was in the White Room at 10 Downing Street, or that the prime minister was sitting anxiously next to him.

  “An SVR hit team?” asked McEwan.

  “Another one,” lamented Seymour.

  “Who’s the target?”

  “We can’t say for certain. We assume it’s someone who’s run afoul of the Kremlin—or perhaps a former Russian intelligence officer living under an assumed identity here in Britain. I’m afraid I can’t go into details.”

  “What about the hit team?”

  “We’ve identified three suspects. One is a woman in her mid-thirties. She’s currently headed east on the M25 in a Renault Clio.” Seymour recited the car’s registration number. “She should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Make sure you have firearms officers on hand.”

  “Number two?”

  “He’s waiting for the woman at the Bedford House Hotel in Frinton. We assume they’re planning to leave Britain tonight.”

  “Harwich is just up the road.”

  “And the last ferry,” added Seymour, “departs at eleven.”

  “Frinton is in Essex, which means the Essex Police are responsible.”

  “This is a national security matter, Stella. Assert your authority. And handle him with care. We think he’s even more dangerous than the woman.”

  “It’s going to take us some time to get our assets into place. If you’re watching him—”

  “We are.”

  Stella McEwan asked about the third suspect.

  “He’s about to board a private jet at London City Airport,” answered Seymour.

  “Bound for Moscow?”

  “That is our belief.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  Seymour recited it.

  “The oligarch?”

  “Konstantin Dragunov is no ordinary oligarch, if there even is such a thing.”

  “I can’t detain a friend of the Russian president without a warrant.”

  “Test him for chemical agents and radiation, Stella. I’m sure you’ll have more than enough evidence to hold him. But do it quickly. Konstantin Dragunov must not be allowed to board that plane.”

  “I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything, Graham.”

  “I’m the director-general of the Secret Intelligence Service. Why on earth would you think otherwise?” Seymour severed the connection and looked at Jonathan Lancaster. “I’m afraid things are about to get even more interesting.”

  “More?” There was a knock at the door. It was Geoffrey Sloane. He appeared more ashen than usual. “Something wrong, Geoffrey?”

  “It seems the crown prince has taken ill.”

  “Does he need to be admitted to hospital?”

  “His Royal Highness wishes to return to Riyadh at once. He and his delegation are leaving the Eaton Place residence now.”

  Lancaster placed a hand thoughtfully to his chin. “Have the Press Office draft a statement. Make sure the tone is light. Speedy recovery, look forward to seeing him at the next G20—that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll see to it, Prime Minister.” Sloane went out.

  Lancaster looked at Seymour. “His decision to leave immediately is a stroke of good fortune.”

  “Fortune had nothing to do with it.”

  “How did you arrange it?”

  “Khalid advised his uncle to return home for treatment. He plans to accompany him.”

  “Nice touch,” said Lancaster.

  Seymour’s BlackBerry purred.

  “What is it now?”

  Seymour showed him the screen. The call was from Amanda Wallace, the director-general of MI5.

  “Good luck,” said Jonathan Lancaster before slipping quietly from the room.

  68

  London City Airport

  Konstantin Dragunov heard the first sirens while stuck in rush-hour traffic on East India Dock Road. He instructed Vadim, his driver, to turn on the radio. The newsreader on Radio 4 sounded bored.

  Crown Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia has taken ill and will not be attending dinner this evening at Downing Street as scheduled. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster has wished him a speedy recovery . . .

  “That’s enough, Vadim.”

  The driver switched off the radio and made a right turn into Lower Lea Crossing. It bore them past the old East India Dock Basin and the sparkling new office towers of the Leamouth Peninsula. London City Airport was three miles farther to the east, along North Woolrich Road. To enter the airport required navigating a pair of roundabouts. Traffic flowed normally through the first, but police had blocked the second.

  An officer in a lime-green jacket approached the Maybach—cautiously, it seemed to Dragunov—and tapped on Vadim’s window. The driver lowered it.

  “Sorry for the delay,” said the officer, “but I’m afraid we have a security situation.”

  “What kind of situation?” asked Dragunov from the backseat.

 
; “A bomb threat. It’s probably a hoax, but we’re not letting any passengers into the terminal at this time. Only those flying privately are allowed to enter.”

  “Do I look like I’m traveling commercially to you?”

  “Name, please?”

  “Dragunov. Konstantin Dragunov.”

  The officer directed Vadim into the second traffic circle. He immediately turned to the left, into the car park of the London Jet Centre, the airport’s fixed-base operator.

  Dragunov swore softly.

  The car park was jammed with vehicles and personnel from the Met, including several tactical officers from SCO19, the Specialist Firearms Command. Four officers immediately surrounded the Maybach, weapons drawn. A fifth banged his fist against Dragunov’s window and ordered him to get out.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded the Russian.

  The SCO19 officer leveled his Heckler & Koch G36 directly at Dragunov’s head. “Now!”

  Dragunov unlocked the door. The SCO19 officer instantly flung it open and dragged Dragunov from the backseat.

  “I am a citizen of the Russian Federation and a personal friend of the Russian president.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You have no right to arrest me.”

  “I’m not.”

  A strange-looking tent had been erected outside the Jet Centre. The SCO19 officer relieved Dragunov of his phone before shoving him through the entrance. Inside were four technicians clad in bulky hazmat suits. One examined Dragunov with a small scanner, running it over his torso and up and down his limbs. When the technician passed the instrument over Dragunov’s right hand, he took a step back in alarm.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the SCO19 officer.

  “Full-scale deflection.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s off-the-charts radioactive.” The technician ran the scanner over the officer. “And so are you.”

  At that same moment, Anna Yurasova was already beginning to feel the effect of the titanic amount of radiation to which she had been exposed inside Konstantin Dragunov’s home in Belgravia. Her head ached, she was shivering, she was intensely nauseated. Twice she had nearly pulled to the side of the M25 to vomit, but the urge to empty the contents of her stomach had subsided. Now, as she approached the exit for a town called Potters Bar, it was rising again. For that reason alone, she was relieved to see what appeared to be a traffic accident ahead of her.