“How did you find out?”

Seymour shrugged. “Sources and methods.”

“Do the Americans know?”

“I spoke to Morris Payne last night on another matter.” Payne was the CIA director. “He knows Khalid’s daughter has been kidnapped, but he seems unaware of your involvement.” Seymour added suddenly, “He’s in town, you know.”

“Morris?”

“Khalid. He flew into London yesterday afternoon.” Seymour regarded Gabriel carefully. “I’m surprised, given the closeness of your newfound relationship, he didn’t tell you he was coming.”

“He didn’t mention it.”

“And you’re not tracking that mobile phone of his?”

“It went dark. We assume he got a new one.”

“GCHQ concur.”

“What brought him to town?”

“He had dinner last night with his beloved uncle Abdullah. He’s the current king’s younger brother.”

“Half brother,” said Gabriel. “There’s a big difference.”

“Which is why Abdullah spends most of his time here in London. In fact, we’re practically neighbors. Abdullah initially opposed Khalid’s rise, but he fell in line after Khalid threatened to bankrupt him and put him under house arrest. He’s now one of KBM’s closest advisers.” Seymour frowned. “One can only imagine the sort of things they talk about. Despite his fancy London address, Abdullah isn’t terribly fond of the West.”

“Or Israel,” added Gabriel.

“Quite. But he’s an influential figure inside the House of Saud, and Khalid needs his support.”

“Is he an MI6 asset?”

“Abdullah? Wherever would you get an idea like that?” Seymour sat down. “I’m afraid you’ve got yourself mixed up in a real game of thrones. If you had any sense, you’d walk away and let the Al Saud fight it out amongst themselves.”

“The Middle East is too dangerous a place to allow instability in Saudi Arabia.”

“We agree. Which is why we’ve been willing to overlook KBM’s obvious shortcomings, including his murder of Omar Nawwaf.”

“Why did he do it?”

“One hears rumors,” said Seymour vaguely.

“What sort of rumors?”

“That Nawwaf knew something he wasn’t supposed to.”

“Like what?”

“Why don’t you ask your friend? He’s staying at the Dorchester under an assumed name.” Seymour shook his head reproachfully. “I must say, if my child had been kidnapped, the last place I’d be is a luxury suite at the Dorchester Hotel. I’d be looking for the people who took her.”

“That’s why he came to me.” Gabriel removed a photograph from his attaché case. It showed a man sitting in a French café.

“Who is he?”

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me.” Gabriel handed Seymour the photocopy of the passport. “He’s rather good. He dropped Mikhail in about five seconds flat in Geneva last night.”

Seymour looked up. “Geneva?”

“Could he be one of yours, Graham? A former MI6 officer who’s selling his services on the open market?”

“I’ll check it out, but I doubt it. In fact, he doesn’t look British to me.” Seymour scrutinized the image. “You think he’s a professional?”

“Definitely.”

Seymour returned the photograph and the copy of the passport. “Perhaps you should show those to someone who’s familiar with the dark side of the trade.”

“Know anyone like that?”

“I might.”

“Mind if I pay him a visit?”

“Why not? He has a lot of free time on his hands at the moment.” Seymour looked around the half-furnished room. “We all do.”

23

Kensington, London

There are some men who walk a straight path to redemption and others, like Christopher Keller, who take the long road. He lived in a luxury maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace in Kensington. Its many rooms were largely empty of furnishings or decoration, evidence that his affair with Olivia Watson, a former fashion model who owned a successful modern art gallery in St. James’s, had ended. Olivia’s past was almost as complicated as Keller’s. Gabriel was the one common denominator.

“You didn’t do something foolish, did you?”

“Let me count the ways.” Keller smiled in spite of himself. He had bright blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, and a thick chin with a notch in the center. His mouth seemed permanently fixed in an ironic smile.

“What happened?”

“Olivia happened.”

“Meaning?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, she’s become quite the star of the London art world. Lots of glamorous photos in the papers. Lots of speculation about her mysterious love life. It got to the point where I couldn’t go out in public with her anymore.”

“Which understandably caused tension in your relationship.”

“Olivia isn’t exactly the stay-at-home type.”

“Neither are you, Christopher.”

A veteran of the elite Special Air Service, Keller had served under deep cover in Northern Ireland and fought in the first Gulf War. He had also performed services for a certain notable Corsican crime figure that might loosely be described as murder for hire. But all that was behind him. Thanks to Gabriel, Christopher Keller was a respectable officer of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. He was restored.

He filled the electric teakettle with bottled water and flipped the power switch. The kitchen was on the ground floor of the old Georgian house. It looked like something from a design magazine. The granite counters were vast and tastefully lit, the gas stove was a Vulcan, the refrigerator was a stainless-steel Sub-Zero, and the island where Gabriel sat atop a tall stool had a sink and wine cooler. Through the windows he glimpsed the lower legs of pedestrians rushing along the pavement through the rain. It was only half past three but nearly dark. Gabriel had endured many English winters—he had once lived in a cottage by the sea in far West Cornwall—but rainy December afternoons in London always depressed him.

Keller opened a cabinet and reached for a box of Twinings—with his left arm, noted Gabriel, not his right.

“How is it?”

Keller placed a hand on his right clavicle. “That bullet did more damage than I thought. It’s taken a long time to heal.”

“That’s what happens when we get old.”

“You obviously speak from experience. Frankly, it’s all rather embarrassing. It seems I’m the only officer in MI6 history to have been shot by a colleague.”

“Rebecca wasn’t a colleague, she was a full colonel in the SVR. She told me she never thought of herself as an MI6 officer. She was a straight agent of penetration.”

“Just like her father.” Keller took down the box of tea and closed the cabinet without a sound. “I was beginning to think I was never going to see you again, not after the way things ended in Washington. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised when Graham gave me permission to renew our friendship.”